Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Unless he . . .

Silas hesitated. His mouth went dry while his palms moistened. Chills ran up his arms and down his back.

Unless.

Silas didn’t remember committing to the decision. Nor did he remember using kinesis to lock the door. The idea surfaced in his mind, and then it was happening, just as it had with his mother. Necromancy, chaocracy, kinesis, alteration, element. Time became moot as his brother sucked down into a warped, peanut-shaped thing, and his powers rebirthed inside Silas, strengthening those abilities they shared and adding the one they didn’t—because while Silas has been born with his grandmother’s augury spell of luck, Christian had inherited their granduncle’s wardship magic of spell-turning.

Silas had never considered . . . but now it was too late . . .

The sun had sunk, darkening the room. He stared down at his brother. What had been his brother. The confusion left by the chaocracy wafted away like steam, clearing his head too slowly.

His strength returned by drops.

Stoking the fire, Silas burned the clothes. Moved his tongue around his dry mouth as he summoned the water in the glass on his desk to wash away the blood. Tucked his brother—his brother!—in his shirt and dashed from the study, avoiding the servants, speeding through the house, not truly seeing anything until he went down, down, down to the wine cellar, then to the little hidden door to the second cellar he’d carved out, where his mother rested in a locked iron box, safe from prying hands and worms and rats.

Silas fumbled for the key. He always kept it on him. No one else could find it, use it. He found the key and dropped it. Picked it up and opened the box and slid his brother inside.

His brother.

His brother.

Grabbing fistfuls of hair, Silas keeled over and screamed through closed lips, strangling himself. His pulse rocketed, skin sweated, limbs trembled. He was too hot and too cold, and his brother was in the box.

Pushing himself back, he vomited on the cold stone and mortar. Tears and snot streamed from his face. He bit his lip badly trying to keep the sounds in. The despair, the outrage, the disbelief. All the while, power curled and pumped through him, welcoming him, greeting him. Magic that had been just as alive as his brother had been, not simmering in a soon-to-be corpse.

Murderer.

He retched a second time, and a third, then curled in on himself, smearing vomit up his pant leg and into his hair.

It had to be done.

Yes, it had to be done, hadn’t it?

He’d been defending himself. Just as he’d defended himself against his father. He’d protected himself. The rest was happenstance. No, it was fate. Silas hadn’t pushed Christian into the mantel. Destiny had.

Christian Hogwood had the ability to overpower Silas. He’d forbidden him from leaving the room and, worse, from making his escape to Liverpool. Haunted his steps ever since their mother’s body had disappeared. Christian had lorded over Silas, just as their father had. He would have hurt him, eventually.

Silas had simply struck first.

Now Gorse End would be his, with no trouble. It would be theirs, because Christian was part of Silas now. Just as his mother was. They were together, combined, protecting each other. Safe. Silas was keeping them safe. Keeping himself safe.

And no one would stop him now. A little farther, a few more steps . . . no one would be able to hurt him again.

Never again. Never again.

He’d report his brother missing in the morning.

Chapter 8

September 7, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

God did grant, for the man from Hulda’s vision—whom she knew only as “Fletcher”—arrived just as the last tendril of sunlight slipped over the western horizon.

As there was no butler at hand and Mr. Fernsby was preoccupied, Hulda greeted him at the door, holding a new ward to the hinges. It would look very poor on them if slamming took off some of their guest’s fingers.

Fletcher held up a lantern. “Hello . . . are you Mrs. Larkin?”

“I am indeed. And you are Fletcher, though I am remiss of your surname, Mr. . . . ?”

“Portendorfer.” The lantern light illuminated a smile. “It’s a mouthful, I know. Forgive my late arrival, but the letter I received . . . Merritt didn’t sound like he was in good spirit. It was . . . well, full of puns far more terrible than usual.”

Indeed, Mr. Portendorfer carried a suitcase in his other hand. He intended to stay the night. Hulda sighed inwardly that there would be no way to properly prepare a bedroom for him, let alone for herself, but in cases such as these, etiquette had to be stretched, if not packed away entirely.

“We could use your assistance. Come in, please.” She eyed the doorframe. “Quickly.”

Stepping aside, she allowed the man in. He was roughly the same height as Mr. Fernsby, though a little broader in the shoulders.

Mr. Portendorfer froze just two steps inside the reception hall and held his lantern higher.