Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“Is it really . . . enchanted?” he asked. He was studying the portrait. It must have, oh, winked at him or something.

“It is, indeed.” Hulda pulled out another ward on a string and offered it to him. “Might I suggest you wear this? Not for too long, mind you. There are side effects to wearing such wards on one’s person for an extended period of time. But it will help.” She turned to the dining room. “And I beg you to take care, Mr. Portendorfer. Those wards are expensive.”

He mouthed, Wards, and slipped it over his neck.

“Now, if I could please have your assistance hefting Mr. Fernsby out of the pit in the kitchen, I’m sure we would both be much obliged.”

The hour was late, but there were things to be done. It would be a long night for the three of them.

Hulda left Mr. Fernsby and Mr. Portendorfer chatting in the kitchen as she went through the house and set up all the wards she’d managed to borrow from BIKER, which weren’t as many as she would have liked. She was, essentially, drugging the house into submission until she could understand it better. She didn’t have enough wards for every room, so she placed them in the dining room, the unfortunately split kitchen, the lavatory, the reception hall and upper hall, and two of the bedrooms upstairs, reserving the first for herself. Mr. Fernsby had requested that Mr. Portendorfer stay with him, which suited Hulda just fine. For now.

Once that was finished, Hulda brought her two bags upstairs and began unpacking her necessities. “Terribly sorry about the kitchen,” she said to the house as she shook out dresses and hung them in the closet. “I will ensure such atrocities do not repeat themselves, but I would greatly appreciate your cooperation.”

The house didn’t reply, which meant the wards were working.

Mr. Fernsby knocked at the door after she’d finished with the first of her two suitcases. “I wanted to . . . thank you, for your haste.”

Hulda nodded. “I said I would return in short order. I am a woman of my word.” She glanced over. “How is it that you know Mr. Portendorfer?”

“Fletcher’s my oldest friend.” He leaned wearily on the doorframe. “We grew up together in New York.”

She took in his appearance. He was a right mess. Mud streaking his hands, face, hair, and clothes. He looked utterly exhausted, which somehow made his blue eyes brighter in the candlelight. “Might I suggest a bath and a change of clothes, Mr. Fernsby? Did you bring that much? Your things won’t arrive until tomorrow.”

Posture stooping, he nodded solemnly. After covering a yawn with his fist, he said, “I think I saw a tub in the kitchen.”

“Pray that you don’t tumble in again.” Opening her other suitcase, Hulda pulled out a thick folder stuffed with papers and handed it to him. “These are the résumés of several BIKER-endorsed persons for employment. You’ll see applications there for maids, chefs, and stewards.”

“Stewards?” Mr. Fernsby thumbed through the papers, his forehead wrinkling a little more with each one.

“Yes, someone to look over the financial aspects of the house and land—”

“I don’t need a steward.” He stifled another yawn.

“Then you may start with the maids. I will see myself settled in. I brought several things of use for taming the manor, and intend to begin work on diagnosing the house first thing in the morning.”

He closed the folder. “Finding the source of magic, you mean.”

“Precisely.” It usually wasn’t too hard of a task—most homes were not secretive about the sources of their power. Gorse End had been tricky, as the old magic had changed in her interim as housekeeper, but that had been Mr. Hogwood’s interference—

Closing her eyes, Hulda reoriented her thoughts. The less she thought of Gorse End, the better off she was, even all these years later.

Mr. Fernsby left, muttering to himself—or perhaps over the folder—as he went. Hulda unpacked her second suitcase quickly; she was well practiced at it. As the room smelled of dust, she went to open the window and found it stuck, though she imagined that was the house’s doing, not the window’s. A ward couldn’t muffle the place entirely.

“Do you want to smell musty?” she asked, rapping on the window. “Don’t be silly. Let me open it.”

When she tried again, the pane slid upward. She smiled. Whimbrel House wasn’t a terrible house, just an immature one. “Surprising, given your age,” she murmured, and she rested her elbows on the sill, looking out over the island, trusting the place not to bring the pane down on her. Tomorrow her trunks would arrive, and she would stock the pantry, and the challenge of bringing the house to working order would begin in earnest.