Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

The insinuation jolted her. “It is not.” She pulled it back out, silently chiding herself for her strange behavior. “It’s only a missive from BIKER.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “I suppose now that you’ve figured out the tourmaline . . .” He didn’t finish the statement, but he didn’t need to. Now that you’ve found the second source of magic, there’s no reason for you to stay.

Except that there was, however much she fought it.

She shrugged and glanced over the letter—it wasn’t long. Couldn’t be, if a pigeon were to carry it. It essentially said what the last had, but with stronger verbs and darker punctuation, clear signs of Myra stabbing the paper with her pen. “The director has suggested I return to aid in administrative work, though it is not my forte.”

“Soon?”

She folded the paper. “‘Soon’ is relative. In truth, I’m not sure why she’s so adamant about it. I haven’t sent in my report yet.”

“Then”—his words were careful, and she wondered at them—“you might be able—or willing—to stay a little while longer.”

The way he’d spoken—the look in his eyes and his tilted posture—rang faint little bells in her head that she’d silenced so many times before. She pressed her shoulders back. Professional. “Perhaps. I am an excellent housekeeper.”

He smiled. “There is that, too.”

The bells clanked and sang. Ring! Ring! Ring!

He perked. “That’s right, I’m supposed to be borrowing Baptiste’s chess board. Do you know where it is?”

Hulda shook her head. “But he’s in the kitchen.”

Thanking her with a nod, Merritt circumambulated the table, passing back a compliment on how well it looked, and slipped into the breakfast room toward the kitchen.

Sinking against the window frame, Hulda let out a sigh. She hated to assume, but surely a man who cared only for maintaining the status quo wouldn’t say such things. Wouldn’t care so much about her staying, with her housekeeping as only the second reason! She’d heard him correctly, hadn’t she? She was formally educated. It wasn’t like she didn’t understand English.

The thought that Merritt Fernsby might care about her stirred a terrifying hope inside her that had Myra’s letter quivering in her fingers. Maybe everything in her past had gone wrong because God or the fates or whatever was out there had known it wasn’t yet time for it to go right. Maybe there was something desirable within her after all . . . something a man might want, and not just things she could slap onto a résumé for employers. That maybe hurt, but the thrill of it made her feel twenty again.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, she chided, but her admonition couldn’t dampen the whirlwind of emotions beating against her ribs. Steadying herself, Hulda read through the letter and offered a finger to the pigeon, who stepped onto it obediently. She’d reply in her room, where she could pace and think for a moment. Sort out what she wanted.

She would be clear and concise to Myra. She considered leaving out information about the tourmaline, but she wouldn’t subvert her occupation for girlish whims, so she’d send along her full report. And a request to stay on board a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Merritt and Fletcher resumed their chess game after dinner, playing by the streaks of dying sun through the large multipaned windows, a glass lamp, and half the candles in a modest chandelier overhead. Merritt liked chess well enough, but Fletcher loved it, which meant that if a game wasn’t drawn out beyond the point of enjoyment, there would have to be another one.

Their game tonight was running long. Merritt’s pride alone kept him going. He still had his queen and a rook, which could prove deadly adversaries. Around them, the house had quieted, save for the call of a whimbrel outside and the settling of the house, which could also signify that Owein was entertaining himself in another chamber.

“So you’re really going to stay?” Fletcher moved his bishop a single aggravating square. Merritt had caught him up on the exorcisms and such over dinner; Fletcher’s own stories had gradually subsided as the man concentrated on the board between them.

“Really.” Merritt shifted his rook one square as well, just to see if his friend would notice.

“It’s a nice house.” Fletcher shifted his last pawn. He’d complimented the house’s niceness half a dozen times since arriving. Perhaps because he feared Owein would warp the room again. “But I couldn’t do it.”

“You’d rather keep that room with the parson?”

“I’d rather not have a ghost living in my walls.” He watched Merritt shift his queen—only one square—like a hawk. “I’d rather not worry about breaking my leg on the stairs.”

“Ankle at worst,” he offered.

Fletcher smirked. “At least you’re staying positive.”

“At least I don’t share my lavatory with a family of seven.”