Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 18

“The men are searching now.” Constable Wilson examined the window. The perpetrator had escaped that way, despite it being two stories above ground. He’d shattered a pane in his desperation to open it. “Seems you got off lucky.”

“I beg your pardon?” Elsie snapped, wrapping her shawl more tightly around herself. They had all taken up posts in Ogden’s bedroom, lit with candles and lamps. Ogden sat on the trunk at the foot of his bed, pressing a cold slice of meat to his eye, while the constable paced back and forth across the room, occasionally taking notes. Elsie lingered near the window, wanting to see everything the constable noticed or wrote. Emmeline fidgeted by the doorway.

“You’ve found nothing stolen yet—”

“We’ve only checked his cabinet!” Elsie interjected. His drops had not been touched.

“—and a black eye is better than what it could have been.” Constable Wilson looked pointedly at her.

Elsie pinched her lips together. He did have a point. It could have been much worse. Thank God it was not.

The constable squinted out the window. “Good, the lights are on.”

“Lights are coming on all over the town,” Elsie said.

He pointed his pen across the way. “I was referring to the post office. Mr. Morgan is sending a telegram to the High Court of Justice.”

Elsie’s stomach sank. “The High Court? Whatever for?”

“Mr. Ogden is an aspector.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though Elsie hadn’t known. “Her Majesty has sent out missives that the court is to be alerted of all life attempts and robberies involving aspectors.”

Life attempts. Had Elsie and Emmeline not woken, had Ogden not stirred and managed to fight back, would he be dead now? Would they be talking to a coroner instead of a constable? Would the London Physical Atheneum, to which Ogden was registered, be descending upon them like termites to take away his meager opus?

Shivers ran down her spine. “Do you truly believe there’s a connection to the other crimes?”

“I mean to follow orders, Miss Camden.”

Elsie shook her head. “You know him, Wilson. He wouldn’t be a target.” She glanced at Ogden, but he didn’t look offended.

The constable nodded. “Indeed. You are only novice level, correct, Mr. Ogden?”

He nodded. “Not for lack of trying.”

“What will happen?” Elsie asked, voice tight.

“I imagine they’ll send a team immediately, both to hunt the perpetrator and to interrogate you.”

From the doorway, Emmeline squeaked, “Truthseekers?”

Elsie clawed at her shawl as cold dread wound through her bones. Truthseeker was a fancy title for the spiritual aspectors who worked for the High Court of Justice, the highest court in England, which dealt with magic-related crimes the atheneums couldn’t handle on their own. The title had its origins in the fact that spiritual aspectors had tricks up their sleeves that lent greatly to investigation, the greatest being their ability to pull truth from even the most stubborn man’s throat.

Or woman’s.

One truth spell, and a spiritual aspector could pull every one of Elsie’s secrets into the light.

“We’re the victims,” she protested, already knowing it would do no good.

“You have nothing to worry about. But I will need you to return to your rooms until they arrive.”

Elsie’s fingers went cold. “Do you really think this is necessary?”

At least the man had enough feeling to give her a sympathetic look. “It’s protocol.”

Setting her jaw, Elsie pushed past him to Ogden and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re all right?”

“Just this.” He shifted to indicate his eye, then winced.

Turning, Elsie said, “You’ll call the doctor, too?”

Constable Wilson answered, “As soon as I have a man to spare.” He indicated the door.

Elsie dragged her feet on her way back to her bedroom.

Lightning danced beneath Elsie’s skin. They won’t ask about your abilities, she told herself as she paced the length of her room. Why would they? We’re the victims.

She heard a cacophony of shod horse hooves and wheels. Peeked out her window, but she couldn’t see the arriving carriage, only hear the exhaustion of the animals pulling it. Sweat slicked her palms. There were so many questions they could ask. So many, and Elsie wouldn’t be able to resist answering, unless she broke the spell before speaking. Would a truthseeker notice?

“Calm down,” she whispered. She drew in deep breaths, squared her shoulders. She had no reason to be fearful. If they noticed she was discomfited, they’d ask more questions. More questions meant more truths.

And she didn’t think she’d be able to barter free labor to keep a truthseeker quiet.

A pang stung her heart.

Footsteps came up the stairs. Elsie ran to her bedroom door and pressed her ear to it, listening. A few pleasantries were exchanged—she recognized the constable’s voice but not any words—and then a door shut. They were starting with Ogden.

