Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 17

When Elsie returned to Brookley, the first place she went was the post office to send a vague and inexpensive telegram to Kent: All is well. She casually asked Martha Morgan first if any new crimes regarding opuses had appeared in the papers and, second, if the squire had been in town. Martha claimed she hadn’t seen any news on the aspector crimes, but the squire had been in just yesterday.

No murders while the squire was at home. The information stoked Elsie’s growing suspicion. If only she were a registered spellbreaker . . . she’d have access to the atheneums and be able to weave through the highest circles of aspectors and pick their brains, glimpsing secrets journalists didn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, put in the paper.

But she wasn’t registered and never would be. What could she, Elsie Camden, do? It wasn’t like Ogden would ever be targeted. She’d have to wait for the answers to come to her just like everyone else. A novel reader without a clear-cut publication date.

Valise in hand, she hurried home. She didn’t even make it to the front door before Emmeline scared her halfway to Liverpool.

“Elsie!” the younger woman shrieked, nearly tripping over the basket of laundry she was midway through hanging. She rushed for Elsie and hugged her. “How was it? Was it exciting? It’s been so boring here without you. And your next novel reader came! But Mr. Ogden said I couldn’t read it without your permission. I’ve been going wild wondering what will happen next. Is this the last issue?”

Elsie laughed, which lightened her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. “Perhaps we could read it together, while I put my feet up. If Ogden isn’t desperate for help, that is.”

“Oh”—she took Elsie’s valise—“you must be exhausted. I didn’t even think of it. We’ll look at it tomorrow.”

Elsie took the luggage back. “I’m well enough to carry my own things. Where’s Ogden?”

“In the studio, last I saw.”

Elsie squeezed Emmeline’s shoulder before trekking into the house, setting her valise at the bottom of the stairs. She pulled her gloves off as she walked. Sure enough, Ogden was in the studio, his tarps over the floor, a canvas half-painted blue sitting before him.

“Work or pleasure?” Elsie asked.

He startled, fortunately pulling his brush back before he could tarnish his work. “Oh, Elsie! So good to see you back. How was it?”

She’d already rehearsed her words in the cab, so they flowed from her lips as easily as if they were true. “It was rather dreadful, honestly. Everyone invited was in a position similar to mine, including a few secretaries. But they treated us like a bunch of ninnies, like we barely knew how to read, let alone put our shoes on the right foot. I didn’t learn much of anything.” She sighed. “I’m glad to be home.” That much, at least, was sincere.

“Oh dear.” Ogden rested his brush on his palette. “I shall have to write them with my disappointment.”

Elsie nodded. “I’ll get you the address.” Which was code for I’ll wait until you forget you asked. Stifling a yawn with a knuckle, she asked, “What can I get for you, Ogden? I suppose you’ve lunched already.”

He reached to the floor to grab a bottle of white paint. “Go rest, Elsie. I’ll have plenty for you to catch up on in the morning.”

“You’re sure?”

“Am I ever not?”

She smiled. “In that case, a little mouse told me my next novel reader arrived.”

He chuckled. “That little mouse was supposed to leave it on your bed for you.”

“I’ve not yet been upstairs, so I’ll check.” She paused halfway to the door. “Mr. Ogden, you read the paper.”

The bottle of paint spit onto his palette. “Yes . . .”

“Then you know there has been an alarming number of thefts and . . . murders . . . as of late.”

He paused. Set down the paint and his palette. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to be informed or ignorant. Or, rather, informed and depressed, or ignorant and happy.”

Elsie nodded. “If only one could be informed and happy.”

Standing from his stool, Ogden said, “Ah, but that is not the way of the world. Journalists do not pay their rent reporting on how well things are going, unless it is in regards to the queen.”

She twisted her fingers together. “I merely wish we could do something about it.”

“Careful, Elsie. You’ll sound like a Tory.”

She offered a weak smile. “Why do you say that?”

“Most of the crime that has been reported on lately has targeted the upper class.”

“True,” she said carefully, “but it’s not really worth nicking from those who don’t have money. Or magic.”

Ogden nodded. Sat, and picked up his brush and palette. He began randomly dabbing white paint onto the canvas: first near the top, then to the side, then down to the right. It made no sense, even if he were attempting clouds, but there was a strange sort of pattern to it. Elsie could almost guess where Ogden would touch his brush next. “That is true. There does seem to be a theme running through it. Or perhaps the newspapers are focusing solely on lords and aspectors because it makes for a more interesting story.”

