Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 11

“I suppose you’re going to compensate me after my employment is terminated?” Elsie asked, picking her way around a mud puddle formed by the morning’s rain. She traversed a wide dirt road that stretched from Seven Oaks toward the bulk of the duke’s tenants, and while the overhead sky was currently dry, the lurking, morose clouds promised more rain to come.

Mr. Bacchus Kelsey, half a step ahead of her, scoffed at the idea. He wasn’t in a jovial mood, not that jovial was his usual demeanor. But he was a little stiffer than usual, a little colder, too. Elsie didn’t think it had anything to do with the weather.

She stepped over a stone, glad she’d had the forethought to don sturdy boots for today’s blackmailed labors. She wore a simple linen dress, one she wouldn’t care too much about dirtying. The hem was already collecting whispers of mud. Elsie would wash those out herself rather than explain to Emmeline how she’d come by them. Another late night ahead of her, then. At least she’d caught up on sleep.

Even so, she knew she couldn’t carry on her triple life for much longer. If she spent much more time away from Brookley, she’d get herself in trouble. Goodness, it felt like she was a character in one of her novel readers, and if she’d learned anything from those sensational stories, everything would culminate into a ghastly event meant to entertain someone else—perhaps, in this case, God—at her expense.

She should try her hand at authorship someday. She might be good at it.

You may have more time than you think. What if it’s the steward who is keeping Mr. Ogden busy, not the squire? What if Mr. Parker’s giving you the time you need? Wishful thinking, perhaps, but she hoped it was true.

When they crested a small hill and the first homes began to dot the greenery ahead of them, Mr. Kelsey said, “The crops haven’t been doing well. They thrive in the tenants’ individual gardens, but the farms are waterlogged and close to rot.”

“It did rain today.”

He cast her a withering look.

Elsie sighed. “Well, I can certainly take a look.”

He didn’t reply, so she simply followed him into the tiny village, averting her eyes, wishing not to be recognized. Out for a stroll, she’d say if asked. Consultant. Curious about the duke’s grounds. Eager for Mr. Kelsey’s company, is all.

Not today. The man was practically a storm all in himself. Maybe he’d also run into a past lover. What kind of woman, precisely, would interest a man like Mr. Kelsey?

“Perhaps the queen will decide it’s too dreary and hire the Physical Atheneum to clear up the sky, hmm?” Elsie offered. It wasn’t fully a jest—it had happened before. With the ability to control temperature and water vapor, powerful physical aspectors could create storms, even dismiss them. For a city as large as London, it would take . . . many working together. Elsie wasn’t sure of the exact number. But Kent would feel some of the effects.

If Mr. Kelsey replied, she didn’t hear it. They stepped between two homes, Mr. Kelsey nodding to a woman comforting an infant on her shoulder. To the right, Elsie spied a physical spell, small and faintly blue, shivering as though cold, at the center of the stone wall. It vanished just as quickly.

When they were out of earshot, she said, “I don’t suppose you want me to take the fortifying spells off the homes as well?”

He glanced at her, his green eyes such a contrast to his deeply tanned features.

She shrugged. “Make them more dependent. Easier to cow. The like.”

“I don’t know why you have it in your mind that the duke means to make enemies of his own tenants.” He sounded tired. “Those spells are new, besides.”

She paused for a moment. Only a moment, for Mr. Kelsey’s long strides easily put distance between them, and she’d rather not run after him in front of so many onlookers. Mr. Kelsey had placed the spells, then. Recently. To strengthen the houses. That could be helpful only to the people who lived here.

Perhaps it had been done in an effort to save the duke money, but it was kind regardless. Not that she’d mention it.

Elsie saw the field in question up ahead—rows and rows of young plants, perhaps corn. She’d never been a farmer, but they did indeed look waterlogged and sickly, almost more brown than green, and spots dotted the leaves like freckles. She paused at the edge of it and crouched down, touching the soil. It wasn’t any damper than the rest of the county.

“Anything?” Mr. Kelsey asked.

She stood. Glanced over her shoulder, feeling the prickling of distant stares.

“They’ll lose interest soon enough,” he assured her.

She took two handfuls of her skirt and hoisted it to the top of her boots. “May I?”

Mr. Kelsey gestured ahead.

