Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Nodding slowly, Merritt slipped outside, glancing up at the purple-tinged sky and the faintest sliver of gold to the west. It really was beautiful, wasn’t it? Endless acres of land unspoiled by humans, cradled by clean ocean air, splayed under a flawless sky. He should put something of the sort in his book.

Thoughts of his book had his heart sinking again, so he tore open the package of salt and set to work, nearly stepping on a mouse as he did so. He’d just finished watering the plants in the sunroom—he couldn’t leave everything to Beth if he still wanted some semblance of independence—and come upstairs to finish a scene he’d been mulling about since that morning. There, on his desk, was this blasted wheel, too small to even be useful for anything. Only the empty reams of paper had been untouched by the spell. He’d choked on his own breath, searched frantically for the manuscript as though he or the others might have misplaced it. But their resident wizard, Dorcas, had alteration magic, and she had used it on his book. Exorcise her, and it would never turn back.

He would never be able to rewrite it the same way. It wasn’t possible. He only had the vaguest outline . . . and the thought of starting from the beginning made him sick. He’d already written that part of the story. It would be torture to re-create it!

He’d been pacing relentlessly for Hulda to return, for if anyone could cajole the house into listening, she could. Yet she didn’t seem particularly interested in trying.

It was the idea of disenchanting the house that bothered her. He knew it.

Am I doing the wrong thing?

But it was his house. He couldn’t get by with portraits following him around or his livelihood turning into random inanimate objects. He had no desire to return to a cramped apartment in the city, either. He liked it here. The weeping cherries and shorebirds were becoming comforts to him. Even the staff was starting to feel like, well, a strange sort of . . . family. And he hadn’t had family for a very long time.

But he was about to lose them, too, wasn’t he? Everyone but Baptiste . . .

Finished with the salt—it had taken the entire bag—he returned inside as the sun shrunk beyond the horizon. Beth and Baptiste lingered in the dining room, peeking out as Hulda worked. She’d set out eleven stones, which had to represent the eleven magics. Merritt’s eyes flitted from bloodstone to turquoise to a purple one near his foot.

“What is amethyst for?” he asked. He didn’t touch it; he knew Hulda wouldn’t like her efforts to be interrupted. “Conjury?”

Hulda paused, looking surprised that he even knew what the stones were for. Well, magical or not, he hadn’t grown up in a ditch. “Augury, actually.”

He nodded.

She gestured for him to join up with Beth and Baptiste, and he noticed the hateful wheel had been moved to the dining room floor. Baptiste murmured, “Is the ghost . . . coming out? Should I leave?”

“If it were dangerous, she would have told us,” Merritt assured him. Unless Hulda was more frustrated with him than he realized. But surely she wouldn’t risk any harm to Beth.

She pulled out a piece of paper. “This is an alteration and wardship spell. The first will change the house to something uninhabitable for the wizard, and the second will counter the spells the wizard used to attach herself. I will perform for Dorcas first; if that doesn’t work, Crisly.”

“But,” Merritt hesitated, “you aren’t also an alterist and a wardist, are you?”

“I am not. But these spells were preprepared by wizards who have those talents.”

A slight popping sound emanated from behind Merritt. He whirled around to see his manuscript on the floor where the wheel had been. Euphoria filled him from heel to head as he scooped the thing up, hurriedly flipping through pages to ensure it was all there. It was.

“Oh blessed Lord.” He hugged the book to himself. “Look, Mrs. Larkin! The house gave it back!”

She nodded sadly. “Probably because the spirit doesn’t want to leave.”

Merritt frowned. “Well, if that isn’t a nail in the reinvigorated fountain of my joy.”

Surprisingly, Hulda smiled. Just a small smile, no teeth, but it was there. “Quite metaphorical, Mr. Fernsby. You should be a writer.”

She turned to her spells, and Merritt’s gut tightened.

It happened very quickly—Merritt had envisioned something long and drawn out, full of shadows and guttural chants and the constant spraying of holy water. But Hulda’s reading of the spells was quiet and quick. The stones remained in place. The candles burned with consistency. The house didn’t even creak.

Hulda set the paper on the stairs. “Not Dorcas, then.” Frowning, she retrieved an identical paper from her bag. One set of spells per exorcism.

Beth shifted her weight, making the floor creak. “It’s been excellent working with you, Mr. Fernsby.”

His gut tightened further.

The dining room turned black.

“Mrs. Larkin,” he began, but he didn’t put enough effort into the name. She didn’t hear him.