Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“In Nova Scotia?” Goodness, Hulda had adopted a terrible habit of interrupting, hadn’t she?

Myra’s face fell. “Not . . . yet, for Nova Scotia. But.” She hesitated. “There are a few fundraisers I’ve been planning, plus some extensions into the west. And the east.”

“Which I would love to stay and hear about, if you’ve the time,” Hulda pressed. “But otherwise, outside of the issue with Mr. Hogwood, I would like to stay until something new is prepared.”

Myra’s nail scratched into the desk hard enough it would start pulling up splinters at any moment. “Hulda, I don’t understand why—”

A knock broke the question, and Miss Steverus poked her head in. “Ms. Haigh, I just received a notice from Mr. Maurice Watson. He wants an appointment today.”

Hulda tipped her head. Maurice Watson. Why did that name sound familiar? She searched her thoughts but couldn’t pinpoint it.

Myra cleared her throat. “I’ll address it myself momentarily. After lunch.” Myra met Hulda’s eyes. “Do you have time for lunch?”

Smiling, Hulda nodded. “Always, for you.”

The meeting with Merritt’s editor, Mr. McFarland, had gone better than expected. He was an amiable fellow Merritt’s age, who had a dark sense of humor and a severe widow’s peak. They’d spent a long time together . . . because Mr. McFarland had been reading Merritt’s sample pages. Silently. Many wouldn’t understand this, but often the lack of compliment—and critique—was a very good thing. It meant a person was engrossed. And engrossed was the best thing a reader could be.

He’d left the mostly finished manuscript with Mr. McFarland, eager to hear what he thought of the rest of the story, and if he’d like the twist that Hulda had helped him brainstorm while on bedrest. He supposed he had Silas Hogwood to thank for the inspiration—having the corpse his protagonists had spent half the novel searching for turn up alive was an excellent turn of plot, though it would mean changing the ending he’d begun to piece together, not that he minded. Another reason why planning ahead was a bad idea.

Speaking of planning ahead . . . he was almost to Market Street, which marked the cusp of the conversation he’d alluded to earlier with Hulda. Perhaps she’d forget about it. But there was little point in procrastinating. In truth, the anxiety in waiting for something was often worse than the thing itself.

Merritt thought he might be casual about it. Casual was safe. Just ask her to have dinner with him, not at the house. Night was descending, which meant the travel home would be dark regardless, so they could go tonight. If she was strange about it, he could blame an empty stomach, which was not a falsehood. He was rather famished.

But if she says yes, it could be due to her own famishment, he thought, then wondered if famishment was a word. He’d have to look it up later. Perhaps slip it into his novel so his editor would do the research for him.

He slipped around two old men prattling on the side of the street and came around the corner of Quincy Market, which glowed with a display of bright lanterns no doubt intended to attract straggling guests before its doors shut. He found Hulda quickly, near the far side of the market, standing close to a lantern as if to keep herself warm.

Merritt picked up his pace to reach her. “Were you waiting long?”

She perked up. Good sign. “Not at all. Five minutes at most.”

“How was BIKER?”

“It was . . . interesting. I’ll be at Whimbrel House for a little while longer.” Her eyes peeked over the silver rims of her glasses and searched his. “I also visited an optometrist and filed my own report with the city marshal, so I’ve kept busy.”

“For Hogwood?” he asked.

“It certainly wasn’t for you.”

He chuckled. “That’s a relief.”

She rolled her lips together. Merritt thought back to the conversation they’d had about the romantic subplot in his titleless book. Never been kissed. It had been a while since he’d kissed someone himself. Did he still remember how? Would those lips be warm to the touch, or cold from the evening chill?

“And your editor?” she asked.

He blinked to clear his thoughts. “Oh. He’s fine. I mean . . .” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “It went well. He seemed to like the book.”

Her eyes brightened. “Good!”

“Indeed, for I do not have the patience to rewrite it.” Someone exiting the market bumped into his shoulder, forcing him to sidestep. The man rushed an apology before hurrying on his way. Merritt pressed a hand to the wall to gain his balance, and his thumb landed beneath a familiar name. One that shot lightning up his spine.

“You mentioned,” Hulda spoke quieter, “wanting to talk to me about something?”

The earth shifted beneath his feet, until the outer wall of the Quincy Market was down, with gravity yanking him toward it.

Mullan, the name read. Merritt moved his thumb. Ebba C. Mullan.