Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

The change in subject was both surprising and appreciated. She released the door handle, cupped her elbows, and took a few paces into the room. “I . . . well, I don’t particularly remember not having it, except as a little girl imagining being a wizard.”

He smiled. “What did you imagine?”

“Psychometry, actually. I wanted to read minds. Know what people really thought of me.”

“That would be a terrible spell to have.”

“I agree with you. Now, that is.” She shrugged. Took another step toward him. “It certainly has been useful. I would hate to be without it. It’s akin to a fifth limb.”

“Or a sixth sense,” he offered.

She nodded. “A more apt metaphor. I suppose that’s why you’re the writer.”

“Or trying to be.” He passed a glare at his manuscript. “And you’ve never been interested in setting up some sort of horoscope shop? They’re very popular.”

“My great-grandmother had one.” Another step. “She was eccentric.”

“You don’t have to be eccentric to run your own business.”

“No,” she agreed, “but when you turn yourself into a novelty, you attract a certain kind of person. They see only the novelty, and once they’ve had their fill, they leave. She had thousands of friends, but none of them were true connections. From what I’ve been told, at least. She passed away when I was young.”

He rubbed his chin. Stubble covered it; he hadn’t shaved today. There was something distinctly masculine about the unkemptness, and Hulda briefly wondered how rough it would feel under her fingers. “She sounds like quite a character.”

“She was very real.”

“Have you ever wondered,” he followed up without missing a beat, “if we’re all characters in another’s book? If all of our actions, whims, thoughts, and desires are being controlled by some omniscient author?”

A strange notion. “By God?”

“If He’s writing it, I suppose it would classify as nonfiction.”

Hulda laughed. “I would hope so, because fiction would mean none of us were real.”

He grinned. It was an appealing grin—genuine and slightly feline, his upper teeth straight. She’d noticed he had two crooked ones on the bottom set.

“Well.” He leaned back in his chair. “So long as BIKER is giving you good opportunity to use your gifts.”

She studied him for a moment, pushing up her glasses to better do so. He eyed her inquisitively in return. After a moment, she said, “All right. Finish your tea.”

“Pardon?”

“You asked me once to do a reading for you.” She picked his cold tea up off his tray; the cup was a third full. “I’ll do it now.”

The expression that washed over his face made him look boyish. “Really?”

She rolled her eyes. “Dawdle, and I’ll change my mind.” His excitement was palpable; it made her chest flutter that she was the source of it. Besides which, she wanted to know more about Merritt Fernsby, for better or for worse.

He finished the cold tea with only a slight grimace. She took the cup from him and leaned toward a candle, examining the tea leaves. Sometimes it took a moment . . . Perhaps if magic ran thicker through her veins, she’d have more control over the spell—

Her thoughts flashed. Not to a vision this time, but to words and feelings, like she was touching the tip of her tongue to a forkful of food without being allowed to put the morsel in her mouth.

Strife. Confusion. Longing. Betrayal. Truth.

It flashed away just as quickly, though Hulda continued staring at the tea leaves afterward.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked.

For a brief moment, Hulda forgot where she was. But her augury was so faint, the spell so brief, that the side effect of using magic abated quickly.

Smoothing her forehead, she lowered the cup. A few pretty lies spun beneath her skull. Nicer things to pass on than the discomfort lingering under her breastbone. But Merritt . . . he would want to know.

“Good and bad, I suppose,” she managed, setting down the cup. “There’s strife in your future . . . but strife that will lead to truth.”

“Strife and truth? Sounds religious. I’m not joining the Mormons, am I?”

She blinked. “Who are the Mormons?”

He waved the query aside. Peered into the cup himself. “Well, I see . . . a rabbit. With its ears and tail cut off.”

She smiled. “Perhaps Mr. Babineaux can be persuaded to incorporate that into your future as well.” Picking up his tray, she turned for the door.

“Does it ever bother you?” His voice trailed in her wake. “Knowing the future all the time?”

Her hands tightened on the tray, and the fluttering in her chest died. “Not at all. Because in truth”—she turned and met his eyes, hoping hers didn’t reveal her own truths—“I never really do.”

Hulda was up early Saturday morning, determined yet again to make herself useful. There was nothing she was better at than making herself useful. Being useful made her feel good about herself, regardless of all the nonsense and trepidation going on in her life.