Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Then she thought of the blackened, shriveled bodies at Gorse End. She couldn’t let that happen to Merritt. She simply couldn’t. So she heaved the grate from its place, clutched her bag to her chest in hopes of keeping it dry, and crawled down the long, grimy pipe, trying very hard not to think of what the slime at her hands and knees consisted of.

She crawled for some time, until her knees and shoulders ached and she’d gotten used to the smell, before she reached a second grate. This one had a hinge, thank the Lord, so it wasn’t quite so loud when she slid under it into a dark, stony cellar. She couldn’t see a thing, but feeling in the dark, she touched meat hanging by string, jugs, and wine bottles. Foodstuffs. Purchased or stolen? Hardly mattered.

Concealed by darkness, Hulda did her best to ring out her drawers so she wouldn’t leave a trail of drips wherever she went. Feeling along the wall, she passed a shelf and a stack of burlap bags and clanked her nails against a lantern. Pulling it off the wall, she retreated, rump smacking into another shelf, and rummaged through her bag until she found a match to light it.

The dim light burned her eyes. A short door made of two planks of wood strapped together with leather sat ahead of her. If she couldn’t see light coming in, Hogwood likely wouldn’t see light going out.

All right, Hulda. Use what you have. She reached for her dice again, then paused. She had more than temperamental divination in her arsenal. She knew Silas Hogwood. She’d lived with him for two years. She’d managed his staff, his kitchen, his house.

So what did that tell her?

She tapped one of the embedded stones on the ground. Hogwood hated filth. He was an immaculate person—the majority of the tiny staff he’d kept at Gorse End were maids; the cleanliness had made it impossible to divine his future when Hulda’s suspicions began. This lair was out of sight and out of mind, his main goals, surely, but he still wanted to minimize the dirt. This place was likely reinforced with rock and wood all over, if only to protect it from earth. Which might mean it wasn’t terribly large, because Hogwood also wasn’t in favor of manual labor. At least not manual labor he had to perform himself, magic or no. On top of being a wizard, a murderer, and a convict, he was also an aristocrat.

Hogwood was not the sort of person who would live like a pauper anywhere, including prison. So Hulda guessed this lair would be, perhaps, half the size of Whimbrel House.

What else . . . She flew through memories of Gorse End. Oh! His living and sleeping areas would be at the farthest point from the entrance, wherever that may be. He was a very private person. He had not liked anyone but his steward venturing into his wing, and he’d despised unsolicited visitors.

But where is the door? Gingerly lifting the lantern and turning it as low as it would burn, Hulda crept to the exit of the cellar and creaked it open. Dim light flowed down a low but long corridor straight ahead. Immediately to her right was an adjoining hallway, and to her left, a set of stairs leading up to a door.

Front of the “house,” she determined. She hoped that dog would bark again, if only as a distraction.

She was stepping out of the cellar when she noticed muddy boot prints on the makeshift cobblestones, veering down the corridor. Still wet—recent. Hogwood would only have tracked mud into this place if he were in a hurry. He must have taken Merritt that way, which was . . . north, she believed.

A pulse of fear thudded in her chest. She swallowed.

Hogwood wouldn’t want to be cornered. Not after losing his freedom before. There had to either be a second exit—which could be the canal route, though Hogwood would have a harder time using it in human form—or another way around.

Lifting her lantern, she peered down the short way to the right, which was entirely dark. Illuminated a set of dog prints mingled with the boot prints. Looked to be a medium-sized dog. Could Hulda overpower a medium-sized dog if need be?

Without a skirt in the way, certainly.

Cheeks warm, she closed the cellar door behind her. Slipped into the passageway. Paused and turned back to the mud.

She scooped up a handful of it and tossed it down again, grit splattering.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Merritt flying back through the air, colliding hard onto a stone floor.

Shuddering, she pulled back and wiped her hand on her corset, focusing to keep any forgetfulness at bay. She couldn’t change the future. Her visions took everything into account, including any attempts to alter it. What she saw was what would come to pass. Still, she needed to hurry.