More footsteps neared her door. Elsie leapt back from it, and a moment later, a knock sounded.

She opened it and looked at the constable.

“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Camden.” He again looked sympathetic. “It will be just a few moments now.”

Elsie stuck up her nose. “I don’t suppose I have time to get dressed.”

Fortunately, the man didn’t point out that she could have done so while waiting for the court carriage to arrive. “I’m afraid not.”

“Very well. And thank you for your help.”

He nodded. She closed the door. Opened it again, a few inches. Moved her chair over to the window and sat, looking down at the light-stippled shadows below. Half the town appeared to be awake. She thought she could make out the Wright sisters.

Were she a less refined woman, she would have shouted, Go home! out her window. But she didn’t.

She was too scared to unlock it.

She was still sitting there, wringing her hands, when the truthseeker knocked on her door ten minutes later. The man was about Ogden’s age, perhaps a little older, though fatigue might have aged his features. He was balding in a very unfortunate manner, losing the crest of his hair while the sides still clung on. He didn’t have an unkind face, but she suspected his nose had been broken before. She prayed it was from an accident and not violence.

She glanced at his hands. What kind of criminals did he enchant? Did he have . . . other methods of seeking truth?

She swallowed.

“No need to be nervous, Miss Pratt. It’s merely procedure.” He shut the door behind him. It struck Elsie as somewhat funny that she was alone in the room with a man and it wasn’t considered improper, but the absurdity of the situation didn’t cheer her up.

“I’m Miss Camden.” She hated how timid she sounded.

“My apologies.” He stepped close to her, and despite her best efforts, Elsie tensed. What would he ask her? What are your secrets? What are you hiding? Is there any reason you should be incarcerated? “And my condolences. We’ll get this taken care of quickly.”

She nodded stiffly. Without further ado, the truthseeker placed his palm against her forehead. Did he feel how clammy it was? What if the spell didn’t take because of what she was? What if she was found out—

She felt the spell as it formed, like grains of sand dusting her skin. It rang like her ears sometimes did as it knotted together, heavy on her skin.

It dug into her soul.

She cringed.

“What is your name?” the truthseeker asked, pulling a pencil and pad of paper from a carryall.

“Elsie Camden.”

“Your age?”

“One and twenty.” She tried to think something else, like twenty-three, but found her thoughts blanked when she did.

She did not like this. Hurry up so you can take it off!

“Tell me the events that happened tonight.”

“I went to bed at ten—” Her tongue twisted, cutting off her words. “Perhaps later? Eleven?”

That spilled out just fine. Apparently the truthseeker could catch lies she wasn’t even purposefully making. How was she supposed to remember precisely when she’d gone to bed?

The aspector simply nodded.

“And I slept until I heard a clamor. I thought it was part of a dream.” She hadn’t meant to say that last part. She’d felt . . . compelled to. “I lit a candle and chased after the sound, and I found Ogden on the floor. A shadow vanished through the window. I told Emmeline to get Mr. Morgan, our neighbor, for help.”

The man nodded, focused on his notes, not on her. “And what did the culprit look like?”

“A shadow,” she repeated. “I saw nothing more. Not even where he went.”

“Or how he got down?”

She shook her head. The man didn’t seem to notice, so she said, “I suppose he jumped. He shattered a windowpane.”

“For what means does Cuthbert Ogden use his aspection?”

The questioning had taken a jarring turn, and it took her a moment to answer. “For his art. He knows very little. He changes the color of things. Softens stones. He can change the opacity of an object. That’s all I’ve seen him do.”

“He knows no other spells?”

“He struggles to learn them. Just a few weeks ago, he floundered with an intermediate spell.”

The man hummed to himself and scribbled on his pad. “Thank you, Miss Camden. I think that will be all.”

Relief fountained up like it had been pumped by the queen herself.

He moved into the hallway. Gestured with a hand. A young man—he was barely eighteen, if that—strode into her room with mussed hair and an unhappy countenance. A lad grumpy from being woken in the middle of the night. Without any semblance of manners, he grabbed Elsie’s head and wiggled his fingers across it.

The spell vanished.

Elsie took in a deep breath. Stared at the man as he stalked back out of the room. A spellbreaker. She’d never met another one before, not that she was aware. Questions bloomed up her neck and gathered on her tongue. So much she wanted to ask him! Were their methods the same? When had he realized what he was? What sort of training had he received? What work did he do? How much was he paid?