She walked down the row, trying to avoid hurting the sad crops at her feet. A few had given up hope and lay uselessly on the dirt, stems too weak to stand.

Please let there be a spell, she thought, chewing on the edge of her tongue. I can’t fix it if there isn’t. And then these people might be denied even their cabbage.

She walked the entire row without so much as a glimpse, sound, or smell of a spell. Mr. Kelsey stood a third of the way into the field, watching her. Skipping a few rows, Elsie stepped carefully back, searching. Smelling, listening. Keeping her senses open.

Again, nothing. Perhaps the tenants would have to move the field. It wasn’t too late to plant anew . . . but preparing another piece of land this size would be a difficult task.

She passed a few more rows and traversed the farmland once again. She was a quarter of the way through when she thought she heard something—a sound like a cricket’s cry, punching the air before vanishing altogether. She stepped back. Nothing. Crouched—

There.

She gently pushed apart two plants. This time she heard it more clearly, the chirp subtle yet distinct, too wrong to be a hiding insect. A spiritual spell, then. After removing her gloves and shoving them into her collar, she gave up hope for manicured nails and dug into the dirt, the chirping becoming stronger until she found it nearly a foot down. Tiny but strong, its song buzzed in her ears, the sound clear enough now that she saw its knots in her mind’s eye.

Mr. Kelsey approached from the west. “Did you find something?”

“Can you hear it?”

He shook his head.

She touched it. “There. It’s a spiritual spell, but one I don’t recognize. Does the duke or any of the people here employ magic in the fields? To help the plants grow?”

“Often, yes. Did you not find them?”

Elsie shook her head, wondering if a spellbreaker had also been present recently or if, perhaps, the aspector hired to initially boost the crops had never made it to his appointment. “This might very well be the curse you suspected, Mr. Kelsey.” She wondered if the Cowls knew about it, but she doubted it. It was very well hidden.

Mr. Kelsey cursed. Or so she thought. It was under his breath and hard to decipher, but it had the sharpness of a curse.

Without waiting for his command, Elsie poked at the spell, searching for its threads. It took her a full minute to find the first one. Her concentration must have been obvious, for Mr. Kelsey didn’t interrupt her until she was finished. She stood up and brushed off her skirts, then blinked as blood rushed back to her head.

Mr. Kelsey took her elbow.

“I’m quite all right,” she said, but she didn’t pull away until she was sure she wouldn’t fall and ruin the dress completely. He had a firm but gentle grip, unlike when he’d manhandled her a week ago. She didn’t dislike it. “I wonder if there are more.”

“We’ll look,” he said. Elsie liked that he included himself in the work, though his aspector blindness made him quite useless.

She studied his face. “You know who did it?”

“I have a very strong suspicion.”

She did love a bit of gossip. “Do tell.”

He set his jaw, relaxed it. Rubbed his forehead. “The Duke of East Sussex. His wife is a master spiritual aspector and a jealous cow of a woman.”

“My, my.” Elsie pulled her gloves from her collar. “Such a sharp tongue you have.”

“You would call her worse, I’m sure. She wears spells like a heavy perfume and deals them out as freely as the law will allow. The rest she does where the law can’t see.”

She frowned. “What business is it of hers if this farm fails or succeeds?”

Mr. Kelsey shook his head. “She’s a jealous woman. Envies Duchess Abigail a great deal. Perhaps she’s cross about Master Merton’s interest in Miss Ida; rumor is she’s topped off on her magical potential and it’s made her bitter.”

Topped off. Elsie thought of Ogden’s struggle to learn a new physical spell. He was only a novice-level aspector, and he had already emptied his magical cup. She understood discussing one’s magical potential was a taboo topic in polite society.

“As far as I know,” Mr. Kelsey continued, “she’s been forgotten by the Spiritual Atheneum. I honestly can’t think of anyone else with motivation.”

“She must be a rather self-motivated woman, to come out here and get in the dirt herself.”

“She has done as much before. In other ways.” He rubbed his half beard. Unfashionable as it was, Elsie thought it suited him rather well. What did those whiskers feel like? “I’m sure I have something in my repertoire to return the favor.”

Why on earth are you thinking about his facial hair? She focused on the conversation at hand. “I didn’t think you the petty type.”

He scowled. “If these people only understand dirty politics, then I’ll speak their language.”

