Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

He also yelped and nearly dropped a barrel he was carrying on his shoulder. Before Hulda could think to fight or flee, Miss Taylor dashed into the room, both hands reaching toward her. “It’s okay, Mrs. Larkin! He’s the new chef!”

Hulda clutched the doorframe, waiting for her heart to calm down. Her eyes darted from the large, dark-haired man to Miss Taylor. “I haven’t put in for a chef!”

“Mr. Fernsby hired him.” Miss Taylor moved slowly toward her, like she was a startled deer. “Met him in Portsmouth.”

“I hear that Mrs. Larkin is home!” Mr. Fernsby called from upstairs.

The large man set down the barrel and bowed slightly at the waist. “My name is Baptiste Babineaux,” he said in a thick French accent. Straightening, he glanced around, stiff as the wall itself. “I will go to kitchen now.”

Hefting the barrel, he passed into the dining room. The portrait on the wall craned to watch him go, apparently just as curious as Hulda was.

Mr. Fernsby came down the stairs, grabbing the rail tightly as the steps suddenly resized themselves. “Welcome home! Find anything useful?”

Clutching her bag, Hulda stepped in and kicked the door shut behind her. “I thought I was in charge of the hiring?”

“I took initiative! Aren’t you proud?” He grinned and jumped the last few steps. “I needed help copying information at the city building, and Baptiste was short a few coins. Turns out he’s a chef! From France! Isn’t that something?”

Hulda crossed the reception hall to peek into the dining room, but Mr. Babineaux had already passed into the kitchen. Seemed the house was fine with him. “But accommodations—” She’d assumed the chef, if one was hired, would take up her room once she departed.

Miss Taylor whispered, “There’s a new room.”

She blinked. “What?”

“New room,” the maid repeated. “The house made him some space just off the kitchen.”

Hulda paused. “A house can’t simply make new space.”

Miss Taylor shrugged. “Our rooms are a little smaller now.”

So it had moved space. Hulda considered this for a moment. “I suppose that is fair.” Turning her attention to Mr. Fernsby, she asked, “Have you vetted him? Do you have his history?”

Mr. Fernsby shrugged. “He made a very good soup for dinner. He’s been in the States three months and wasn’t able to find work. I thought I’d give him a chance.”

Hulda softened. “I suppose that’s kind of you, Mr. Fernsby. We’ll have to see to it that he has what he needs. And I will interview him in the morning.”

Mr. Fernsby shrugged. “Do as you wish.”

Miss Taylor quietly excused herself and started up the stairs. The house didn’t challenge her.

Opening her bag, Hulda said, “I have a list of lighthouse workers for the bay, which might line up with previous owners and help us close in on an estimated build date.”

“As do I. And I copied as many genealogical charts as I could for potential matches.”

Hulda paused. “Oh. That’s good.” It had always been magical institutions that historically valued genealogy, but their research was useful for local government as well. “We can evaluate them in the morning. Unless you’d like to simply tell us who you are?” She directed the question to the ceiling.

The house didn’t respond. Perhaps it was busy haunting Mr. Babineaux.

Glancing over his shoulder, Mr. Fernsby stepped within whispering distance. “Are you all right? After that scare in Portsmouth?”

Hulda drew into herself. “Perfectly fine, Mr. Fernsby. I realized later that it could not possibly have been him—”

“Been who?”

She ruminated for a moment. “Mr. Silas Hogwood. He was my first client after I joined BIKER, and I ended up hiring on to his staff.” She stepped around him, to the stairs. Best to see exactly how the house had rearranged her things. “But it’s behind me now.”

“May I ask,” he added with a surprising hesitance, “what he was convicted of?”

Hulda’s hand squeezed the railing. No harm in answering, is there? “Misuse of magic, to put it simply. He was a very charismatic and diabolical man. His greed for power led him to do unspeakable things.”

Twisted bodies, dried out and folded like accordions. A wicked gleam in his eye. Hulda shook the images away.

When Mr. Fernsby didn’t respond, Hulda climbed her way up the stairs. She was nearly to the top when he called up to her. “Mrs. Larkin.”

She turned around. He’d come to the bottom of the steps. His usual mirth was absent from his face, rendering it long and stern.

“You’re safe here. I hope you know that,” he offered.

The reassurance pricked her chest. She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fernsby.”

She walked through the hall, the wizard in residence just missing her when he—or she—made the paint start falling in flashes of purple and yellow. She ducked into her room. It wasn’t particularly shrunken; Mr. Babineaux’s space had to be relatively small. Did he have a bed, or a pallet on the floor? She’d have to catalog the change in the morning.