Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 12

At home, with her hat and chatelaine bag put away and an apron tied around her waist, Elsie finished arranging the tea service in the kitchen before carrying it upstairs. Shifting it to one arm, she knocked lightly and waited for Ogden to invite her into the sitting room.

He lounged on his settee, arm across the drooping back, looking tired but otherwise well. Across from him sat Abel Nash, wearing the same clothes he’d worn the last time Elsie had seen him. He glanced at her briefly and grinned before turning back to Ogden.

Elsie gingerly set the tray on the end table nearest Ogden. Began filling his cup.

Then she saw it, and froze.

There, under an unopened letter on the edge of the settee, was the next novel reader. The continuation of The Curse of the Ruby.

She squealed and clanked the teapot against the teacup, spilling a few drops.

Both men glanced at her.

She cleared her throat. “The usual?”

Ogden raised an eyebrow. “When did you start asking?”

Elsie hurriedly dropped a half spoonful of sugar into the cup, followed by far too much cream. Ogden was plenty fit, however, so it didn’t seem to be doing him any harm. She set the prepared cup aside and grabbed the empty one, eyes darting to the novel reader. She could make out most of the words on its cover: Unveil the truth . . . in a time where darkness . . . and he must make his choice.

Oh my.

“Elsie.”

She quickly filled the second cup. “My apologies. The tea is ready. Unless you stopped liking it plain, Mr. Nash?”

He shook his head, his too-long blond hair dusting his eyelashes. “Never could dislike anything you made, Miss Camden. My thanks.” It was a wonder he made Emmeline uncomfortable, charming as he was.

She served Ogden first, then Nash.

“Oh, take it, Elsie.” Ogden tried to sound exasperated but did a poor job of it. “The letter is yours, too.”

“Is it? I mean, oh! The post. Why, thank you, Mr. Ogden.” She snatched the novel reader and the letter atop it with both hands. Beneath it she spied a folded newspaper, the word poacher catching her attention.

Continued from page 2 . . . insists that the escaped poachers will be caught and brought to justice. “It isn’t merely about a pheasant,” Bamber said. “It’s about common decency and respect.”

Elsie’s lips parted. Escaped poachers! It must have been from the carriage! She’d been successful, and now the boys would go free—

“Elsie?” Ogden asked.

Lifting her head, she asked, “Will that be all?”

Ogden waved her off with a limp hand, and Elsie gladly left the men to their business.

The window of her room was closed, making the room noticeably stuffy, but she didn’t bother opening it. She had a tendency to vocalize her reactions to stories, and passersby on the street had no need to hear that.

Elsie leapt onto the bed on her stomach, her corset biting her hip as she adjusted to a more comfortable position. Let us see if the baron figures out—

Oh, letter.

She paused, taking note of the rough paper, sealed with a dot of uncolored candle wax pressed flat with a thumb. The magazine slipped from her fingers as she snatched up the paper. Turned it over. Read her name, written in flowing handwriting. She knew that handwriting—it belonged to the postmaster who served Juniper Down. Where she’d last seen her family.

This letter was from Agatha Hall.

Jerking upright, Elsie snapped the wax and opened the short letter. Her hope instantly cracked—it would be another missive telling her no Camdens had passed through, and no one had heard word of them. But the familiar mantra wasn’t in these words.

Elsie,

I know you’re hopeful. I know you’re dedicated. But the Camdens aren’t coming back. It’s time to give up, lass. Nothing will change, and you’re costing us postage we can’t afford. I was happy to help you then. Now it’s time to leave things be and move on with your life.

Sincerely,

Henry Hall

Agatha’s husband.

Elsie stared at the letter, not quite comprehending its meaning. She read it again, slowly. Nothing will change. Those words stood out starkly against the cheap paper. Nothing will change. Nothing will change.

The Camdens aren’t coming back.

They wanted her to stop writing. Stop asking. Stop wasting their shillings. She crumpled the letter in her hand. Strode to the unlit fireplace and tossed it in. So what? Had she really expected anything else after all these years? She had friends, here in the stonemasonry shop, and she had the Cowls. Their work mattered. The part she played made a difference.

It was enough, wasn’t it?

Elsie found herself staring out the window for an inordinate amount of time. She struggled to come back to herself, but her thoughts were . . . not there. She was a blank canvas. But that was all right. Better than the dripping paint she’d been the night before.

