Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 6

“Elsie, could you hand me that pitcher? Elsie?”

Elsie blinked, climbing out of the mental hole she’d fallen into. She leaned against the wall in the kitchen, staring blindly into nothing. She noticed Emmeline standing over the stove, watching her. Spied the pitcher of water near the sink.

“Sorry.” Elsie retrieved the pitcher and handed it to Emmeline, who poured its contents into the pot she stirred. Calf’s foot jelly, one of Ogden’s favorites.

“You’ve been absent this morning,” the maid said.

Elsie merely nodded. She was tired, yes. Last night, she’d spent an exorbitant amount of money on a midnight carriage to drop her off at the edge of Brookley, and although she’d snuck into her room for a few hours’ sleep, she’d had to leave again before the household awakened so she could pretend to arrive at the appointed time. She’d started on Ogden’s financial ledgers only to find the numbers swirling before her eyes. Her brain was tied up in Kent.

Could Mr. Kelsey really track her down? Her name wasn’t listed in any directory, she was certain. Her workhouse records had burned to ash long ago. What would he do, stop at every post office in the country until her name popped up?

She should have lied after all, but he’d been so serious, so dour, she’d suspected he would somehow know. Would the Cowls be angry when they saw the heat spell intact? Was Mr. Kelsey lying about the security measure? Elsie felt like she was drowning in a pool and desperately trying to find purchase on slick porcelain walls.

It’s just for a little while. She’d balance it somehow. The Cowls might not ask for another favor for months, for all she knew. Ogden was often busy and was lenient with her schedule—she’d earned it, after so many years of good service. Kent wasn’t far. She could manage it for a week or two. Surely that would be enough work to repay her perceived debt, and Mr. Kelsey would let her go.

He couldn’t be too terrible if he’d given her the option to flee.

A bell rang in the kitchen, startling both Elsie and Emmeline. Ogden didn’t often use the bellpull, only when he was very busy or needed to make a good impression on a visitor in his sitting room. Elsie and Emmeline exchanged a glance before Elsie said, “I’ll take it.”

Emmeline nodded her thanks. Picking up her maroon skirt, Elsie hurried up the stairs to the sitting room. The door was cracked open, and they had no visitors, so she didn’t bother knocking.

“Mr. Ogden?” she asked, but she needn’t have. Ogden sat on a stool by the unlit fireplace, a fine-tipped brush in his hand. He’d worked Latin letters down his arm in blue ink.

He was learning a new spell.

“My drops, Elsie, if you would,” he said over his shoulder.

Elsie hurried from the sitting room to Ogden’s room. It was simply furnished and smelled very much like man—shaving cream, plaster, spice. It was just as well that Elsie had answered the bell. Emmeline didn’t know where Ogden kept his drops. She’d been employed at the stonemasonry shop for almost two years, but information so valuable could be entrusted only to so many.

Crouching, Elsie felt under Ogden’s side table for a small key hidden there, then took it to the squat cupboard near the locked window. It fit into a small door on the side, and Elsie withdrew a small leather bag from within, the drops clanking against one another. She worked the bag open as she returned to the sitting room.

Inside were seven drops, each worth more than its weight in gold. Although roughly the size of shillings, they were imperfectly round—a strange, beautiful amalgamation of quartz, rose water, and gold. They were translucent, rounded but not smooth, and glinted in the sunlight. Drops were the currency the universe—or perhaps God—required for spells. They didn’t require magic to create, an aspector could make his own, but the measurements were so precise and the process so expensive it was simpler just to exchange coin for them at the nearest atheneum. A lot of coin. The more advanced the spell, the higher the price. Drops were one of many reasons an impoverished person could rarely raise his fortune through magic.

Of course, it cost no money to break a spell, only to learn one.

“I need seven,” Ogden said when Elsie slipped into the room.

