Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Hulda Larkin was writing something by the light of her lantern, giving him time to study the room around him. And, when he finished that, to study her. She seemed to be in her midthirties, and she had a sort of schoolmarm air, what with the high collar of her sage-colored dress and the severity of her aquiline nose, which was, perhaps, her most prominent feature. A delicate pair of silver-rimmed glasses perched upon it—the most delicate Merritt had ever seen, as though chosen specifically to be as invisible as possible. Her dark-brown hair was pulled up simply while still hitting the beat of fashion, and a few curls brushed her cheekbones. They were high cheekbones, which lent to her upturned eyes, while also mirroring the square shape of her jaw.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were either brown or green; he wasn’t close enough to tell, and her irises had been the least of his concerns during their adventure in the lavatory.

“I’ve determined the house persists on spells of alteration and chaocracy, which explains the”—she gestured to open air—“severity of the enchantments.”

“Shape-shifting and destruction. What a delight.” Magic had not been a part of his life up until now, though he remembered enough from his school days. Alteration involved changing of some sort, whether objects, one’s physical self, or other spells. And chaocracy was simply a mess.

“More or less,” Hulda agreed. “Now, there is the matter of hiring staff.”

Merritt held up a hand, stalling her, and retrieved her card once more, examining its simple, crisp black lettering. “So your institute, BIKER”—strange acronym—“are magic tamers?”

A slight line formed between Hulda’s eyes. “BIKER trains adroit individuals in service who are specifically sanctioned for the caring and operating of enchanted buildings.”

His lip ticked. “You talk like a dictionary, Mrs. Larkin. A British dictionary, though the accent’s wrong.”

She turned her nose up at the sentiment. “I will not apologize for being well educated.”

“In London?”

“Perhaps.”

In truth, speaking to another person, about anything, was making him feel better about the situation. And perhaps he was mad to consider staying, but he did want the situation to improve. This place would make for a fantastic novel, for one thing, and he didn’t have much to go back to. His apartment in New York was being swept out from beneath him, and he’d have to devote all his time to finding housing elsewhere. He’d prefer to be writing. “And what makes you adroit? Which you are, don’t get me wrong.” He stowed the card away. “But are you a wizard or something?”

She let out a long breath through her nose. “If you must know, I am an augurist.”

He blinked. He’d half meant it as a joke—magic had been so diluted over the years it was rare to find anyone with special ability. Most historians agreed that magic had come about at the “turning of the world,” associated with the life of Christ, given that there were eleven schools—equal to eleven apostles, minus Judas. Magic passed down through blood, but it diluted every time, splitting spells and abilities until there was barely anything left to split. Only targeted breeding had kept it alive in medieval times, namely in aristocratic societies. Indeed, the English monarchs were some of the strongest wizards in the world.

Magic builds upon magic, so a wizardly mother and a wizardly father could increase their enchanted line with wizardly offspring. The dilution was such, however, that most magical users either came by their abilities as the result of an arranged marriage or pure luck. This day and age, both sets had limited abilities.

If he recalled correctly, augury was the first school of magic.

“So are you going to read my fortune?” he asked.

Hulda only looked at him like a tired governess. “About the house, Mr. Fernsby, I strongly recommend a staff. To successfully run such a house, you will need a maid and a cook, at the very least.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t you cook?”

Resting her hands atop her file, she retorted, “Mr. Fernsby, were we in England, I might have had a mind to gasp at such presumption.”

He grinned at that, though Hulda gave no such expression of mirth.

“Staff will be trained specifically for this house,” she went on. “The more staff you have managing the magic, the more enjoyable the abode will be.”

He frowned.

“This is unacceptable?” she asked.

He considered his response. “I am well aware that I don’t know how to maintain . . . this”—he gestured to the far wall, where a shadow passed, creaking the wood as it went—“but . . . I’ve taken care of myself for well over a decade. I know how to do laundry and cook a meal. It would be . . . odd, to have strangers about doing that for me. On the presumption that I could actually afford it.”

She eyed him over the silver rim of her spectacles. “And when, since your arrival, have you been able to do any of those things?”

He paused. “I . . . have not.” He hadn’t even really slept.