She needed to busy herself, that was all. It wasn’t as if she lacked for things to do! She had to catch up on her missed work.

So she strode downstairs to the studio, leaving the novel reader forgotten on her bed.

It was only an hour’s ride to Seven Oaks in Kent, but that morning it felt like Elsie rode clear to Liverpool. She’d left at the crack of dawn, right after Ogden had departed for the squire’s home. He’d sounded hopeful about finishing the project soon, which meant Elsie had to sort out just how to balance this mess.

She had made the trip early because she needed a trinket to present to Emmeline tomorrow, for her eighteenth birthday. This was the only time she had to find one. Fortunately, Emmeline was easy to please. Unfortunately, much of Elsie’s funds were being squandered on cab fare.

The driver let her off at the market street, and she thanked him silently with a wave, having already paid his fee. She rubbed her lower back as she walked. The town was awake but only just; not yet crowded, no voices hawking wares. But there were people out and about, setting up and settling in. A few men nodded to her as she passed, and she returned the gesture twice before pinning her hat a little lower. With her luck, the Cowls would send her on another mission to Kent, and someone on the street would recognize her.

She found a little Romany cart down a side street. From them, she purchased a pin studded with polished quartz. Emmeline could wear it to church. Normally Elsie would be pleased with such a find, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel any pride today. Stowing the pin in her bag, she started toward Seven Oaks.

“Miss Camden?”

She turned at the sound of the familiar voice just as Mr. Bacchus Kelsey came strolling up beside her. His darker coloring and blue frock coat made him blend perfectly with the street lit with fresh dawn, like an artist had painted him there. An artist with a very good hand. His eyes looked spectacularly green, like endless rolling hills just before twilight set in.

Pinching herself to remain present, she nodded to him. “Good day, Mr. Kelsey.” He is only kind because you’re helping him. Because he’s forcing you to help him. Bah!

“You’re early.” He fell in step beside her. He held two old-looking books in his hands, but Elsie didn’t try to read the titles. Not today. With Emmeline taken care of, her mind turned elsewhere, sitting on some forgotten easel, waiting for the artist to remember her.

“I don’t believe we set a time,” she countered, watching the cobblestones pass underfoot.

He thought a moment. “I don’t believe we did.”

She nodded. It wasn’t a long walk to the duke’s estate, though she wouldn’t have minded a long walk. They were good for the body and the mind. A walk after a rainstorm, especially, but it hadn’t rained yesterday or last night.

“Are you well?”

She glanced up at him, and the cylinder of her thoughts spun a moment before firing. “I believe we’ve only been chatting for a few seconds, Mr. Kelsey. I doubt you’ve had enough time to gauge my health. But yes, I am well.”

“Hmm.” It was a sound of disbelief.

The market street bent near the end, almost like a river, and they took the turn together. On another day Elsie might worry someone would eye them and wonder after her, a young woman strolling with a man, but no one paid her any mind, other than the occasional nod. They didn’t even notice Mr. Kelsey, but perhaps they were used to him by now.

Once they cleared the market street and reached the road that stretched to the estate, Mr. Kelsey asked, “Are you in trouble with your employer?”

Which one? she almost asked, but instead said, “No.”

“He’s treating you well?”

She blinked a couple of times, feeling the need to wake up. “Mr. Ogden treats me very well. Like a daughter.” Daughter.

The word sat like a lead ball in her chest.

“I believe you are lying to me.”

She glared at him. “Mr. Ogden—”

He raised his free hand. “About your state of mind, not your employer.”

Elsie raised her chin. “You never asked about my state of mind, Mr. Kelsey. One generally perceives the question of wellness in relation to the body.”

“Now you are being more yourself.”

She folded her arms. “Am I?”

“Yes. You’re being difficult.” He said it with a sliver of humor.

Her arms dropped back to her sides as quickly as she had lifted them. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be.”

“And now you’re apologizing, which truly alarms me.”

She sighed. She could see the top of the duke’s estate through the trees.

The lead ball in her chest was maddening.

“Since you already think me a criminal,” she tried, focusing again on the road, “I don’t suppose it does any harm to tell you.” She’d like to tell someone about Mr. Hall’s letter, about the death knell of her foolish hopes, and she’d already worried Emmeline and Ogden enough over her drama with Alfred.

Mr. Kelsey was silent. Listening.