“Just enough.” Elsie turned the drops into her hand and stood behind Ogden, waiting for him to finish his work. The words of the spell, always in Latin, needed to be written precisely down his arm, and Elsie didn’t wish to disturb him. If the spell took—if Ogden’s innate talent was enough—the words would absorb into his skin, making the spell a part of him. A page in his future opus. The drops would vanish as well. Some said they became part of the body, generating power for magic. Others claimed they reabsorbed into the universe, or plunked into God’s own coffers. Wherever they went, they could not be used a second time. Drops were one of magic’s most compelling mysteries, perhaps rivaled only by the spells themselves. Who had penned the first spell was as shrouded in enigma as who had penned the last. None of the authors were known, and spells across all four disciplines were set. Many had studied the language and style of spellmaking enchantments in an effort to expound upon them, or create one anew, and not one had ever been successful. The magic was as set in stone as the Commandments themselves.

Ogden’s handwriting was in blue ink, for physical aspecting. Red was used for rational, yellow for spiritual, and green for temporal. Why, she didn’t know. That was just the way God had made it.

She settled down on the nearby settee, the drops warming in her hands. Her eyes fell to a folded newspaper beside her—Ogden’s morning read. She opened the thin paper, her eyes instantly falling to the main headline.

Viscount Aspector Struck by Lightning on Clear Day.

Its subheading read:

Opus Not Recovered.

Furrowing her brow, Elsie brought the paper closer to her face. Viscount Byron had been struck down in London after a meeting of Parliament, in the late hours of the evening. Though there was no storm, lightning had forked from the sky through his window and into his person. The witness, who had asked not to be identified, ran screaming from the house, but when the family—and later authorities—arrived on the scene, there was no sign of the viscount or his opus.

A chill coursed down Elsie’s spine as Mr. Parker’s words came rushing back to her: He has been out of sorts lately, what with the passing of the viscount . . . Right under his nose, yet no one heard a thing.

Her mouth went dry. Had the steward been referring to Viscount Byron? Could Squire Hughes be the unidentified witness?

Her thoughts ran rampant. According to the Wright sisters, the squire had also been connected to the baron who had passed. Quite a coincidence that he should know both of the men whose opuses had been taken. And why the sudden increase in opus-related crime? This wasn’t the seventeenth century—

“Elsie?”

She set down the paper and forced her thoughts to the present, tucking away the information for later study. Crossing to Ogden, she placed the drops in his waiting hand. They seemed so bright at first, but it was only a trick of the sun, for when Ogden shifted his hand, they glowed only faintly.

This was another aspect of drops—they reacted to a person’s magical fortitude. Glowed. The stronger the spellmaker, the brighter the drop. They did not, however, react to a spellbreaker’s magic. If Elsie held them in her hand, they remained unlit and translucent. Ogden had some ability, but not much. The spells she’d encountered at the duke’s estate would be far beyond his grasp. But he did try, and occasionally succeed.

“Which spell is this?”

“Temperature change.” Ogden held his painted arm out straight in front of him. “Would make some of my work easier. Maybe help with pottery.”

Elsie stepped back, and Ogden chanted Latin. Elsie understood only a few words of the old language, and none of the ones passing her employer’s lips. She tried to follow the words on his arms, for that was what he read, but Ogden’s body hair was thick, and he had turned the top of his forearm away from her. When he finished, his fist closed around the drops. They brightened slightly, then dulled.

Ogden sighed. The spell hadn’t taken.

“Maybe try again,” Elsie suggested. “I can check your handwriting; the brush could have slipped.”

“It’s an intermediate spell.” Ogden lowered his arm, looking fatigued. “It was a long shot to begin with. Seems I must appease myself with novice learning only.”

Elsie rested her hand on his shoulder. “You still know more magic than I do.” It was both a truth and a lie.

He offered a weak smile and patted her hand. “It’s fine. I am an artist, not an aspector. This is really just a hobby.”

“At least you’ll only ever have to buy white paint.” Ogden’s most-used spell was the color-changing one, although he couldn’t mimic the metallic glints in the paint Elsie had retrieved for him last night. “I put the new paint in your studio.”

“Thank you. Mind getting me a tea cloth so I can wash this off? Emmeline hates scrubbing ink from my shirts.”

She nodded and turned, but paused. “Did you read the paper already?”

