Chapter 13
September 13, 1846, Boston, Massachusetts
Silas quite liked America. It was a bit backward and unrefined, yes, but there was a sort of freedom here that he appreciated. Not freedom to vote, or to worship, or to venture west and claim land . . . none of that mattered to him. No, his freedom came from the purged slate on which this place had been built. There was no royalty in the United States. No generations-old families inbreeding their sons and daughters to cling to the ladder of prestige, power, and aristocracy. No blood built upon blood built upon blood to preserve magical ties. The people here were as ordinary as they came, dregs from other countries with little to no importance, clamoring together to make a better life for themselves. Which meant that Silas was very likely the most powerful person here.
He savored the feeling that no one could quell him, not with spells and not with bars. And he’d do what needed to be done to keep it that way. His first order of business was to restore the power he had lost in England, when several of his prized dolls had been destroyed, along with the spells they’d lent him.
Which brought Silas to another excellent aspect of America: there were no castles.
In England, important things were always secured in castles, which were dastardly things to break into, even with magic.
The hotel where BIKER kept its files was much more easily penetrated. The luck spell that ran through Silas’s veins was feeble, but today it cooperated, leading him to the room he needed without a single stumble.
He didn’t use a candle or lantern as he browsed their files. His eyes had adjusted well enough to the light coming through the room’s two narrow windows. Each file was devoted to an enchanted house.
Houses were prime for building his magic. Houses could not be killed, and thus did not require preservation. Not only would Silas be acting within the bounds of the law, but he wouldn’t have to drag any poor souls into the little cavern he’d dug out for himself. That, and he might be able to get some bartering chips for future negotiations with his new allies.
He opened the file on Willow Creek, a thatched cottage in New York, and wrote the address on his forearm with a grease pencil, along with the magic it possessed. Stowing that file away, he moved to the next, a mansion near the Hudson . . . but it had been exorcised. Damn. Such a waste. The next was a house in Connecticut, which had several residents, something that would make his work harder. But he smeared the address onto his skin all the same.
Sidestepping, Silas pulled out the last file on this shelf. A place called Whimbrel House in Rhode Island. His brow quirked as he saw a newly added list of spells. This would do very nicely, and—
He paused, staring. The person in charge . . . Could it be? Hulda Larkin. So we meet again.
He’d thought of her often, while he was trapped in Lancaster. Wouldn’t it be fun to see her again? She’d never interested him before, but . . .
Silas snapped the folder closed and smiled. Things seemed to be going his way again, weren’t they?
To be sure.
Chapter 14
September 13, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
“I am quite positive that the spirit of a wizard is in possession of the facilities,” she said.
Merritt paused. Everything paused. His blinking, his breathing, his mental faculties.
Forcing a smile, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Mrs. Larkin. Might I speak to you outside for a moment?”
He pushed past her without waiting for an answer. The hall ceiling started dripping, red again, and he found it very difficult to believe it was paint. He darted past the problem area, down the stairs, and across the reception hall, practically leaping outside. Part of him feared the front door would not open—that the house could read his mind—but he made it outside in one piece, recalling as he stepped outside that psychometry had not been included in Hulda’s report.
He did not stop until he was some distance from the house, ensuring it would not hear him. Hulda followed behind, closing up her umbrella as she walked.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Fernsby?” she asked once she caught up.
“Problem?” He kept his voice low. “There is a ghost living in my house!”
She didn’t respond right away. Like she expected further explanation. “And?”
“And?” He stalked away, then back. “And why are you so calm about this?”
“Because, Mr. Fernsby”—she planted hands on hips—“this is not the first possessed house I’ve been acquainted with, nor will it be the last. You of all people should know that fiction is just that. Do not lean on the ghost stories of your childhood.”