She straightened her back, as though that would add dignity to her situation. She had already begun to regret her offer of information, but it would do her good to let it out. And what was Bacchus Kelsey to her? He already knew her biggest secret.

“I came to work with Mr. Ogden”—she left out her time with the squire—“from a workhouse.”

Mr. Kelsey hesitated. “That . . . is not uncommon. Unless changes have been made to the system concerning the impoverished.”

Elsie shrugged. “I was in a workhouse because I lost my family. Or they lost me. On purpose, I suppose.” She rolled her lips together. She never spoke about this to anyone, not in detail. Ogden knew some of the particulars, but she’d told him only because she had to prove she had as much experience as many of his older candidates. It was strange speaking about it now, like reciting poetry in German. “I mean, we stayed with a family in a small town west of here one night, and only I remained in the morning. And so I write to that family every now and then, to see if they’ve received any word of my parents or siblings. And yesterday they wrote me back telling me to stop wasting their postage.”

When Mr. Kelsey didn’t respond, she took her eyes off the cobblestones and looked up at him. His gaze was unfocused, like he was thinking.

“I suppose that’s why I’m such a vagabond,” she tried, but the humor fell flat. “And I would appreciate you keeping it to yourself. I have a good standing in Brookley, you know.”

Mr. Kelsey shook his head. “No, I . . . I mean to express my sympathies. I am . . . not sure how to do it.”

“I appreciate the attempt.”

“If it is any consolation, I myself am a bastard.” When she gaped at the confession, he dismissed it with a wave. “My father did not treat me any differently for it, but he never married my mother. She was of a common background and hailed from the Algarve; my grandparents didn’t approve. But your story is not one I’ve heard before. And I’ve heard many.”

She regarded him for a moment, but his words were genuine. “Is Barbados so exciting?”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of excitement.” It was not a jest. “But I do offer them. My sympathies, that is. I’m sorry the family is not more understanding.”

She pinched the seam of her left glove. “They had little enough coin, and it’s been fifteen years! I can hardly blame them.” She thought she did a good job of making her voice sound light.

They reached the duke’s stone wall, the one that still made Elsie’s wrists itch when she looked at it.

Mr. Kelsey stopped abruptly.

“Miss Camden,” he began, very serious and suddenly rather tall. “I have decided your debt is repaid. Twice over, considering. You have no more need to drag yourself here to ensure my silence. Your secret is forgotten.”

Elsie stared at him for a second. Just like that? “Well, if pity is all it takes, I should have told you my life story sooner!”

He held up a hand. “It is not pity.”

She paused, regarding him. Something stupid and hopeful fluttered in her chest.

“I’d already decided as much before I saw you this morning,” he said. “There is little more I need your services for, besides.”

She flinched at the words before biting the inside of her cheek and forcing her expression to relax. Doesn’t need me. She tried not to dwell on it. She barely knew the man, and yet her chest had grown heavier at the declaration. Frustration—thank the Lord, she could work with frustration—steamed under her skin. Not frustration at Mr. Kelsey, but at herself for feeling hurt, of all things, by his dismissal! She should be glad. She was glad. No more sneaking away to Kent, no more late nights finishing her work, no more shillings spent on cabs. In fact, she’d been mistaken. It wasn’t disappointment that feathered beneath her ribs, just surprise. Surprise and relief. Most definitely.

“All right, then.” She paused to give him a chance to recant. Not that she wanted him to. Blessed freedom! “I don’t suppose you’ll reimburse my expenses to journey here this morning.”

She expected him to refuse, but to her surprise, he reached into his wallet and handed her a few shillings. Plenty to see her back to Brookley.

Elsie felt awkward accepting the money, but it would be more embarrassing to suddenly change her mind, so she put it in her reticule. She found herself at a loss for words at their unexpected parting. She couldn’t thank him—he had blackmailed her, for goodness’ sake! But he’d also been true to his word. But she wouldn’t thank him for that. That was expected of a gentleman.

“I suppose I’ll head home.” She pinched her chatelaine in her hands. “Good day, Mr. Kelsey.”

He nodded. She started down the road, brushing the tangle of her feelings aside. But a new thought rose to mind, and she paused. Turned around.

“If I could ask you a personal question.”

The statement took him aback. He looked less stern when caught by surprise. The softening of his features made him more handsome. Not that she thought him handsome. Hardly.

Before he could respond, she rushed out, “Since we’re being so honest with each other.”

