Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“The care of this house will be BIKER’s priority, including the majority of its pecuniary consolations,” she continued. “We want to see that it thrives for generations to come. Enchanted homes are a dying breed.”

The home and not the tenant, Merritt almost said, but decided to hold his tongue. He sighed. “Let’s say I humor you with this staff nonsense. I do well for myself, but I’m hardly a wealthy man.”

She opened the file again. “And what is your employment?”

“I’m a writer.”

She simply nodded and jotted it down. Funny. He was used to getting follow-up questions when he stated his profession. Questions like, What do you write? Are you published? You’re not a political columnist, are you?

“The keeping and protection of enchanted residences is very important to BIKER,” Hulda repeated. “The institution will accommodate you in regard to my services while you require them. My diagnosis will help with the rampant enchantments. Given the size of the house, a large staff may be unnecessary.”

The downstairs groaned, and Merritt quickly reassessed. Trying to ignore the shadows, he asked, “Do you work on many small houses?”

“This is the second-smallest permanent structure I’ve personally overseen.” She looked up then, not at him, but at a spot on the carpet, or beyond it. A wistful expression washed over her face before flitting away. He wondered what she was remembering.

“And the largest?”

She straightened, as though having momentarily forgotten he was there. “An estate near Liverpool” was all she said. Pulling a sheet of paper from the file, she closed the folder and tucked it away, then handed the paper to Merritt.

He leaned forward to grab it. “What is this?”

“My résumé. I am willing to personally oversee this house until you have your feet under you. A housekeeper should be included in your staff unless you find an adept maid of all work.”

The résumé was very long, with letters penned very small.

“While BIKER absorbs my fees, I do require room and board.”

He lowered the résumé. “You’re moving in?”

“Only if you wish it, Mr. Fernsby, but I come highly recommended.”

He glanced from her to the résumé and back. “I’m sorry, I’m still coming to terms with the idea of this place being livable.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Do you doubt my abilities?”

He shook his head. “Hardly. But I don’t know how you’ll bring your things here if the house won’t let you leave.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He nodded. “But yes, if you can keep this beast in line . . . of course I’ll take the help. I . . . am about to be in a housing predicament—goodness, I am in a housing predicament”—he eyed the walls and ignored the gooseflesh pebbling his arms—“and . . . well, I don’t want to see the house and land go to waste.”

Admittedly, if the spells hadn’t kept him indoors, he might have burned the place down and fled back to New York. But seeing Hulda’s ability to control the place, and her calm demeanor while doing it, had sparked hope for the future. Maybe this was a blessing. Maybe it could turn into something great.

To think, he’d be a homeowner. A landowner. He could increase his fortunes and make a good life for himself. Write his next book and then another after it.

The floor shuddered. He gripped his armrest.

“Excellent choice.” She recovered the wards and stood, putting hers over her neck and handing the other two to Merritt. “You may hold on to these. Be careful with them. They’re expensive.”

He nodded.

She walked with confidence to the door, though she had to utilize the crowbar once more to see it open, and then out came the umbrella as they passed through the . . . paint. The ward on the stairs held the banister in place. Merritt focused on the back of Hulda’s head so he wouldn’t see the portrait in the reception hall watching him.

To his surprise, the house allowed Hulda to open the door, revealing late-afternoon sun . . . beautiful sun. It filled the reception hall and banished the shadows, and Merritt breathed easily for the first time since he’d arrived.

Hulda poked through the doorway with her umbrella first, then, clasping her ward, stepped through.

And nothing happened.

He let out a deep sigh. “Thank goodness.” But the moment he tried to follow her, the doorway snapped and shrunk to the size of his torso, barring him from leaving.

A sob threatened to leave the base of his throat. “You blasted thing!” He pushed one of the wards against the wood. It didn’t budge.

“Do not antagonize the house, Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda warned, running a hand over the shrunken doorway. “There’s a great deal of magic in these walls, and for whatever reason, it does not want you to exit.” She patted the warped door. “I also would not suggest crawling through this.”

He had the grisly image of his body pinching in half, and shuddered.