Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“Thank you, but my cash reserves are hardly overspent,” he offered, coaxing her eyes to meet his gaze once more. And even if they were . . . he wouldn’t send any of them away unless they wished to leave. They hadn’t been together for long, but a sense of familiarity had begun to settle in the house, a sort of routine that made him think of, well, home. He had tried for years not to think of home, for it never left him in a good mood. But Baptiste’s quiddities, Beth’s quiet presence, and Hulda’s restrained banter made him nostalgic in a comforting way. It made him remember the good, not the bad. It felt almost like a family. “In truth, I like the company. I would like you . . . and Miss Taylor and Baptiste to stay.”

A few seconds of silence—which felt like much longer to him—passed between them, gazes interlocked. Still holding his gaze, Hulda said, “I think I—all of us—appreciate that, Mr. Fernsby.”

Feeling a little daring, he said, “I still want you to call me Merritt.”

She hesitated half a heartbeat, a small smile at the left corner of her mouth. “I know.”

With nothing more to be said, Merritt excused himself to offer his apologies to Miss Taylor. And perhaps a raise as well, to sweeten her disposition.

The morning after Miss Taylor’s dance in Portsmouth, Hulda sat mending her torn hem in case the two dresses she’d ordered got delayed. She sat across the room from Mr. Fernsby and tried not to pay him much mind as he edited his manuscript, though he had a habit of making strange noises as he did so. Little grunts and inquisitive hums, which Hulda had at first thought were intended to gain her attention. But his eyes never left the pages, and three fine lines were constantly wedged between his eyebrows as he concentrated. He had one pencil behind his ear and another one clenched in his teeth. Oddly enough, Hulda had once made a habit of chewing on pencils herself, but the English instructor at her all-girls school had beaten it out of her when she was a child . . . often using the very pencil bearing her tooth marks.

He had one foot up on the settee upon which he’d perched, the other propped on the table, which once would have driven Hulda mad. Now she found it strangely charming. Which she should not . . . but Merritt’s—Mr. Fernsby’s—soft words in the kitchen yesterday had softened her resolve. A resolve she heavily starched when alone, yet somehow managed to crinkle whenever she was in his presence.

She liked being in his presence, even if it was quiet. She could be happy with just that—

Her chair inched sideways.

Hulda gripped the armrest with one hand, the other pinching her needle. She glanced around, but nothing seemed amiss. Odd. Perhaps she needed to drink some water.

Rolling her lips together, Hulda made one more stitch before the chair shifted again, in the same direction. She paused. The first incident she might have written off as a dizzy spell, but not this one. What on earth—

The chair scooted another inch, toward Mr. Fernsby. Who heard the scraping of its feet, because he glanced up from his manuscript.

It was then Hulda noticed the floor had risen, albeit only the portion beneath her, and the slope was making her chair slide.

Toward the settee where Mr. Fernsby sat.

Nails digging into the armrest, she said, “Owein, stop that.”

The floor sloped a little more, scooting her a hand’s width, until her chair was touching the settee.

“What’s he about?” Mr. Fernsby asked.

Hulda huffed. “Really, Owein. Stop this at—”

The floor bucked upward, tossing Hulda from her seat and propelling her toward Mr. Fernsby.

He dropped his manuscript, sending a few pages flying, and grasped her shoulders, lifting her before she could plop face-first into his lap. Her cheeks burned fiercely, even more so when she started thinking about Mr. Fernsby’s lap, and she inwardly cursed the fool boy who thought such pranks entertaining.

Finding her feet, she whipped around so sharply her glasses barely held on to her nose. “I swear I will put up enough charms to ward you into the library, Owein Mansel!”

The house stilled.

A few seconds ticked by before Mr. Fernsby said, “It’s the last name. Always wields more power than the first, though not as much as the middle.” His face dimpled in a way that suggested he found this all very amusing but was trying to be polite. “Do you think he has a middle name? That would really drive it home.”

Hulda smoothed her skirt, then snatched her chair and moved it back to its original place. Then a little farther from the settee, as though to make a point she did not care to examine. “Perhaps.”