She chewed on her thumbnail. “Perhaps.”

“If it helps”—he dabbed the center of the canvas—“the squire is unworried about it. It came up, my last day there.”

Elsie clicked her tongue. “The squire doesn’t care about anything but himself. If anyone were to go after opuses, it would be him. He loves power. And what’s more powerful than magic you can cast for free?”

“Be careful, Elsie.” He lowered his brush. “You never know when one might be listening.”

She stiffened. Glanced at the door, then the window. They were alone. “You mean to scare me.”

Though his mouth turned up at one end, Ogden shook his head. “I don’t. But you needn’t fear. You’ve no opus to steal, and mine isn’t worth more than a page.”

The words, half in jest, struck Elsie to her core. Ogden was right, of course—righter than he realized. Spellbreakers didn’t have opuses. They could only dismantle spells, not learn them.

He considered a moment. “If things ever do get bad, we’ll steal away, you, Emmeline, and I. Ride up to the Thames, maybe even the St. Katharine Docks, and take a discreet boat out to the channel. How’s your French?”

Elsie snorted. “Very poor, indeed. Let us hope it does not come to us relying on my French.” Leaving Ogden to his work, she passed through the kitchen to grab some bread and butter to eat, then hauled her valise up to her room. All her clothes needed laundering and ironing; she’d get to that tonight, before she went to bed. The novel reader was indeed on her coverlet, but Elsie went through her valise before looking at it, ensuring there were no more notes stowed away.

How did they get into the bag in the first place?

Part of her wished she hadn’t seen it. How much more could she have learned about Bacchus Kelsey had she slipped into the London Physical Atheneum with him? Not only the mystery of the spell, but the mystery of the man.

Not that you have any right to know. Really, Elsie.

Forcing her thoughts back to rational things, she moved toward the window and stared down at the street below. It was empty but for a couple of men who stood off the main road. Neither of them glanced up at her, or showed any interest whatsoever in the stonemasonry shop.

“Will you ever tell me your secrets, Cowls?” she whispered to the glass. “Will you deem me worthy and bring me into the fold?”

She wondered if they’d consider her more valuable if she started ignoring their missives. She didn’t fear they’d reciprocate in any foul manner; they’d only ever been kind to her. Mr. Parker was certainly kind. No, her worst fear was that they’d stop asking altogether.

Heaviness weighed down her eyes, and she rubbed it away. She could use a rest. Lifting her gaze from the street, she peered over Brookley, into the green distance. Did you find your rune, Bacchus? Will you tell me, or have I tried your patience, too?

It was fruitless to worry over it. But that didn’t stop her.

Drawing one of her curtains, Elsie retired to bed, focusing on her novel reader to keep her thoughts at bay.

She fell asleep halfway down page 3.

Elsie was sweeping the porch when a post dog jogged up to her, its pink tongue hanging out as it panted.

“Why, hello.” She set the broom against the wall and moved to the bag attached to the dog’s neck. She pulled out two letters, one addressed to her and one addressed to Ogden. She studied the handwriting on the first, but it didn’t match that of the postmaster in Juniper Down. Her heart sank just a little—Mr. Hall had meant every word, hadn’t he? She wasn’t ever going to hear from them again.

But who else would have written to her?

Her breath caught as hope flared in her chest. She pet the dog on the head. “No treat on me today, Ruff. Off you go.”

The dog turned around and trotted back toward the post office.

Forgetting the broom, Elsie ran inside. She set Ogden’s letter on the kitchen table and took the stairs two at a time, diving into the privacy of her room.

She ripped the letter open and read the bottom of it first:

Sincerely,

Bacchus Kelsey

Thank you for the telegram. I just received it.

Her heart fluttered. He’d found the rune. Or at least, he’d gotten home safely.

Just read it, she chided herself.

Miss Camden,

I hope this letter finds you in the privacy for which it is intended. I was successful in finding the rune in question. You were correct—it’s of the physical nature. It is the mark of a siphoning spell, one that I was not aware existed. It appears to be complex and rare.

I believe it is the cause of my symptoms. I continue to feel well. I owe that to you.

Her skin warmed. Despite herself, she smiled.

I have been in contact with Master Ruth Hill of the London Physical Atheneum. She has offered me the choice between a gem spell and a substance spell to complete my mastership. Once I choose, the rest of my repertoire will need to be earned on my own.

