Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

The man on the other side of the desk set down a half-eaten sandwich and stood. He looked to be about sixty, with a nose possibly more prominent than Hulda’s own, though while hers protruded in the bridge, his stretched forward at the tip. He had dark eyes and white hair. That is, where he still had hair, in a ring above his ears and chops that ran down his cheeks. His smile was pleasant as he came toward her, hand extended. “Miss Hulda Larkin?”

She nodded and shook his hand firmly. “I am. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Clarke, especially at the last minute. In truth, I expected to speak with one of your employees.”

He gestured for her to sit, and the secretary discreetly left them. “Perfect timing is perfect timing. I hope your travel was fair?”

Hulda sat, propping her bag on her lap. “Quite, thank you.”

Mr. Clarke retook his own chair, sliding his lunch off to the side. “I’m so grateful for your response. It’s hard for us to find magically capable women who aren’t already spoken for or too old to—”

“Mr. Clarke.” Hulda was not one to interrupt, but her cheeks were already flushing at his insinuation, and she did not care to further darken them. “You have mistaken me. In my telegram, I stated I was here to research the Mansel name.”

Fortunately, Mr. Clarke did not seem insulted—he merely chuckled. “Ah, yes, so you did.” Reaching over, he picked up a small piece of paper, the telegram itself. “I was hoping we’d be able to discuss both things.”

Hulda straightened as tall as she could in her chair—sometimes a stiff spine made her flushing recede faster, and there were few things she loathed more than being red in the face, especially in front of a man. “I am still . . . considering the other matter of business. But today I’m here on behalf of the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms.” Snapping open her bag, she pulled out her list of names, as well as the rubbings of the graves. “I have a possessed house on Blaugdone Island and need to find the identity of the inhabiting wizard. These graves were found nearby.” She handed the papers over.

Mr. Clarke pored over the papers for several minutes. Hulda remained silent. She didn’t mind silence, especially when there was work being done.

“Very well done, Miss Larkin,” he finally said. “Some fifty years ago, we did a survey of early colonial townships—by we, I mean those before me—all the way back to the Mayflower.” He shrugged. “Could be forty or sixty, with this brain of mine. And with this brain of yours”—he held up one of the rubbings—“you would be an excellent genealogist.”

She smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, but I am safely employed for the time being.”

Gathering the papers, Mr. Clarke stood, and Hulda followed suit. “Take these out to Gifford—he’s the one who saw you in. He’ll personally take you down to the files you need. If they’re not there, well, then I haven’t been doing my job.”

Hulda shook the man’s hand once more. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Clarke.”

“Thank you. Do see me when you’re finished.” Sitting down, he pulled over his lunch. “So I can better explain what my earlier letter didn’t.”

Hulda nodded, if only to be polite, then left, her steps carrying her a fair bit quicker than they had before.

In the basement, Mr. Gifford carried the box of Narragansett records to a table for her and lit a second lantern. Hulda pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders as she sat in the single chair available; it was cold in this vast, earth-scented space.

“Everything should be right there for you,” the secretary said. “Do you need help?”

Hulda shook her head. “I shan’t keep you from your post. I’m accustomed to file digging.”

Mr. Gifford tipped his head. “You know where to find me.”

With that, he left her to her box. Lifting a candle, Hulda scanned the handwritten tabs, making sure she could reorder the documents if she had to overturn the whole thing to find what she needed.

However, Mr. Clarke and his predecessors had indeed done their job well, and she found the information she wanted quickly, in a thin folder labeled Blaugdone, Gould, Hope Islands, 1656–1750.

She thumbed through a few fragile papers before pulling out one with the Mansel name on it. It was a long parchment, about three feet, folded into thirds. Shifting the box to the ground, she flattened it on the table and brought the second candle closer. A date scrawled in remarkable penmanship on the bottom stated that these records had been created in 1793. Hulda briefly wondered how many gravestones the recorder had had to uncover.