Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“The windows are gone,” Mr. Fernsby said astutely.

“Indeed.” Handing him the light, she retrieved her stethoscope and a small hammer and then traced the wall, lighting tapping here and there. She never heard the tinkle of glass, which confirmed this wasn’t an illusion. Likely alteration, the seventh school of magic. Which would also explain much of the house’s other . . . quirks.

Pulling a ward from the door, Hulda gestured to two chairs in the sitting room. The door slammed shut in protest as they sat down. Hulda set the ward beside them, then took off the one she wore around her neck and set it at their feet. Mr. Fernsby hesitantly followed suit, placing his ward behind them.

“That should stultify the area for a moment.” She took the lamp from him and turned it all the way up, revealing a simply decorated room with oak panels that matched the shutters, an Indian rug, a full blush sofa, and a smattering of matching armchairs. A white-painted fireplace took up the opposite wall, along with the bust of a bored child. Hulda wondered if that was the artist’s original sculpture or if the house was trying to tell her something.

Setting down her tool bag, Hulda pulled out Mr. Fernsby’s file, a pad of paper, and a pencil.

“All right, Mr. Fernsby, let us discuss your house.”

Chapter 3

December 2, 1820, London, England

“A letter for you, Lord Hogwood.”

Silas blinked from the snowy, gray scene outside his window. He didn’t remember standing from his chair and walking over here, but he’d brought his tea with him, and it had cooled to lukewarm. Turning, he saw his butler, once his father’s butler, awaiting his reply, a cream-colored envelope on a silver tray before him. He’d turned it so Silas could see the seal. The royal seal.

Silas took the letter and set his cup on the tray, nodding his thanks. The butler left without word. Alone in the study, Silas turned the letter over in his hands twice before breaking the seal and reading it, confirming his suspicions.

It was from the regent himself, who, being the active ruler of Britain, was also the leader of the King’s League of Magicians. The same league his mother had belonged to, before her illness forced her to retire. The same league that had expelled his father that fateful night.

“Personally invited,” he read aloud. He was eighteen now. In truth, he was surprised the invitation hadn’t been extended on his birthday. His family’s pedigree was almost as impressive as the regent’s. Spells of chaocracy, alteration, necromancy, augury, and kinesis ran through Silas’s veins. And for the briefest moment, he’d possessed even more. He knew he had, but his father’s death had taken those borrowed abilities away.

There was no research on such a phenomenon—Silas had sought it with diligence. Subtly, for he didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to himself. It was easy for family, friends, and authorities to believe that Henry Hogwood had overdrunk himself after the dismissal of his career, beaten his son, and then succumbed to alcohol poisoning. But Christian, Silas’s younger brother, suspected something was amiss. That, or Silas was unreasonably suspicious. But better suspicious than unprepared.

He considered it, for half a heartbeat. The King’s League might have literature the rest of them didn’t. It might lead him to the answers he sought.

And yet Silas strode to the blazing fire beneath the mantel and tossed the letter in, envelope and all. He loomed, watching the wax seal melt and sizzle, until it was indiscernible among the ash.

“You’ll never have me,” he whispered to the flames. He still bore the scars his father had given him, inside and out. Scars that reminded him of what had been—and what would never again be.

Because no one, even old King George himself, would have authority over Silas. No one would overpower him again.

And Silas was willing to do anything to keep that true.

Chapter 4

September 6, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt sunk into his armchair opposite Hulda—Miss Larkin—Mrs. Larkin, wondering at her as he did so. Two days ago, he would have thought it very peculiar to have a stranger suddenly appear at his door, show herself in, and give him a tour of the place. But that was before Merritt had been more or less swallowed by an evil enchanted house that rained fake blood and real rats, and whose lavatory had nearly skewered him in multiple places.

Things seemed calm now. At least, he could pretend they were calm, with these wards sitting about him and an obviously competent wizardly housekeeper making the floorless rooms and cobweb nooses appear commonplace. And she had a card. Who was he to question her? He was desperate for help. Besides, she’d gotten his wallet back.

He might have seen all of this as excellent story fodder if it weren’t for his commandeered notebooks.

And the lavatory. God help him, he was never going to defecate again.