“I have.”

“What do you think . . . of the murders? And the opuses?” The opuses that had been stolen were from master magicians, people who knew the most powerful of spells. The spellbooks’ value went far beyond money, and in the wrong hands, they could be incredibly dangerous. In the riots of the late seventeenth century, opus spells had been used to make a general forget which side he fought for and attack his own king. Another had set an atheneum on fire.

Ogden frowned. “I hope they are merely stories sensationalized by journalists to sell more papers. Let’s pray the viscount is the last we hear of.”

Elsie nodded before hurrying downstairs to do as asked, her thoughts flitting between murders, opuses, and Kent.

When the door to the studio opened, Elsie jumped and dropped the paintbrushes she’d been organizing. She half expected a large, shadowy man to be standing there. He would say, I meant dawn today, and then step aside, revealing the police force assembled behind him, ready to drag her to the nearest atheneum for punishment.

To her relief, it was merely a lad no older than fourteen. Small in stature, dressed in gray servants’ clothing. Completely harmless.

She craned to check the road behind him just in case, but it seemed God did not mean for her to meet her reckoning today.

Letting out a long breath, Elsie scooped up the paintbrushes and headed over to the counter, where the boy waited. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Elsie Camden?” He scratched the side of his freckled nose.

She set the brush down. “I’m she. What can I do for you?”

His eyes darted around the studio, though it seemed to be more from curiosity than nervousness. Remembering himself, he shot his gaze back to her. “Oh. Uh, Mr. Parker sent me. From Squire Hughes’s estate. Said . . .” He paused, trying to remember. “Needs your assistance with an addition, and Mr. Ogden ’asn’t got the paperwork.”

Mr. Parker. Her pulse quickened at the name. Why send for her when he could simply wait until tomorrow and have Ogden bring the paperwork himself? Why was a man who had so pointedly not been in her life—almost as though he’d been trying to conceal himself—now suddenly popping up again and again?

Could she be right about his connection to the Cowls? And if so, did this mean they were finally preparing to bring her into the fold? She’d been waiting so long . . .

The boy was watching her, so she pushed out a confirmative “Ah.” The metallic paint would not be needed yet after all. If the squire meant to add more work to Ogden’s plate, he wouldn’t have time for it. Not today. Leave it to a nobleman to assume he was the only one worth serving. “Wait for me one moment, will you?”

The boy nodded, and Elsie retrieved the ledger used to record Ogden’s open orders, trying not to let excitement shake her hands. The ledger chronicled names, dates, the type of work, estimates, and final prices. Squire Hughes had a page all to himself. Ogden, being a wise man, wanted the extra requests recorded now so they’d be charged properly when the time came. Elsie would even make Mr. Parker sign the page. She wouldn’t put it past Squire Rat to shortchange them.

Maybe she could get Mr. Parker to print his name as well. See if it matched the handwriting in the letters she received. Although she always promptly destroyed them, they were all written in the same hand. She felt certain she’d recognize it.

After retrieving her hat, she tucked the ledger under her arm and gestured for the lad to lead the way. He did so without word, and walked too slow for Elsie’s liking. She wanted to arrive straightaway. She needed to know.

It was a bit too cloudy today, but the sun peeked out just often enough to keep the air warm. The Wright sisters hunched together outside the saddler. They were gossiping, no doubt, which made Elsie both roll her eyes and wish to get closer to see what garnered their interest. Levi Morgan, her closest neighbor, passed by with a bundle under his arm, tipping his hat to her. Elsie nodded in turn.

They crossed the street and passed the dressmaker, the courthouse, and the constable’s home. Continued down the road until it narrowed and grew dusty, past a stream, and through a smattering of woods, all the way to the squire’s home. Elsie was quite out of breath when she arrived. Her guide was gracious enough to lead her to Mr. Parker’s study before continuing on his way. The door was ajar, and Mr. Parker sat at his desk, a dainty pair of spectacles resting at the end of his nose, making him look quite old. He scrawled something on a piece of paper. Elsie let herself in. She wasn’t quiet about it, and when the steward glanced up and saw her, he immediately slammed his left hand down, covering what he had written.

