Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“The thing is,” Hulda continued, “I came out only to give the place a gander. I don’t have my belongings with me, just a small suitcase.” She tapped her chin. “I have your current address in New York on file. I will see your things brought in. Between making those arrangements and packing up more of my own things, I will need two days.”

Two days. “I can’t survive that long.”

“Be kind to the house,” she said. “And keep your wards.” She considered. “Perhaps one day. Do you have enough to eat?”

His shoulders slackened as he recounted what he brought. “I’ve some cheese and gingersnaps.” He wouldn’t starve to death, at least. Merritt paused. “Wait, can you post something for me?” He’d started a letter to his friend Fletcher, currently living in Boston, in his notebook, but that was currently under the carpet . . .

“Of course.”

When he didn’t move, she retrieved her notebook from her bag and flipped to a clean page before handing it to him. He was tempted to read what she’d written in there, but . . . priorities.

Leaning on the doorway, he penned a hasty letter informing his friend of his predicament, though he made it sound lighthearted. Bad habit of his. He signed it, folded it, and handed everything back to Hulda.

“Please hurry,” he begged.

“I do not dawdle,” she said, lifting her nose. But her eyes softened. “And of course. I will aim to return by tomorrow evening.”

She turned to leave, paused, and turned back, rummaging through her sack until she pulled out a tin lunchbox. She passed it through the shrunken door without word, then started for the coast.

Inside was an apple and a ham sandwich.

Merritt sat down to eat, and the front door slammed shut.

Chapter 5

April 7, 1827, London, England

Silas’s mother was dying.

She hadn’t opened her eyes for two days. Her breathing was raspy and shallow, her face sunken and pale.

It wasn’t a surprise. She’d been steadily declining for years. Her light had become so dim Silas wondered if he’d notice when it snuffed out completely.

Deep down, he knew he would.

Clenching and unclenching his hands, he glanced to his mother’s door. Christian had just left the bedchamber. Silas had already turned the servants away and locked up behind them. His mother wouldn’t make it to the end of the week. Maybe not even the end of the day.

It was, in a way, a mercy to test this on her.

In January, Silas had found an enchanted cottage in the Cotswolds, a simple house imbued with the elemental spell of controlling water, inhabited by an aging owner who didn’t mind, or didn’t notice, Silas’s snooping about. Reliving that night with his father, Silas had worked through the spells in his blood—spells he’d learned were just the right combination to take. Necromancy to connect to life force . . . a house wasn’t a living thing, of course, but magic was. Chaocracy to break up the magic and reorder it. Kinesis to move it from vessel to vessel—house to him. The process with his father had been angry and quick. With the house, it was calculated and careful.

And it had worked.

A house wasn’t a living thing, which meant it couldn’t die. That cottage in the Cotswolds still stood and would continue to do so for some time. So while his father’s death had zapped his spells from Silas, nothing could take the elemental water spell from his person. As for the resident . . . modern plumbing or a housemaid would replace what he had lost.

Now, one of the most powerful necromancers in England lay dying in bed before him. And when she died, her magic, carefully bred and cultivated, would die with her.

Unless Silas’s new theory proved correct.

Silas possessed one alteration spell from his paternal line—the ability to condense, to shrink. The cottage had given him the ability to control water. He’d tested it again and again, alone, and felt confident he could use it here.

Magic was tied to the body. So if he could preserve the body, the magic would live. In a sense, his mother would live on. In him.

He glanced to the door again. Listened. No sound of anyone coming or going. He glanced at the old clock on the mantel. The second hand seemed too loud.

Removing his gloves, Silas took one last long look at his mother before laying his hands on her, one on her forehead and the other on her chest. Necromancy first. He carefully wound the spell down, finding her magic, gathering it, holding it. It took much longer than it had with his father. Because there was more to be had, perhaps, but in his experimentation with the cottage, he’d also realized he’d stolen only a fraction of his father’s magic that night outside the stables. To collect all of his mother’s ability would take time.

He glanced at the door as nausea curled through him—the counterbalance to necromancy. Would someone come by, despite his orders? Test the lock? If it was Christian, how would he explain?