Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“Not a problem at all.” Myra turned, but Miss Steverus was coming their way, and Hulda didn’t have time to warn either of them. The women crashed into one another, sending papers flying.

“Ms. Haigh!” Miss Steverus exclaimed. “I’m so sorry!”

Hulda quickly stood from her chair. “It’s all right, let’s pick them up.”

Myra laughed. “You’d think I’d be able to ‘hear’ you coming, Sadie.” She bent down to pick up papers.

Hulda crouched to reach for one, but her mind registered an odd pattern in the parchments. Before any of them could pick up the first document, a vision flashed through Hulda’s mind.

A wolf. A wolf in a . . . library?

Miss Steverus grabbed several papers, destroying the premonition before it had fully manifested. Hulda blinked, trying to recall the shapes and colors. The animal had appeared large, black in color . . . not unlike the wolf she had seen on Blaugdone Island. Then again, wolves didn’t have a lot of variety among them, did they? But what on earth would a wolf be doing in a library? Her premonitions were finnicky, but they were unambiguous. She was no dream reader; what she saw was what would be seen, in some indeterminate amount of time. But this was just outlandish. Perhaps, had the papers gone undisturbed, it would have made sense.

Now . . . what had she been doing? Ah, yes, the paperwork. Such a meddlesome thing, to experience the side effects of far-seeing when she hadn’t intentionally used her ability. Forgetfulness loved to accompany divination. But what did the vision mean? Her augury was usually more . . . concise . . . than this. And this wasn’t the first time it had shown her a large dog.

Was the reading for Myra or Miss Steverus?

“Could you pass me that one, Mrs. Larkin?”

Flashing to the present, Hulda grabbed the paper closest to her and handed it over. “Yes, sorry.”

Myra glanced at her. “Did you . . . see something?”

Hulda shook her head. “Nothing important.” And it often wasn’t.

But after the events of the day, Hulda wasn’t comforted by that fact.

Chapter 16

September 15, 1846, Portsmouth, Rhode Island

The history of Whimbrel House was so obscure it took Merritt two hours to find the records he sought, which included colonial census records, deed records, and recorded deaths from the Salem witch trials, since the latter had been mentioned in Hulda’s file. Still, he cautioned himself not to be too optimistic. Records that old were often spotty, with gaps in the timeline, and the Narragansett Bay tended to be lumped together as a whole without individual islands, when it was bothered to be mentioned apart from Rhode Island itself.

Merritt would have called it a successful enough day, but someone very official looking stopped him on his way out to tell him he couldn’t just take the records. If he wanted the information, he would have to copy them by hand.

Damnation. “You don’t have a secretary on lend, do you?”

The official-looking person merely raised an eyebrow and walked away, glancing back to make sure Merritt didn’t make a run for it with the pages. Which he considered, but the man had long legs and could probably outrun him. So with a sigh, Merritt took up a seat by a window and laid out the paperwork. He could already feel the muscle beneath his right thumb cramping.

He started with the census, recording the names of anyone who might have lived in the home. The last fifty years were much clearer, and a surge of nostalgia nestled in his bones at the sight of his grandmother’s name. An affidavit said she’d won it in a card game.

I didn’t think she gambled, Merritt thought with a frown. But there it was in writing.

It was less than comfortable in the city building, so Merritt cracked open the nearest window. He was halfway through the deeds list when he found himself staring down at the city, watching people pass by, taking in the shapes of the surrounding architecture.

His thoughts floated back to Hulda. To the terror that had earlier flashed in her eyes. In that moment she’d seemed . . . younger. Vulnerable. She’d acted like a completely different person on the way to the tram. Quiet. Contemplative. Withdrawn.

An old employer. He tapped his pencil against the side of his nose. In prison? Did he have something to do with BIKER? In truth, Merritt knew not a lick about Hulda outside of her profession, except perhaps that she had poor vision and was tidy enough to put a monk to shame. It irked him. He wanted to help, somehow. He wanted to know what ailed her.

“And you’ll not find out until you finish this.” Merritt glanced at the stack with a sigh. Jotted down another name and another set of dates. By the time he finished the paper, he had to shake feeling back into his hand. He really should learn shorthand.