Elsie, of course, took immediate interest in the writing, but Mr. Parker’s wide hand successfully covered all of it. Surely he’d smeared the ink! What was so private that he felt the need to hide it? And so obviously?

It was as she lifted her gaze from the steward’s hand that she saw a stick of wax to one side of it. Her pulse quickened. It was a vivid orange wax.

Just like the wax the Cowls used to seal their letters.

Her lips parted, but no sound escaped them. Of course more than one person, or people, could have orange wax on hand. Elsie knew that. But the orange wax in addition to the covering of the letter . . . Was Mr. Parker trying to hide his handwriting?

She feared he’d hear her heart thundering in her chest. If it’s him, then he’s not ready to reveal himself. It took the bulk of her willpower not to launch herself at the desk and forcibly remove that note so she could read it, or simply blurt out, Are you the one who’s been directing me all this time?

It made sense. His age, the wax, his interest in and knowledge of her, the ease with which she’d landed that initial job in the squire’s home. It made sense, and yet Elsie could do nothing about it until he moved first.

All of these thoughts swept through her mind in a matter of seconds, leaving her fingers cold and head dumbfounded.

Mr. Parker snapped her to attention. “Miss Camden, thank you for coming on such short notice. Squire Hughes wished to add some stonework to an outer wall, and I understand Mr. Ogden has a process for that.”

Elsie met the steward’s blue-eyed gaze. Swallowed. “Um, yes, of course.” She pulled out the ledger, trying to keep her hand from shaking. Act normal. It’s just speculation. But the wax, the secrecy . . . and Mr. Parker had specifically mentioned Viscount Byron to her on her last visit. Because he knew something? Because he knew her?

It is my business to know, he’d said.

Clearing her throat, Elsie opened to the squire’s page in the ledger. “If I might borrow a pen and ink.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Mr. Parker slid whatever he’d been working on under the desk and pushed the pen and ink vial toward her. He gestured to a chair.

Elsie pulled it over and sat. She was so flustered, so excited, so confused, that she couldn’t stop the question from bubbling up her throat. “What was that you were working on? That is, I hope I didn’t intrude. I wouldn’t want you to have to rewrite it.”

Was she talking too fast? Slow down, Elsie. Or he’ll know you suspect.

Was it wrong for him to think she knew? But there must be a reason the Cowls kept their identities from her. Like they were waiting for something. Like she had to prove herself. They’d provided her with so much already; they’d saved her from the workhouse and from being discovered as an illegal spellbreaker, which she surely would have been severely punished for despite her age. They’d arranged for her to find a good job—what should have been a good job, at least. She’d always wondered if it had angered them when she left it for Ogden’s employ, but she’d still been a child. Certainly they couldn’t hold it against her!

They used to send follow-up letters, telling her of the good she’d done, the results of her clandestine activities, but they’d stopped the practice years ago. Likely because double the letters meant double the chance of getting caught, and besides, she’d grown from a child to a woman. Still, she yearned for their praise, and they gave it in the best way possible.

They kept her on. They gave her more complicated and more important work, more frequently. Something was about to bend. Elsie could feel it, and then she’d finally have the answers to the mystery she’d been living for half her life.

“Just a list.” Mr. Parker sounded cheery, but the tone wasn’t genuine. It piqued her interest all the more.

Focus.

She dipped the proffered pen. “If you could detail the addition Squire Hughes is requesting.”

He did so, and Elsie wrote it down, her penmanship not what it should be. The pen quivered in her anxious hand. She hoped Mr. Parker didn’t notice.

She calculated the costs and wrote them in the first column of numbers, then, at the bottom of the page, drew an X and a straight line after it. Beneath it, she wrote, Mr. Gabriel Parker. Turning the ledger toward him, she said, “If you might review and sign, Mr. Ogden can get started right away.”

Adjusting his glasses, the steward did just that. Meticulous—a good quality for a steward. Elsie took a moment to study him, his white hair, the writing calluses on his hand. The smeared ink on his left palm. He had ruined the letter. No list would have inspired him to do such a thing. Could he really be one of them?

