Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Resolute with that plan, Hulda stripped off the day’s dress, washed her face, and blew out her candle. Sleep on it, she admonished.

Something crunched when she laid her head on her pillow. Confused, she reached up to find a small, gauzy parcel she hadn’t noticed before. Sitting up, she relit her candle and nearly cried.

There was a gauzy bag of lemon drops on her pillow, tied off with a yellow ribbon.

And only Mr. Fernsby could have left it.

Chapter 17

September 18, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

A few days after hiring Baptiste, Merritt groggily woke to the sun in his eyes—he’d forgotten to close the drapes last night. The remnants of a strange dream clung to the inside of his skull. Something about a giant tree and talking goats and the Mississippi River being a deity, but the more he tried to piece it together, the more disjointed it became, until he felt like he was trying to drink clouds and couldn’t remember any details at all.

Rubbing his eye, he propped himself up on one elbow and glared at the window.

Then promptly froze, breath caught halfway up his throat.

That was not his window. The drapes were wrong, and so was the carpeting. And that dresser . . . it wasn’t his, nor was the mirror above it. His confusion only mounted when he saw his dresser was still here, against the wall closest to him. His wall, his corner, his laundry basket. But beside the laundry basket . . . part of that wall was not his wall. It was white compared to his cream. And the other half of his bed was not his bed. The blankets didn’t match, and in fact appeared to have been messily fused with his own.

But more importantly, there was a woman sleeping in them. Specifically, Hulda Larkin.

He gaped at her, alarm running up his navel and refracting off his sternum and into his limbs. He desperately tried to remember last night—

Only, the half of the bed Hulda was in wasn’t his bed.

He let out a tense breath. The house had shifted again, during the night! Reforming bedrooms, cutting his and the housekeeper’s in half and gluing them together!

And he didn’t have pants on.

Cool sweat broke over his forehead as he secured the blanket to his hips and tried to figure if it would be better to sneak away or to wake Hulda immediately. Neither could end well.

He scooted toward the edge of the mattress, making a vow to start sleeping fully clothed from now on.

As he pushed his feet over the edge, he glanced back at Hulda, ensuring she was still asleep. She was, probably because she was lying on her side, her back turned to the window. The blanket rested across her ribs, revealing the gauzy sleeves of her nightgown. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a braid that was barely still plaited; most of the walnut locks had freed themselves and waved over her neck and pillow. She didn’t wear her glasses, of course.

He’d never noticed her eyelashes before. They were dark and full and splayed across the crest of her cheeks. And the way the morning sun poured from the window . . . she looked almost angelic.

Then he noticed that her nightgown dipped, revealing a good eyeful of milky cleavage.

Admittedly, he stared at that for a few seconds longer than he should have. He ought not to have stared at all. But he was a man, and . . . God help him, she was going to murder him.

It’s not my fault! his thoughts spat as he sped from the mattress and grabbed yesterday’s trousers, pulling them on with impressive speed. He’d determined to sneak away and alert Beth, have her wake Hulda, when he turned and saw the portrait from the reception hall was standing upright on the carpet, watching him with an impish smile.

Merritt shrieked. Hulda bolted upright. It took only a few heartbeats for her to shriek as well.

“Where am I?” Her accusing eyes landed on him as she snatched the blanket and shielded herself.

Trying to tamp down his flustered nerves, Merritt managed, “It would seem the house decided two bedrooms should be one during the night.” Then, in self-defense, “I only just discovered it myself.”

Admittedly, it was fascinating to watch Hulda’s face darken to the redness of a high-summer rose.

He backed away. “I’ll . . . get Miss Taylor.” He nearly knocked over the portrait in his haste to escape, unsure if the ensuing sound of mortification was from the door hinges or Hulda’s mouth.

Might be better for the both of them if he didn’t find out.

Suddenly Mr. Culdwell back in New York did not seem as bad a landlord as Merritt had always thought him. He had never rearranged his things—his furniture, his windows, his walls—while he slept. Lord knew he’d had enough of magic to last him the rest of his life.