Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

He chuckled, studying his pieces. The front door opened, Baptiste’s heavy steps announcing him before he passed within sight of the doorway.

There was a skinned foreleg of a buck over his shoulder, and a trail of blood dripping down the back of his shirt.

Baptiste glanced over like a dog caught with a dinner plate.

“Baptiste.” Merritt put his heel up on the table, which Fletcher smacked back down. “Can I make you a character in my next book?”

Baptiste stared for a solid three seconds, shrugged, then slipped into the dining room. That shirt would be a nuisance to clean. Merritt would offer his services so Beth didn’t get overwhelmed. It’d been a while since he’d scrubbed at a washboard.

“You’re my witness that he consented,” Merritt chimed.

“I saw nothing.” Fletcher’s queen crossed the board, venturing close enough to capture Merritt’s rook.

He moved it one square.

“Stop doing that.” A vein on Fletcher’s forehead was beginning to pulse.

“Let me win, and the torture will end.”

Laughing, his friend shook his head. “Never. Your move.”

Leaning elbows on knees, Merritt studied the board, hoping that a means of victory would magically present itself. Perhaps I could teach Owein how to help me cheat . . .

“Merritt.”

It was only his name, but it carried a tone Merritt knew well. He glanced up through a lock of hair. Fletcher’s attention was entirely on him, not the game.

“Am I about to be scolded?” he guessed.

Fletcher shook his head. “Just thought I should tell you something while we’re alone.”

“The ghost is always lurking.”

“In earnest,” he pressed, and Merritt sat up. “I ran into Mrs. Larkin the other day. Well, I saw her. Didn’t say anything.”

“Oh?” That certainly piqued his interest. “In Boston?”

Fletcher nodded. “She was at that Genealogical Society.”

Shrugging, Merritt said, “She had to do research for the Mansels. You know that.”

“Sure, sure, they’ve got records. A veritable library.” He scanned the board but didn’t make any moves. “But I overheard a bit of her conversation with the director in passing, and—”

“You know the director?”

“Everyone knows Elijah Clarke. All the locals do, anyway. Always very loud come election time.”

Merritt waved for him to continue.

He haphazardly moved his queen. “Thing is, the place essentially arranges marriages for wizards.”

The muscles around Merritt’s stomach tightened. A strange defensiveness rose in him, and he soothed it back down. “Is that so?”

“She was talking to him about it.”

“And you heard this clearly?”

“She was talking to him about it,” he repeated, enunciating his words. “I see the way you look at her . . . I don’t want to make any presumptions.”

“You are presuming.” Even so, a chill braided around his collarbone. Was he so obvious?

“Could be she’s only interested in magic folk.” Fletcher moved his bishop.

Merritt pointed. “It’s my turn.”

Fletcher’s bishop retreated. Then the man palmed it and brought both fists under his jaw. Low, he added, “I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Merritt’s muscles tightened, and he leaned back in his chair in an effort to relax them. In an effort to stay nonchalant. “Are you referring to Ebba or the time your sister turned me down?”

“She wasn’t right for you. You weren’t right for her, either, broken as you were.”

That same lock of hair fell into Merritt’s face. He blew it away. They sat in silence for a dozen heartbeats before Merritt sighed.

“You know I trust you,” he said.

Fletcher replaced his bishop. “I know. I’m not telling you to do nothing, but I am telling you to be careful.”

Reaching forward, Merritt forewent his rook and slid his queen up several rows. “Check.”

Fletcher cursed under his breath, immediately shifting back into strategy mode. Merritt was grateful. It gave him a moment to sort through his thoughts.

Was Hulda proffering herself to the Genealogical Society? He doubted it. She was too conservative a woman for such things. He even thought—hoped—she might fancy him. Or could learn to. Maybe it would end like all the others. Maybe it wouldn’t start to begin with. Maybe he was a fool.

But tomorrow he would turn another page, and see where the story went.

Chapter 25

October 3, 1846, Undisclosed Location