Could Mr. Parker be working for the squire to watch him? To bring down his household from within?

Then there was his talk of the viscount, and the Wright sisters’ gossip about the baron who had once stayed in this house. Could the squire be responsible for the deaths of the aspectors?

He was no spellmaker, but one didn’t have to be to use an opus spell. Even the pageboy could unleash a master spell if it came from a master’s opus.

Elsie’s thoughts spun so fast they were making her dizzy. She desperately needed to get away and think.

Mr. Parker signed. Elsie glanced at his signature as he returned the ledger, but of course the scrawl wouldn’t match his natural penmanship.

She desperately wanted to see what the steward was hiding under the desk. But alas, she could not force him to show her, and if she were to evince more than a natural interest, she risked revealing herself.

Standing, Elsie thanked Mr. Parker. He did not stand to walk her to the door—but of course he was busy, and he had that letter—so she saw herself out. Her nerves were so raw that she walked back to the stonemasonry shop at an even faster pace than she’d set earlier. She was distracted the remainder of the day, trying to piece together what she knew of Mr. Parker with what she knew of the Cowls. Wishing she had kept the letters to compare them to how he spoke.

It wasn’t until night settled and Elsie turned in for bed that she recalled a much more pressing situation.

Come dawn, she had to report to Seven Oaks, and the man who knew her most protected secret.

Why was it that every time Elsie returned to the Duke of Kent’s estate, it seemed to have grown larger in her absence? When she stood before it now, it appeared as foreboding as a castle.

It had not been difficult to get away; Ogden was busy again at the squire’s estate—something that tempted Elsie’s thoughts to return to the mysterious Mr. Parker—and Emmeline was so focused on her chores she often didn’t notice when Elsie left the house. After completing her deliveries and taking stock of supplies in the masonry shop, Elsie had brought the financial ledgers with her and finished them in the carriage, albeit with shaky penmanship. She would do her work for Mr. Kelsey and return swiftly, staying up late to sharpen the sculptor tools Ogden would need for his work at the squire’s house. She’d still get enough sleep to function, and none would be the wiser. Perhaps she’d be so useful Mr. Kelsey would excuse her after her first day.

That certainly sounded fictional, even to her.

If Mr. Parker knew of her predicament, would he swoop in and save her?

Of course, she didn’t know he was a Cowl. She couldn’t tell him anything. Not yet.

She entered the grounds as she had the first time—through the front gate. The duke was neither a king nor an aspector; he didn’t post guards, though he did have a number of footmen about. She didn’t see any people at all as she trudged around to the servants’ door, which was for the better. Whatever Mr. Kelsey had planned for her, she couldn’t let anyone else, even a scullery maid, know what she was.

She knocked, noticing with dismay that her hard work had already been undone. The enchantment had been returned to the doorknob, though it was currently inactive. A few seconds passed before a girl—the one with the washbasin from before?—peeked out, only to instantly close the door in Elsie’s face. Gritting her teeth together, Elsie waited a full minute, then another, before lifting her hand to knock again.

The door swung open fast enough to create its own wind. A large man filled its frame. “You’re late.”

Elsie gawked a moment. It was one thing to have an altercation with a shadow. It was another to see the shadow in bright morning sunlight.

He was over six feet tall, broad and well dressed. His skin was deeply tanned, a light sepia, and a dark half beard encircled his mouth. His wavy walnut hair was worn long and pulled up at the back of his head in a folded tail. A few pieces of the dark mass were sun bleached, as though the overall color could not decide if it wanted to be dark or light.

His eyes were a rather remarkable shade of green.

Elsie caught herself quickly and squared her shoulders. “I am an educated woman, monsieur. I have certain morning grooming rituals that cannot be overlooked, especially if I’m to appear at the home of a duke.” If she didn’t stand her ground, the spellmaker would walk all over her.

She thought she caught Mr. Kelsey rolling his eyes, but he stepped out of the door frame, forcing Elsie to step back. He shut the door behind him. Elsie glanced longingly at the glimmering spell she’d disenchanted twice already.