But the young man turned the corner, out of sight. Of course, Elsie couldn’t have risked asking the questions even if he had stayed.

She waited for a long moment, listening to the voices coming from Emmeline’s room. Seeing no harm in it, she rose and tiptoed to Ogden’s room. He had a salve smeared on his eye, a small bandage across his brow. The doctor must have come.

He offered her a weak smile. She sat with him until the constable returned and the truthseeker and his entourage descended the stairs to return to London.

“A few more questions for you, Mr. Ogden,” Constable Wilson said.

Ogden sighed. “I don’t know what more you can get out of me, but go on.”

Elsie patted his shoulder and left, seeking to console Emmeline—and to find out if the truthseeker had asked them both the same questions. But when Elsie arrived at Emmeline’s room, she found it empty, a single candle burning on her bedside table.

“Emmeline?” Elsie asked, crossing to the window. Shielding her eyes, she peered outside.

The maid was on the road, talking to the Wright sisters.

Elsie cursed and turned from the window, determined to silence rumor before it could take root.

Master Ruth Hill had given Bacchus two options for his mastership, both of which were master versions of spells he already knew. The first was a hardening spell, something one could use to make wood strong or metal brittle. But the master version was known as the “gem spell” because it could be used to harden rock into precious stones. It was heavily regulated by the government and required registration to learn.

The second was a state-changing spell, the most basic form of which a novice could learn with water. It did essentially the same thing a stove did: change water to gas. Or the opposite—change water to ice. The more powerful the spell, the more easily a person could change the state of any given matter. The more stubborn the matter, the more intense the spell. This master-level spell would not only allow him to bend more materials to his will—it would also allow him to skip a step with many. Turning water vapor directly to ice, for example.

Bacchus chose the latter spell.

He sat in Master Hill’s private parlor, which, while small, was elaborately decorated almost to the point of untidiness. The wallpaper was roses and red stripes of varying sizes, accented by hibiscus; the carpet was cream; the furniture covered with baubles and books, Russian eggs, and Brazilian ceramics. Either Master Hill was very well traveled or she kept well-traveled merchants very rich.

He was capable of writing the Latin for the spell himself—he was capable of so much now that the life wasn’t being siphoned out of him—but he did not protest when Master Hill took the brush to his arm, a vial of blue ink held delicately between her aging fingers. Bacchus had rolled up his sleeves for the purpose, and Master Hill’s brushstrokes were professional and small. Not once did she make a mistake, and she paused just briefly to tuck a stray piece of graying blonde hair behind her ear. Bacchus read each word as she traced it down his arm, memorizing the incantation. After he absorbed the spell, he would no longer need the words to perform the magic, but he might want to teach it to another aspector or perhaps keep a record of how the spell was achieved. It was generous of her to let him watch; it was not unheard of for spellmakers to be blindfolded when receiving a new master spell in order to keep it valuable.

When Master Hill finished and most of the ink had dried, she handed him so many drops he could barely hold them all. Drops he’d paid for himself, but that didn’t matter. He’d been prepared to spend much, much more on the ambulation spell he no longer needed. They glowed vibrantly, brighter than candles. Bacchus still remembered being nine and having his father, who was not a spellmaker, place a single drop in his hand out of sheer curiosity. It had lit the room, and within the year, he’d been registered with the London Physical Atheneum.

Master Hill then held out an old book to him so he could read the spell aloud, but he didn’t need it. He had already committed the words to memory.

“Versandus naturam. Mutandus viam. Natura versat. Via mutat. Ultimum finemque. Per et intus. Supra et sine. Ultimum. Finem. Audi potentiam meam. Flecte voluntatem meam.

“Muti.”

The drops in his hands glittered and vanished, leaving him with an empty fist. Simultaneously, the ink absorbed into his skin like it had never been there at all. A surge of warmth coursed through him as the spell wrote itself into his internal opus, forever a part of him. Even in death.

“Thank you.” Bacchus lowered his arm and let out a stiff breath.

“You’ve earned it, Master Kelsey.” Master Hill had a knowing grin on her face. “I am glad you returned to us.”

Master Kelsey. That had a pleasant ring to it. Bacchus stood, feeling a little taller. Feeling . . . indestructible. He rubbed his hands where the drops had been. No trace of them remained. Even after all these years, he still thought it odd how the universe simply claimed its payment in exchange for sorcery.

“Here.”