“While you mimic it quite well”—she stepped over some plants to get better footing—“I fear any sort of similar revenge will only hurt the duchess’s tenants, and I’m sure they stay far from the political game.”

He glanced at her, the scowl dissipating. She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re right, of course.” He sighed.

Hands on hips, Elsie scanned the field. She was nearly in the center of it. If there were more spells, she imagined they’d be at either of the far ends. She checked the sky. If she left in the next half hour, she could get home without the need to explain her absence. And yet . . . she found herself disliking this spiritual aspector who had turned her jealousy into a weapon wielded against the innocent. She didn’t need a directive from the Cowls to see justice done.

“I presume the Duke of East Sussex is in London with the rest of Parliament, since his estate is not a comfortable ride away?”

He folded his arms. “I believe so.”

“Then his duchess would be there as well.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your point?”

“I assume your reference to her wearing spells would mean those of vanity? Physical and temporal, perhaps? Those are rather simple spells. Quite easy to unravel. I need only run into her, and she might not even notice.” She smiled. “It might be enough of a message.” Elsie was feeling a little reckless.

And she would very much like to stay busy today, if only to keep her thoughts where she wanted them and not allow them leave to stray to Alfred. Or her parents.

Unlovable.

She rubbed her hands together, cleaning them as best she could, before pulling on her gloves. “I’ll even do it free of charge.” She’d have to find an excuse for her absence if Ogden noticed. She really needed to be more careful. While she doubted Ogden would turn her out, she wanted him to be glad to have her.

Mr. Kelsey’s lips quirked. “We sound like children, don’t we?”

“Have you never noticed that children have a much happier disposition than adults? Perhaps you might know where the naughty Duchess of East Sussex is staying.”

He considered that a moment. “Let’s check the rest of the field. And then you will ride in a duke’s carriage, Miss Camden.”

“And you will ride on horseback outside of it.” She offered her fakest smile. “For the sake of propriety.”

He accepted the offer with a nod, though oddly enough, Elsie found herself wishing he’d fought her on it.

Elsie stood in a short, sunny alleyway, feeling like she was eight years old again. Perhaps they were being foolish, immature, even reckless, but she could not deny she was excited. Her work with the Cowls was always so precise and clandestine. So impersonal.

She could get caught. In fact, if the situation seemed too dangerous for her to act, she would not. Petty revenge certainly wasn’t worth the noose, however much the woman deserved it. But if the spells were simple enough, she could work swiftly, invisibly. She’d done it before.

Honestly, it was a soft punishment for a woman trying to starve an entire village.

“There.” Bacchus peered onto the main street beside her. The word was especially rich, and Elsie realized he’d said it in his Bajan accent. She tried not to smile as he gestured subtly toward the road. They stood close, half-masked by a small shop for used book and leather repair. A tall but plump woman exited the ribbon shop Bacchus had indicated, dressed in scarlet almost too bright to be tasteful. Was that velvet? Goodness, the jacket alone would cost a fortune. She had black hair curled and pinned under a matching hat. Her features were quite lovely, her eyes large and nose small, lips red without paint. She looked too young for a woman in her fifties, which was the age Bacchus had guessed her to be.

Elsie set her quarry: Duchess Matilda Morris, disgraced spiritual aspector, crop ruiner, face liar. The Cowls certainly wouldn’t like her.

Duchess Morris walked by a much smaller, plumper woman with gray-streaked curls bushing out from a hat. They seemed to be speaking about something astonishing.

Nobility gossip. How delightful. Though if the duchess had a companion, Elsie’s plan might not work.

Elsie stepped into the street, checking the way for horses before hurrying along. She thought she heard Bacchus snap something about being careful. But there was no need to give chase; the two women took the stairs right into the next shop—a millinery.

Slowing her step, Elsie followed, catching the door right before it closed. She feigned intense interest in the window display just inside the entrance.

“I still think it might be bad driving. But I’m beginning to worry. It’s not a long trip.” Duchess Morris glanced over a few hats with her lip curled in disgust.

“Alma is an aspector, she’ll be fine.” The woman with the ruddy cheeks picked up a spool of ribbon and laid it across the back of her hand, noting the color against her skin. There was something in her voice familiar to Elsie. She dared a closer glance.

