Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“I know I’m overstepping,” she went on, “but I see the way you two are around each other.”

New embarrassment made Hulda too warm in her skin. “How I behave around him, I suppose.” She felt even more imbecilic than before, hearing she’d been so obvious.

“Nah, the both of you.” She offered a smile. “He cares about you, Mrs. Larkin.”

Hulda pinched her lips together, but could not stop another wave of tears. She buried her face in her handkerchief and chewed on a sob so it would come out in dainty spurts instead of one ugly heaving. Miss Taylor rubbed her back, patiently waiting for her to find an ounce of control.

“Th-Then we’re both fools,” she whispered. “Mr. F-Fernsby has not returned b-because he’s seeking out his ex-fiancée, Miss Mullan. H-He is pursuing h-her.”

Miss Taylor’s hand stilled. “Oh.”

Hulda lowered her handkerchief and sniffed. Several tense seconds sat in the room like bricks.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Taylor whispered. There was nothing else she could say.

Hulda nodded. “So am I, my dear. So am I.”

It was dark again when Merritt reached Manchester City Hall, where the concert was to be held. He pulled his frock coat closer around him, wishing he’d brought gloves, but there was nothing to be done about that now. His nerves felt exposed to the outdoors. Every clop of a horse hoof or peal of laughter aggravated him, as though someone were raking a cheese grater up and down his skin, hard enough to rattle his bones.

Hulda had not chimed in on their stones as she had promised. He’d beleaguered her past midnight over and over, until finally Beth had answered, saying yes, Mrs. Larkin was home and well, just asleep. She must have forgotten. Which only served to make Merritt feel even more jilted than he already did. He retraced his words, wondering if he’d offended her, but he’d never gotten the chance to say his piece, so how could he have managed such a thing?

She was safe, though, and Merritt had another thing drawing in his focus, sucking away his thoughts like a newly born tornado, leaving only anxiety in its wake.

The city hall was lined with carriages and boys tending to horses. The windows glowed from within. The concert was starting any minute; he could hear violins tuning their strings.

He filtered inside behind an older couple dressed far finer than he was attired; he hadn’t particularly considered such matters when purchasing a ticket for the event. But he stopped before entering the performance room. Stopped and shook his knee, peering through the open door, where a security man of some sort eyed him.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit through two hours of music and watch her, unable to say anything, sandwiched between strangers caging him in. It sounded like torture. He preferred the cheese grater.

And so Merritt slipped back outside, choosing instead to walk laps around the building to keep his legs warm. He thumbed the communion stone, careful not to activate its spell, wishing to speak with someone but having no idea what he could possibly say. His thoughts were too incoherent to form words. So he walked, and walked, and walked.

The concert began; he could hear the music as he traipsed the south side of city hall, but it shifted to silence as he came around the north, stopping once to help a lad get a blanket on an impatient mare. He recognized most of the songs. He was grateful the tall windows were too high for him to peer through.

He grew chilly, so he slipped inside the building halfway through the concert, showing someone his ticket so he wouldn’t get in trouble for loitering, though that’s exactly what he did. Loitered in the foyer, catching his breath, working out what he would say, changing his mind every few minutes. When his legs grew jittery again, he stowed outside once more and circled the building in the opposite direction, strides as long as he could make them.

It was then that he noticed the larger carriages in the back—they had more cargo space than the others, but less finery. After speaking with a driver smoking a pipe, he confirmed that these were the musicians’ coaches, and a plan emerged in his mind. Merritt didn’t have to go in and hear the music, filter through the crowd, and catch Ebba’s attention. He just needed to wait by these doors for her to exit. If nothing else, it offered a semblance of privacy.

The next few songs seemed eternal, but when they finally finished and applause filled the building, Merritt forgot all about the autumn chill.

When the doors opened, his nerves coalesced into a ball, rushing up his torso before dissipating like feral dogs throughout his chest and arms. His pulse was hard, his veins stiff, his mouth dry. But he would not yield. He would not have this chance again.