He glanced up. Master Hill held out a candle. It was nearly used up, enough for a quarter hour’s worth of light, perhaps. White wax and a burnt wick.

He accepted it. “Is the morning light not to your liking?”

Ignoring his question, she strode to the nearest window and opened it, then bid him to follow. “You show great restraint. Most of my pupils jump to use their new magic the second the ink is absorbed.”

He smirked. Glanced at the candle. Tightened his grip on it.

“If you would hold your hand outside,” Master Hill continued with an amused tilt to her mouth. “Ice to steam is one thing, but most solid matter becomes rather . . . animated when forced into a gaseous form. And we must always account for temperature.”

Bacchus nodded. Physics was one of the required courses aspectors of the physical discipline had to study. Leaning out the window, Bacchus outstretched his arm. He noted that Master Hill took several steps back.

Thought moved so much faster than speech. A person could think a hundred things in the time it took for him to utter a single word. With time, Bacchus would be able to think this spell even faster than he already did.

The candle exploded in his hands, sending a flash of searing heat through his hand and up his arm. Enough for him to yelp and drop the inch of wick still clasped in his fingers. He’d admittedly pictured the candle simply puffing away. Saying the magic was “animated” was a vast understatement.

He also understood why Master Hill had insisted he try out the ability on something so small. The candle’s scent lingered in the air as its molecules drifted away. Rose petals and lavender.

It smelled a little bit like Elsie.

Master Hill switched places with him and pulled the panes closed. “How does it feel?”

He flexed his hand. The burns weren’t severe, but would smart for the next hour or so. Could he perform the feat with gloves on, or would that serve only to vaporize his gloves? “Amazing. Thank you.”

“There is a ceremony, of course.” She stepped away from the window and the sounds of the city beyond it. “But you don’t seem one for pomp and circumstance.”

“I am not.”

She cupped his larger hands in her pale, small ones. “I admonish you, then, not to stop here. Continue achieving. Advancing. Fulfilling your potential, because I see a great deal of it in you. There are many in the world who will try to stifle it, because of jealousy or because they think it is not the way of things, but they are wrong. You and I are more similar than you might think, Bacchus Kelsey. And while it may not be your goal to join the Assembly of the London Physical Atheneum, you should always have a goal. Do you understand me?”

She had such a maternal look to her face, such insistence in her pale eyes. Bacchus wondered after her background. In England, as with most countries, only women of fine breeding had the opportunity to become aspectors. Women who already had a step up in life. He found himself very much wishing to know her story.

“I do. And I believe you have much more to teach me, magic aside.”

She smiled, patted his hands, then released him. “I do, if you’ll hear it. I’ll ring for tea.”

She moved to a bellpull on the wall. Bacchus crossed the parlor, looking over the simple but refined decorations on the mantel. A large mirror hung above it, allowing him only to see himself from the chest up. He’d wound his hair back tightly, and from the front, it almost looked like he wore it short, like Englishmen did.

Turning from the mirror, he strode toward the more comfortable furniture. Master Hill had set him up in a hard chair in the corner of the room for the spell. He found an upholstered chair beside a table that had three days’ worth of newspapers gathered in a stack, the newest at the top. A familiar word caught his eye, and Bacchus leaned forward to read the headline.

The Bandit Strikes Again! Workshop in Brookley Latest Target.

“This is why you don’t talk to the Wright sisters!” Elsie spat, throwing the day’s paper on the dining table. “Sixpence says they’re the ones who went squealing to the press.”

“Elsie.” Ogden’s voice was firm but tired. He leaned over his lunch of kidney pie, supporting his head with one fist.

Emmeline, a little taken aback, said, “Well, isn’t it exciting? To be in the paper? Our names are not mentioned, besides. You shouldn’t be so upset.”

Thank the Lord our names aren’t in it, Elsie thought as she dropped hard into a chair and jabbed a fork into her own slice of pie. Elsie was supposed to be invisible. Unextraordinary. Useful to the Cowls. She wouldn’t stay invisible for long if people started taking an interest in her place of work.

“They embellished the lot of it,” she griped, shoving the pie into her mouth. The pastry was warm and flaky, and it dissipated some of her frustration. “They say just enough to stir the imagination, so people think it’s some grand tale. And neither the constable nor the truthseeker confirmed the attack was related to the opus-stealer’s crime spree!”

