Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

And so she scoured every inch of the house. Walked every foot of carpet with her dowsing rods. Hung charms and moved charms and wove new charms that provided her with zero useful information. She even took Miss Taylor with her, in case her clairvoyance turned up anything, but alas, it did not.

With nothing else she could do inside, Hulda decided to examine the outside of the house. Mr. Fernsby had already set out for a walk, Mr. Babineaux was busy in the kitchen, and Miss Taylor . . . well, Hulda hadn’t checked to see what currently occupied Miss Taylor. It was as good a time as any. She donned her sturdiest dress and shoes, strapped a sun hat onto her head, and ventured outside, her heavy bag over her shoulder.

She started with the easiest tool to use, the dowsing rods, and walked in a tight circle around the house before taking a step out and walking around it again. Another step out, and this time she moved counterclockwise. She repeated this pattern until she was a good thirty feet from the house. Either there was nothing to detect, or she was in need of a new pair of dowsing rods.

Returning to the house, Hulda pulled out her stethoscope and crouched, placing the drum against the foundation. She heard her own heartbeat from the exercise, and waited a minute until it quieted down. Then she shifted over and listened again.

The stony foundation rippled beneath her touch.

Sighing, Hulda sat back on her haunches. “I’m looking for the second source of magic. Do you have wardship spells, Owein? Maybe one pulse for yes, two pulses for no?”

The house remained still for a few seconds, then rippled twice.

Heaven forbid this be easy. She chewed on her lower lip. “Is there a second source of magic? Do you sense it?”

The house shifted slightly, as though shrugging.

That shrug gave her an idea. Placing her hand flat against the foundation, she ran her fingers down to where it connected with the earth. Dug her nails into the dirt, uncovering a sliver more.

“Owein. Do you think you could, hmm, stand up a little straighter? Shift the house up and over a bit, so I can get a look underneath?”

The wall facing her faded to indigo.

“I’m not sure what that means.”

The spot just above her hand rippled twice.

Hulda sighed.

It rippled again, one time.

She paused. “Does that mean you’re willing to try?”

Instead of answering with their new code, the house began to tremble.

Soaring to her feet, Hulda clamped one hand over her hat as stone cracked and wood bowed. She heard a shriek from inside—Miss Taylor—and immediately felt sorry, but it was hard to schedule one’s interactions with a twelve-year-old house-bodied ghost. She would apologize thoroughly in just a moment.

The corner of the house closest to her lifted from the grass, splitting the foundation as it did so—something Owein should be able to fix, if Hulda had guessed correctly about his chaocracy spells. The house looked like a dog relieving itself, one leg in the air.

Fumbling through her bag for a match, Hulda lit it and dropped to her stomach, hesitant to crawl into the newly made cavern. While chaocracy could fix split stone, it could not fix split bone. Not that Hulda had ever heard of, at least.

She slipped her arm inside, coughing at the dust, and peered into the darkness. Stone, stone, dirt, stone. The tail of a fleeing mouse. A disgruntled centipede. And—

Her tiny light glinted off something far off. Something dark and reflective. “Just a moment longer!” she cried as the match burned her fingertips. She dropped it and ignited another. Crawled across the ground, uncaring if she soiled her dress. This would be worth the wash if she were right—

The glassy veins glimmered as she stretched her hand closer.

She grinned wide enough to hurt.

Found you.

Chapter 24

October 3, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt had thoroughly turned his mind to mud that week, so he decided to spend Saturday in the yard. He tucked his scarf in his shirt, wore an old pair of trousers, rolled up his sleeves, and even tied his hair back, then set to weeding the garden and foundation, leaving a clear trail at the front and west side of the house. If he’d had a scythe, he’d have cut down some of the vegetation elsewhere, but that would have to go at the bottom of the long list of supplies he needed to be a decent homeowner. And here he’d thought his publisher’s advance would make him feel wealthy.

Leaves were falling from the island’s trees. Merritt walked out to explore them, satisfied with the crunch beneath his boots and the crisp breeze rattling through the branches. He should really have a picnic out here before it got too cold. Right here, under this elm. It was a lovely spot. The autumn scent and color scheme made him nostalgic for something he couldn’t quite describe. Perhaps it was simply for childhood autumns, when he hadn’t had a care in the world.