Surely the Cowls knew she’d tried.

Mr. Kelsey strode toward the back of the estate without word. Elsie followed him, nearly having to jog to keep up with his stride.

“There are some slapdash spells on the estate I’d like voided.” Mr. Kelsey looked straight ahead. “Previous hires of the duchess. Some are old, some are a smattering of intermediate spells that would be better replaced by a single advanced one.” He glanced toward her, studying her for the space of a breath. “I take it you are untrained.”

“I am more than capable of breaking slapdashery, Mr. Kelsey. I trust that you have kept your end of the bargain?”

He nodded, and a trickle of relief cooled Elsie’s vitals. “The family is away, and most of the staff has been given the day off. The rest know better than to snoop. And if any of them do, they’ll assume I hired you from a reputable source.”

Elsie frowned. At least he’d ensured her safety.

He led her to the east side of the estate, to the large stone wall that surrounded the main grounds. The wall was speckled with fortification spells—one every twenty feet!—and Elsie unraveled them one by one. She got rather quick at it, and Mr. Kelsey followed behind her, replacing the spells with spells of his own—knots larger and more intricate than those falling to pieces under Elsie’s hands. Brighter, too. He didn’t say any magical words—aspectors didn’t need to, once they had absorbed a spell. The words became part of them, part of their opus. He simply put his hands on the wall and placed his runes. Runes only a spellbreaker would be able to see. And see them she did, each neat and shiny and symmetrical, though they vanished from sight the farther she moved from them. At most, she could spy three at a time, if she focused, and only because she knew where to look.

He’d said advanced spells, which suggested he was an advanced physical aspector, not yet a master. He looked a few years shy of thirty. He must have been raised to the magic, but he wasn’t a nobleman. Not a local one, anyway. Perhaps he’d gotten a sponsorship, but gauging by the way he dressed, his sponsor would have to be very generous. A foreign landowner, most likely. She doubted he was a merchant, what with his gloomy demeanor.

By the time she got to the front gate, her wrists began to itch fiercely. Scratching did little to abate the discomfort, and Elsie paused and pulled up her sleeves, expecting to see an ugly rash. But her skin was unblemished, minus the pinkness caused by her own fingernails.

“Have you done work like this before?” Mr. Kelsey asked, sounding disinterested.

“I’ve disenchanted walls, yes.” She sounded offended.

But the man shook his head. “I mean the repetition.”

Elsie eyed him.

He gestured to her wrists. “Overextending of magic takes a toll. Itching, soreness, fatigue . . . it varies from aspector to aspector.”

Elsie tugged down her sleeve. “I’m aware.”

She was not.

She worked for another half hour—trying hard not to scratch—before a servant appeared with a small basket of food. Mr. Kelsey accepted with a nod, and the man retreated back to the house.

He offered her a wrapped sandwich.

Elsie hesitated.

Mr. Kelsey sighed. “I’ll not starve you. There’s more than enough to go around in this place.”

If only to give her fiery wrists a break, Elsie accepted the food. “Thank you.”

Mr. Kelsey grunted an acknowledgment and unwrapped his own quick meal. They were on the green without any immediate shade, and the closest bench was a short walk away, so Elsie ate her food where she stood.

“You don’t live here,” she stated, “normally, I mean.”

She’d addressed him informally, and the look he gave her said he’d noticed. “Given the nature of our relationship,” she added, “I hardly think it necessary to address you ‘properly.’ And if you’re only an advanced aspector, you do not have a title, and therefore you are not my better.”

His lip actually quirked at that. “Perhaps, but I am legal, and you are not.”

Elsie blanched.

He went on. “I’m staying with the duke’s family while I earn my mastership. My father was a friend of the family.”

“Oh.” Then he certainly would be her better, not that she’d satisfy him by saying as much. “So he has you doing menial chores about the grounds?”

He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Regardless of what you’ve chosen to believe, Miss Camden, the duke is a good man. I work willingly, out of gratitude.”

