Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

She gave him a withering look. “I am sweet on kittens and lemon drops only, Mr. Fernsby. And as I’ve said before, you are BIKER’s client, not my employer. However, once a permanent housekeeper is brought on board, you may disparage her and her temperament as thoroughly as you see fit.”

Setting down his apple, Merritt spun in his chair. “What do you mean, a permanent housekeeper? You’re not staying?”

“I am staying long enough to sort out the issues with this house; then I will move on to wherever BIKER has need of me.”

Merritt felt two things at the forward statement: disappointment and surprise. Disappointment that Hulda would be leaving, and surprise that the fact disappointed him. Everything was going so . . . well. The house had settled down into occasional pranks and calls for attentions, instead of death threats and dead vermin.

“But what if I don’t like my new housekeeper?” he protested.

Her lip twitched toward a smile. “Well, if you had reviewed the résumés as you were supposed to, you would have gotten to handpick one. But since you’ve left it up to me, I’ve sent inquiries to the nastiest and most expensive women of my acquaintance.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You didn’t.”

Hulda didn’t reply, beyond a smug look. Snatching the door handle, she jammed her foot into the frame so it wouldn’t move again, then promptly left.

Merritt turned back to his apple, noting almost subconsciously that the bite he’d taken out of it looked a lot like France.

Beth arrived at 4:00 p.m. sharp. Merritt knew this because she knocked at the same time he checked his watch. Had he not been expecting her, he might not have heard the sound—it was a timid rapping, not purposeful and demanding like Hulda’s.

“Please be kind to her,” he whispered to the walls of the living room. “We’re in this together, are we not?”

The house responded by allowing the sofa to sink halfway into the floor. Merritt departed before the sudden sinkhole could devour him as well.

Hulda, unsurprisingly, beat him to the door. “Miss Taylor! Wonderful to see you. Was it much trouble arriving?”

“Your directions were good, Mrs. Larkin. My thanks.”

Hulda stepped aside to let in a dark, petite woman, her black hair pulled into a tight knot at the crown of her head. She had large, attractive eyes and a round face. Like Hulda, she wore a dress that covered her chin to toe, although hers was a comfortable pale-blue day dress to Hulda’s gray. Her umber eyes found Merritt immediately, and before Merritt could offer his own welcome, she said, “Are you a writer, Mr. Fernsby?”

He paused. “I . . . Yes.” Perhaps that was in his file, but if it was, she shouldn’t need to ask.

Beth nodded. “That’s interesting. Never worked for a writer before. I like it when people earn their own way and their own things.”

“Well, thank you.” He wouldn’t mention that the house had been given to him.

Something thumped upstairs. Turning about, Merritt muttered, “Please don’t be my model ship.”

“That’s just the house,” Hulda explained. “In much better constitution than it was in the beginning. I’ll see you situated, then give you the tour.”

Stepping forward, Merritt reached out. “May I?”

Beth paused, eyeing her suitcase before hesitantly handing it over. After Merritt grasped it—the thing was rather light—she said, “I think I’ll like it here just fine.”

“And you’re also from BIKER?” Merritt asked as he led the way up the stairs, leaving Hulda to take up the caboose.

Beth nodded. “I’m a contractor with them.”

“Does one have to have magic to work with BIKER?”

“Of course.” Beth didn’t even blink when the stairway flashed bright red. “But my talents are small. I’m only eight percent.”

“Eight . . . what?” he asked.

“Miss Taylor, it’s distasteful to share your ancestral composition with your employer,” Hulda chided.

Merritt paused at the top of the stairs, wary of the ceiling, which remained dry at present. “Ancestral composition?”

“Really, Mr. Fernsby.” Hulda pushed past both of them. “As you will now be dealing with magic on a regular basis, you should educate yourself on the matter.”

“I’ll educate myself when and if I decide to write a book on it,” he countered. “But since the distaste has passed”—he offered Miss Taylor a smile—“what do you mean eight percent?”

Miss Taylor glanced to Hulda.

Hulda sighed. “It is an estimation, based on genealogy, of what percentage of your ancestry was magical. The higher the percentage, the more magic—or stronger magic—one is likely to have.”

Merritt leaned on one foot. “What’s the difference?”

“It’s in the spells, Mr. Fernsby,” Beth chimed in. “Sometimes a person might possess only one spell, but they have a lot of it, so they can do that one thing very well. Sometimes a person has many spells but only a little of each, so they do a lot of things poorly. Most times, families with a history of magic get their children tested for it.”

Merritt nodded. “Isn’t it just a case of math, then?”