His eyes narrowed. “Very well.”

For a moment she considered tact—surely it was too personal to ask such a question—but the mystery had been weighing on her, and there wasn’t a roundabout way of doing this. If she wanted to know, she would have to be straightforward. “What spells do you wear?” she blurted.

That really took him by surprise. His face opened as though she’d just told him the origin of the universe.

She spread her hands in a sort of apology. “I do have a knack for sensing them.”

He moved stiffly, awkwardly, before deciding to busy his free hand by stroking his beard. “Of course you do.”

She waited. If he didn’t tell her, the suspense would drive her mad.

Turning, Mr. Kelsey leaned against the stone wall. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. I trust you to keep my secrets, if only because I already know yours.”

“Yes. Please, remind me again.”

He studied her face. Elsie put a hand on the back of her neck—a rather ineffective attempt to cool an oncoming blush. After a moment, he pushed off the wall, tugged down his waistcoat, and stepped a little closer.

“When I was a youth, I began to exhibit the symptoms of polio.”

Whatever Elsie had expected, it was not that. Her lips parted, but she dared not speak.

Mr. Kelsey glanced away. “My father brought me here, as there are no master temporal aspectors on the island. The spell you sensed is one that slows the spread of the disease.” He looked uncomfortable, but his voice remained even. “It will not hold forever, of course. Spells cannot stop time, only impede its effects. In truth, the reason I’ve come here is not merely to test for my mastership, but to obtain a spell that will help me once the disease spreads.”

“I see.” Her gaze dropped to his torso. As a youth . . . How long had the spell been there? Ten years? Fifteen? Aspecting could do a lot for one’s health, especially if one had the money to afford it. But it couldn’t cure something as severe as polio. Just as it couldn’t stop aging. Only slow it.

“My condolences.”

“I will not subjugate you to unwanted sympathies if you will return the favor.”

She nodded. “Of course.” Paused. “And what of the other?”

“Pardon?”

“The other spell.”

His brow knit together. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Her hands went to her hips. “Really, Bacchus. And here I thought we were being friends.”

He took another step toward her, almost close enough for discomfort. Close enough for her to smell the temporal spell beneath his clothes. “What do you mean?” he asked again.

She gawked at him. “But I know I felt it . . .”

Confusion glimmered in his eyes.

She rolled her lips together. Swallowed. Lifted a gloved hand. “May I?”

It took him a moment to understand, but he nodded.

And so Elsie, after checking the street for onlookers, reached forward and splayed her hand against his chest, just over his diaphragm.

Well, that’s . . . firm, she thought, ignoring the warmth creeping up her neck. There was the temporal spell, its scent like a sunlit forest floor. But there was a layer under it. A tightly knitted spell that made her think of the runes sown in the fields. Nestled away, out of sight. Just as before, she couldn’t see, hear, smell, or feel it, but she sensed it in a way she couldn’t describe. Whatever it was, it was powerful, to call to her in such a way. To conceal its alignment.

She took her hand away. “You can’t feel that?”

He shook his head and sighed. Had he been holding his breath?

“There are two spells on your person, Bacchus Kelsey.” She met his gaze. “One layered under the other. I cannot decipher what the first is without removing the temporal spell, but I am sure as a gun that it is there.”

Mr. Kelsey lifted a hand and placed it where Elsie’s had just been. “You must be mistaken.”

“I am not.”

But he shook his head. “There is no other spell on me. It would have interfered with the temporal spell.” He sounded like he doubted his own words.

“The aspector who slowed the polio wouldn’t have sensed it. Have you never worked with a spellbreaker before?” She lowered her voice. “A legal one, I mean?”

“No.” He sounded almost defensive. Or simply confused. “No, I haven’t.”

She rubbed her hands together. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not—” But he turned away, not finishing the statement. He rubbed his eyes. “You are untrained.”

She folded her arms. “You determined that by my wildly unsuccessful work, did you?”

He clutched his books. “I’ll . . . look into it. Thank you, Miss Camden.”

The words might as well have been a whip, the way they snapped through the air. Elsie stepped back as though she could avoid their sharpness. He really didn’t know. The temporal spell was of such a sensitive nature . . . perhaps she shouldn’t have told him of the second, not in his moment of vulnerability. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

Unsure what else to do, Elsie nodded, and Bacchus Kelsey turned for the estate, disappearing behind its wall.