Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Which meant marshland. “I’m aware of it.” A house abandoned for a hundred years in the middle of a marshy island . . . It must be in terrible repair.

“Commuting would be difficult. Unless you own an enchanted watercraft.”

Merritt shook his head. “Fortunately, I don’t have need to commute.” Although he’d made his name in journalism, Merritt had recently sold his second novel to his publisher—the first having been a moderate success—and one could write novels anywhere there were ink and paper available.

He rubbed his chin, noting he’d forgotten to shave that morning. Having been on his own since he was eighteen, he’d learned how to shingle roofs, place floorboards, grease hinges, the lot of it. There would be a great amount of work ahead of him, but he might be able to fix up the place.

It would be nice not to share walls or pay rent. And finally break away from the Culdwells.

Mr. Culdwell was Merritt’s landlord. He was a crochety moose of a man who was grisly even on his best days. And though Merritt was always timely with his rent, the bloke’s grandson had recently moved to the city for school. Culdwell, of course, wanted to house him in Merritt’s space. When Merritt refused to move out in exchange for a month’s returned rent, Culdwell had blatantly said there would be no renewal of contract come October. Which, obviously, put Merritt in something of a bind.

Plus, Culdwell’s wife was nosy and smelled like broccoli.

So the pertinent questions were, how poor was the condition of Whimbrel House, and how much did Merritt actually care?

“I . . . might divulge one other thing listed here.” Mr. Allen’s mouth skewed to the side almost in distaste. A thick line formed between his eyebrows.

“Oh?”

He shrugged. “I’m not one for superstition, Mr. Fernsby, but it does state here that the previous tenant claimed the place was haunted.”

Merritt laughed. “Haunted? This is Rhode Island, not Germany.”

“Agreed.” While it was possible for magic to root itself in inanimate objects, it had become so rare—especially in a place as new as the States—that the claim felt incredible. “But haunted or not, the parcel is yours.”

Merritt knit his hands together. “How large of a parcel is it?”

Mr. Allen glanced at the papers. “I believe it’s the entire island. Roughly eighteen acres.”

“Eighteen,” Merritt exhaled.

“Marshland, mind you.”

“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand. “But wasn’t Jamestown built on the same? Folk are always multiplying and expanding. If the house is unsalvageable, there’s the land. I could sell the land.”

“You could, with the right buyer.” Mr. Allen didn’t hide his skepticism as he handed over the papers. “Congratulations, Mr. Fernsby. You’re now a homeowner.”

Despite his ever-growing curiosity, Merritt did not spend the extra money to take the kinetic tram out to Rhode Island; he took a train, a wagon, and then a boat. By the time he crossed a good portion of the Narragansett Bay and reached Blaugdone Island, he understood why no one had bothered to live there. It was vastly out of the way. There was something uncomfortable yet incredibly appealing about how out of the way it was.

Because after the hired boat dropped off Merritt and the one bag he’d packed, he heard a beautiful thing.

Silence.

Now, Merritt did not hate noise. He’d been raised in a sizable town and lived in a bustling city for over a decade. He was used to it. It was familiar. But the only time cities got quiet was during heavy snowfall. So it was strange for a place to be both quiet and warm. There was something about the hush that made him realize he was completely alone, on an island that may have been untouched by humankind for . . . years. A century, even. But it didn’t bother him, not precisely. After all, Merritt had been alone a long time.

The cry of a bird broke the silence momentarily, announcing Merritt’s arrival to others. Shading his eyes from the sun, he spied what he believed to be a heron off in some tall grass between trees. The leaves had not yet changed on the elms and oaks spotting the land, but they were certainly thinking about it. Just beyond that was a nub of a shadow—the house, most likely. He walked toward it, and the heron took off, long legs trailing behind.

The earth was moist beneath his shoes, the local plant life wild and untouched. He recognized some of it: weeping cherries, golden aster, autumn olive. He thought he smelled chrysanthemums as well, which had the effect of relaxing his shoulders. He hadn’t realized they’d been tense. Crouching, he pinched some soil between his fingers. It looked rich; if he started a garden now, he might be able to wheedle some garlic, onions, and carrots out of it before the frost hit.