Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Indigestion and stubbornness, one of which you’re not accustomed to, she’d retorted.

Merritt smirked and stepped back, ensuring he hadn’t missed anything. Picked up a bent nail and pocketed it. Glanced to the forearm-long crack he hadn’t been able to patch, down into the dark cellar below.

He wished he understood this house, but even the expert hadn’t wrapped her head around it. And he wished the house understood him. Was it even capable of such a thing? Hulda seemed to think so; otherwise she wouldn’t talk to it.

He crossed the floor. Closed the toolbox.

The house was old. His lawyer had said there’d been no known residents for a hundred years. What a long time for a house to stay empty.

He glanced back to that crack, mulling it all over. Remembered one of the suggestions Hulda had made when he was stuck in the root cellar. Pausing, he listened to the walls, the ceiling, the glass.

It creaked slightly, though there was no sign of wind outside and no people upstairs.

No people.

Merritt’s idea solidified, sticking to him like a briar on his shirt, just uncomfortable enough to notice. He chewed his lip and tried to peel it off, only to find another briar beside it.

He’d always considered himself good with metaphors.

He slipped from the kitchen, not too concerned that the doors would slam on him, and passed through the darkening breakfast room to the dining room, where Hulda’s enchanted lamp beamed from the center of the table. Fletcher leaned back in a chair, facing the window and not Merritt, watching the elms in the illumination of the purple-hued sunset. Hulda had her nose in a cupboard and a receipt book in the crook of her arm.

Merritt slipped by both of them, into the reception hall. Passed the ward on the stairs and up. The way to the left was safe and warded. The way to the right—

A few smoky shadows curled in the hallway. The library was silent. Perhaps Hulda had tamed it, or maybe it was merely waiting for a target before it started hurling books again.

Steeling himself, Merritt walked right, past the bedroom and the library, to the sitting room door. He opened it.

The windows had returned, letting in violet, orange, and red sun rays. They fell over chairs and sofas, a dark fireplace, a scenic portrait on the wall, and an empty corner that might have once borne a pianoforte or a harp. Seemed the right size. As Merritt watched, those smoky curls reformed themselves in the corner, muting the sunset. The ceiling warped like it was being stretched by a torrent of rain water. The carpet ruffled like the fur of a threatened cat.

Gooseflesh rose on Merritt’s arms. One by one, he removed his fingers from the doorknob.

And stepped inside.

The door didn’t slam shut behind him, but as he moved to the center of the room, it creaked on its hinges, easing shut with the practice of an experienced lover. The floorboards creaked and the baseboards popped. It was angry, and Merritt felt it. He could almost . . . hear it.

Then, with cold fingers, Merritt took the ward off his neck and tossed it behind him.

The far wall broke from the others and rushed forward, knocking furniture from its path, upturning the carpet, charging for a body-shattering blow—

Merritt closed his eyes and formed fists with his hands—

The wall stopped short, sending a gust of air over him, blowing his hair back. When Merritt opened his eyes, it was an inch from his nose.

He waited for the house to do more. To grow spikes, to buck, to crush him.

It waited. It breathed.

When his heart settled back into his chest, Merritt whispered, “Aren’t you lonely?”

The wall rippled before him. He didn’t step back. Neither did the house.

“That’s the point of being a house, isn’t it?” he asked, nails digging into his palms. “To be lived in. Last resident was in the 1730s, wasn’t it? So aren’t you lonely?”

Patterns of light and dark danced over the wall as shadows slipped across the window.

“I am.” His voice was barely audible, but he knew the place heard it. “I’ve been lonely for a long time. Sure, I’ve had friends, colleagues, so I’m not isolated. But I still feel it. It’s the deep, lasting kind of loneliness. The hollow kind that settles in your bones.”

His muscles were so stiff his arm jerked when he moved it. Carefully he pressed fingertips, then fingers, then palm to the wall, his knuckles sore from clenching.

“I’ll be good to you if you’re good to me,” he promised. “Maybe . . . Maybe we could both use a fresh start.”

The room stilled.

He waited. Swallowed. Waited some more.

“I’ll admit”—a coarse chuckle worked up his throat—“that the rats were a nice touch.”