Keeper of Enchanted Rooms (Whimbrel House, #1)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

While it was possible for magic to root itself in inanimate objects, it had become so rare—especially in a place as new as the States—that the claim felt incredible.

peering through the next doorway, which led to a sunroom. The plants there were either dead or overgrown, as though whoever had been caring for this house lacked a green thumb. But Merritt owned a sunroom.

“Chaos is disorder, but if something is already in chaos, then its disorder is order.”

Only targeted breeding had kept it alive in medieval times, mainly in aristocratic societies. Indeed, the English monarchs were some of the strongest wizards in the world.

he told himself all the benefits of staying on Blaugdone Island. No more rent. No more landlords. No more pestersome neighbors. An office to write in. Lots of space. Lots of reading available, once the books stopped hurling themselves at him.

And the island was beautiful, not that Whimbrel House was allowing him to enjoy it.

“That’s the point of being a house, isn’t it?” he asked, nails digging into his palms. “To be lived in. Last resident was in the 1730s, wasn’t it? So aren’t you lonely?”

“I am.” His voice was barely audible, but he knew the place heard it. “I’ve been lonely for a long time. Sure, I’ve had friends, colleagues, so I’m not isolated. But I still feel it. It’s the deep, lasting kind of loneliness. The hollow kind that settles in your bones.”

“I must confess that I don’t read much in the way of fiction. I won’t be a great help to you.” Mr. Fernsby reeled back. “What? Who doesn’t read fiction? What else is there to read?” “Receipt books, histories, the newspaper—” “All of them hogwash, the last one most of all.” Hulda folded her arms. “Did you not work for the press, Mr. Fernsby?” He smiled. “How else would I know? Now, about Elise—”

Only, the half of the bed Hulda was in wasn’t his bed. He let out a tense breath. The house had shifted again, during the night! Reforming bedrooms, cutting his and the housekeeper’s in half and gluing them together! And he didn’t have pants on.

For a while, he’d wondered if his grandmother had bequeathed it to him as a curse. But in truth, the place had proven to be a pleasant adventure.

Truthfully, she didn’t really want to travel. She used to love it . . . yet the older she got, the more tiresome it became.

It was fascinating that a person could just sit down and write an entire novel. That all of these words, and the pictures they painted, had only existed inside his head before he put them to paper. That he could create something from nothing.

“Because then I would have to know the ending, and why would I finish a book when I already know how it ends?”

“And you’ve never been interested in setting up some sort of horoscope shop? They’re very popular.” “My great-grandmother had one.” Another step. “She was eccentric.” “You don’t have to be eccentric to run your own business.”

“but when you turn yourself into a novelty, you attract a certain kind of person. They see only the novelty, and once they’ve had their fill, they leave. She had thousands of friends, but none of them were true connections. From what I’ve been told, at least. She passed away when I was young.”

“There’s strife in your future . . . but strife that will lead to truth.” “Strife and truth? Sounds religious. I’m not joining the Mormons, am I?” She blinked. “Who are the Mormons?”

“You know, the interesting thing about writing,” he said, changing the conversation once more, “is actually the readers. Novels critically acclaimed by one person are detested and even burned by another.

Beauty is just like a book. Some will not bother to look beyond the cover; others will find the entire tome utterly captivating.”