“As I work unwillingly to keep my head on my shoulders.”

He glowered. Elsie shrugged and took a bite of food. The bread was exquisite. She chewed, swallowed, and let herself relax.

“Well,” she continued, “fair is fair. But how long must I toil to earn your favor? Or rather, your silence?”

“Until the work is done.”

Elsie frowned. “Leave it to a man to be unspecific.”

Another lip quirk. At least the boor appreciated humor. “The estate and its holdings are extensive; I have yet to walk all of it.”

“And its holdings?” Elsie repeated, leaning against the wall as her knees weakened. “Good sir, you will work me to death. I have another occupation.” Two, considering how often the Cowls had been contacting her of late. “One I am putting at risk for this.”

“I needn’t remind you that you made the initial risk yourself.”

Elsie sniffed and attacked her sandwich. She ate half of it in silence, and while the lack of conversation bothered her, Mr. Kelsey seemed utterly unfazed by it. Ridiculous man. When she could bear the quiet no longer, she blurted, “So where are you from? Turkey?”

His eyes narrowed. “That is your first assumption? Turkey?”

“I am no duchess, Mr. Kelsey. I am not well traveled, though I highly doubt you’re French.”

He popped the last of his meal into his mouth and brushed off his hands. Returned to the wall. Ran his palm over it. There was a crack there, and without a word he bespelled the stones on either side of it, growing them until their own girth filled it.

It was only a little impressive.

“I’m from Barbados, if you must know.” He tilted his head toward what remained of her food. “Don’t dawdle.”

Elsie gave him a pointed look and took her time finishing her meal. Mr. Kelsey, in the meantime, caught up to her with his fortifying spells. Despite the meal, he looked a little fatigued. Tired around his eyes.

They continued their work with the second half of the wall, disenchanting and re-enchanting it until they reached the woods. The itching spread nearly to Elsie’s shoulders, but she scratched only when she was sure Mr. Kelsey was not looking. Her knees and lower back ached when the work was finished, and she very much yearned for a bath.

“That’s enough for today.” Mr. Kelsey looked back over his work. His shoulders slumped, and he looked older. She wondered if overuse of magic was the cause, but Mr. Kelsey seemed to feel more tired than she did itchy. “Until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is the Sabbath.”

He looked down at her. His glare certainly hadn’t lost any energy. “You don’t strike me as a God-fearing woman.”

Folding her arms, she retorted, “I fear him on Sundays.”

Mr. Kelsey actually laughed. Softly, barely loud enough to hear, but it was a chuckle, nonetheless. Much to Elsie’s dismay, she found it to be a very pleasant and masculine sound. “As most do.”

Elsie loosened her arms. “Monday is as good a time as any. My employer is away working on some grand scheme of stonework for our squire. Best I use the time as I am able.”

“His name?”

Elsie glared.

“I could find out for myself.”

“Do that.” Elsie offered him a mocking curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Kelsey. It’s been lovely.”

“If you’re willing to wait,” he said, turning as she passed him, “I’ll have the footmen bring around a carriage.”

“Thank you, but no.” She paused a little too close to him, then caught herself and stepped back. Her thoughts spun, flashing from the close fit of his shirt to something else . . . something curious . . . but she squashed them. “It would be best if I did not arrive in Brookley in a duke’s carriage.”

“Brookley,” he repeated with an obnoxious smirk.

She pinched her lips together. Next time she’d merely refuse to speak and bear the silence just as she bore this infuriating itching. The lace on her cuffs aggravated it. “I’ll escort myself, thank you.”

She turned and did just that. And once she reached the road, she finally let her turning thoughts surface. She’d sensed something strange about Mr. Kelsey those last few minutes.

A spell. She smelled it. A less experienced spellbreaker might have thought it Mr. Kelsey’s musk of choice, but Elsie knew better. Knew the scent of fresh-cut wood and citrus was a natural smell—and not unpleasant—but the earthy smell beneath it, not unlike mushrooms, indicated a spell. A temporal spell, planted somewhere on Mr. Kelsey’s person.

But whatever could it be?