I thank you again for your help during this trial. I pray you are well.

Sincerely,

Bacchus Kelsey

Thank you for the telegram. I just received it.

He didn’t mention her abrupt departure. Kind of him.

So why was she crying?

Lowering the letter, Elsie dabbed at her eyes with her sleeves. She hadn’t yawned, and there was no dust in the air. Had she picked up a head cold while traveling? But she didn’t feel stuffy. Or achy. That is, not achy in the manner of a head cold. No, this ache was centered in her chest.

She reread the letter. Sniffed. It was a goodbye, in a sense. She no longer had a debt to repay. He no longer needed her services. And he was testing to be a master aspector. Once that happened, he’d be titled, putting his rank far above her own. Which hardly mattered, anyway. He’d likely return to Barbados once he had what he’d come for. There’d be an entire ocean between them.

It’s better this way, she told herself, dabbing another tear. She managed to keep the crying light, the way heroines always cried so prettily in novel readers. But it left a hard lump in her throat, one that dug in with claws. But it was better this way. Whenever Bacchus thought of spellbreaking, or perhaps of polio, he would think of her. And he would think of her kindly, of the way she’d helped him, or perhaps her humor. She would forever live in his memory as a likeable acquaintance.

It was better that he leave, because that meant he would never get close enough to her to discover that utterly unlikeable something that drove everyone else away.

The Camdens aren’t coming back.

She thought of Juniper Down and the workhouse. Of Alfred, hand in hand with another woman. It was miraculous that Ogden had yet to kick her out.

She folded the letter and slipped it between the books on her shelf. A stray tear dropped off her jaw and onto her hand, but she wiped it off with her skirt. Yes, it was better this way.

The lump dug in, hard.

Really, Elsie, she thought, since she could not speak. What were you expecting, romance? From a man who thinks you’re a criminal? Who could be a baron next month, for all you know?

She thought of the depth of his laugh. The way his skin felt beneath her fingers.

No. Stories like that were meant for novel readers, not real life.

It really was better this way. The loss of her family, her siblings, Alfred . . . It still hurt, and it had been years. How much worse would the sting be to have a man like Bacchus in her life, only to be discarded by him, too?

She drew in a sharp breath, which eased the lump. Drove it down deeper, where it was a little easier to ignore. She had too much to do today to sit up here wallowing in self-pity.

“Elsie?” Emmeline called up the stairs.

She rubbed her arm across her eyes. Cleared her throat. “I’ll be right there!” The volume helped keep her voice even. She needn’t give Emmeline a reason to reject her as well, though the maid seemed to like everyone, Nash aside. Hurrying to her small table, she dumped out what little water was left in her pitcher into her washing bowl and dotted it on her eyes and cheeks, cooling them. Then she stood erect and forced herself to take a big gulp of air. Repinned part of her hair.

If Emmeline noticed anything amiss, she didn’t mention it.

Elsie woke to a thumping chest. The tendrils of the strangest dream curled beneath her skull. She’d been trapped in a room full of kitchen supplies, all the exits blocked by stacks upon stacks of bowls. In her desperation to escape, she’d knocked over the largest stack—

Something clamored down the hallway.

Not a dream.

Leaping from bed, Elsie called, “Are you all right?” not knowing if it was Emmeline or Ogden. Practiced hands struck a match and lit a candle. “Emmeline, is that—”

“Help!” Ogden bellowed.

Something heavy hit the floor.

Gasping, Elsie ran for the door, nearly putting out the candle in her haste. “Who’s there?” she cried, nearly screamed. Ogden’s door was ajar at the end of the hallway. Something else fell over. A scuffle, broken glass—

Elsie swung into the room just as a shadow passed through the window. Her candle struggled to hold its light. Her heart leapt into her throat.

A moan sounded from the wall.

“Ogden!” she cried, rushing to his side. One of his eyes was starting to swell shut. She lifted the candle, searching for blood, but found none other than in the split on his brow.

“What’s happening?” Emmeline appeared in the doorway, her eyes huge.

Setting the candle down so forcefully she nearly sent it out of its holder, Elsie shouted, “Go wake the neighbors, and send Mr. Morgan for the constable! Hurry! He’s getting away!”

Emmeline froze for a full second before grabbing the skirt of her nightdress and barreling down the stairs.