It was Master Lily Merton, from the dinner at Seven Oaks. Elsie turned away quickly, not wishing to be recognized. Or did she? Could she get closer to Duchess Morris if she struck up a conversation with Master Merton first? Would Master Merton know enough about spellbreaking to notice what Elsie was doing?

Doubt crept up her spine. But if it would put Bacchus Kelsey in better spirits, he might let her go sooner. No more lying and slinking around without pay. No more being under his thumb. Elsie did not enjoy being a debtor.

And it might be nice to see him a little more chipper, besides.

“And what will she do if some highway robber accosts her? Bless him? I’m the one who convinced her to take a holiday. What an awful start.” Duchess Morris wrung her hands together. “She should have arrived by now. Her sister’s telegram was practically manic. Ugh, this place is no better than the last.”

Elsie watched from the corner of her eye. Does the squire know this Alma, too? she wondered, half-serious.

The owner of the shop stood right there, his brow wrinkling at the woman’s insult. Duchess Morris waved a dismissive hand and started back for the door. “I’ll send Marie for it. This is a waste of time.”

Master Merton returned the ribbon and nodded her thanks at the disgruntled milliner, but another trinket caught her eye. She wandered off, leaving Duchess Morris waiting by the door. Master Merton and the shop owner were distracted. No witnesses.

Elsie steadied herself with a deep breath. She just had to get the timing right. She waited until Duchess Morris grew impatient and headed for the exit, then Elsie turned suddenly—

“Oh!” she exclaimed, barreling right into Duchess Morris. They fell over together, crashing into a table of wares that barely kept them from toppling to the floor. A smattering of tiny temporal runes smelled so strongly they made Elsie gag, and a physical rune she wasn’t familiar with glimmered at her, already fraying at the edges. Perfect. It was cheaply made and would come apart on its own soon, anyway, so no one could point a finger at Elsie for its disappearance. In a feigned effort to get up, Elsie swiped her hand across the woman’s face, catching the physical rune with her thumb. It came apart so easily even another spellbreaker might not have noticed.

“Get off me, you clumsy hag!” Duchess Morris growled in frustration. She pushed Elsie away just as Elsie pulled the threads of a second rune apart. Only two—she hadn’t time for more, and there had to be at least a half dozen on the duchess’s face alone.

“Oh my!” The millinery owner grabbed Elsie and pulled her upright.

“Miss Camden?” Master Merton asked, wide-eyed.

Seeing Elsie was uninjured, the shop owner quickly sought to aid the woman of higher worth. “My lady, are you all right?”

Master Merton’s face pinched. Hushed, she said, “You’d best make yourself scarce,” and then pushed her attention to the duchess. “Oh, Matilda! What a bother!” She took Duchess Morris’s arm and helped right her. “What an unlucky thing.”

The sternness in Master Merton’s tone startled Elsie. Finding herself, she bowed her head. “My apologies! I wasn’t thinking.”

“Obviously.” Duchess Morris righted herself and adjusted her skirt. Her brows pulled together, yet they left no creases or wrinkles on her forehead—a spell must have concealed that. But her nose, her true nose, jutted from her face like the edge of a cleaver, pointed and sure of itself. Fine lines appeared on the corner of her mouth below it—but only one corner. The other was as smooth as a babe’s bottom.

Elsie bit the inside of her cheek and offered a curtsy. The milliner stared.

Master Merton, not yet seeming to notice the change in Duchess Morris’s face, turned to Elsie and jerked her head toward the door. She was right, of course. Better that someone of Elsie’s social class not stick around for the punishment of a duchess.

But Duchess Morris shifted, blocking Elsie’s way to the door, and grabbed Master Merton’s wrist. “Really, Lily.” Elsie readied a defense, but the exasperated duchess ignored her, instead dragging Master Merton to the exit. Elsie lingered behind to put distance between them, picking up the items she’d knocked off the table and offering another apology to the milliner. Once she deemed it safe, she, too, stepped back out onto the street.

Bacchus strode up to her, watching the backs of the two fleeing women. “You are a natural, Miss Camden.” That earlier gloom had dissipated from his manner. The excursion had been successful in two ways, then.

“But of course.” She adjusted her hatpin. “If you’ll kindly see me home, Mr. Kelsey, I have a growing list of chores that needs my attention.”

He almost smiled.