The reporters had made Ogden out to be some fascinating specimen on par with Viscount Byron and the baron. With their luck, people would start claiming his prices were too high, since he apparently had so much money to sit back on.

She glanced at Ogden, feeling a sudden stab of unease. What if she was wrong? What if it was more than she thought, and the would-be thief came back to finish what he’d started? The thought of losing Ogden was too much for Elsie. She would crumble to nothing were he ever taken from her. He was the closest thing to family she had.

Pulling away from the destructive thoughts, she added, “I’ll talk to the glazier and get the pane replaced as soon as possible. And the locks changed.”

“Thank you.” Ogden sipped a cup of tea. “I think that would be for the best.”

Elsie managed to be amiable for the duration of luncheon. In truth, Emmeline was hard to stay angry at—she was like the little sister Elsie never had. Or rather, the little sister Elsie could not quite remember. Her siblings were vague shadows on her memory; most of what she knew of them came from Agatha Hall, whose memory wasn’t terribly sharp, either. One would think a girl of six would remember her family and what they were called, but for some reason Elsie just . . . couldn’t. Something about that time, somewhere between waking up in the Halls’ home and sitting in a row of other children at the workhouse, was broken. Dark and dense and heavy in her mind. She did think she had a brother named John, or perhaps Jonathon. Of course, John Camden was such a common name she had never been able to find any leads. Sometimes Elsie wondered if her family was a fancy she’d invented out of loneliness and the Halls had merely played along until they tired of it.

Finished, Elsie helped Emmeline clear the table until a customer came. She spoke with him—yes, Ogden did do busts, and yes, he was the one from the paper—and organized a few things, placed Ogden’s work orders where he could see them, and set off for the glazier. It was a standard-sized pane the intruder had broken, so she didn’t need to deliver measurements. The glazier would come tomorrow morning to fix the window. And the blacksmith, who also knew locksmithing, would come by that evening to evaluate their security.

“Oh, Miss Camden!” crooned a canary-like voice as Elsie started back home. She knew the voice well; she’d eavesdropped on it many times when she didn’t have a novel reader to occupy her. Now, however, it made her cringe.

Alexandra Wright. And her sister, Rose, right behind her.

Elsie’s body tensed like her bones had turned to vises. She couldn’t recall a single time she’d heard either woman actually say her name, let alone speak to her. Elsie preferred to remain invisible, just as the Cowls did. And right now, she wished to be a cat that could turn tail and clamber up a drainpipe.

Unfortunately, magic did not work that way.

The sisters approached with suspiciously wide smiles and beady eyes. “We’re so dreadfully sorry for the break-in! How horrid! And so fortunate that no one was hurt.”

Elsie glanced down the road, toward the stonemasonry shop. “Not badly, at least,” she said.

“Emmeline was not specific at all, poor thing.” The two exchanged a look that was supposed to appear concerned, but their acting wasn’t up to snuff. “Surely the perpetrator didn’t go through your room as well? How frightening!”

Something hot boiled at the base of Elsie’s throat. “Yes, very. Too frightening to speak of. If you’ll excuse me.”

She pushed past the duo.

“Oh, but Miss Camden! We’re simply trying to console you as any loving neighbor should—”

Elsie kept walking, lengthening her strides until she practically ran. Perhaps it was rude, but she didn’t mind being rude to rude people. They’ll forget me and move on to someone else by next week.

She’d have to warn Emmeline to stay away from them.

Arriving home out of breath, Elsie barely had time to hang up her hat before Emmeline, sleeves rolled to her elbows, popped out of the kitchen and said, “Elsie, I’m to send you to the sitting room as soon as you’re home. We have a guest. He arrived not ten minutes ago!”

“Oh?” She touched the sides of her hair, smoothing down loose strands. “A customer?”

Emmeline shook her head, eyes wide. “He is quite the sight! Straight from the Americas, I’m sure!”

Elsie froze while her stomach slapped against the floor.

When she moved again, it was to bound up the stairs.

Her limbs buzzed with energy as she approached the door to the sitting room, which was slightly ajar. She quickly shook out her skirt and smoothed back her hair. The door hinges squeaked when she entered. Both men in the room looked over, though Bacchus had to turn around in his chair to do so.

A surge of excitement swept through her middle. Bacchus. Here. In her house. He looked so radically out of place Elsie wondered if she’d hit her head fleeing from the Wright sisters and this was the wishful creation of her unconscious mind. She was terrified and gleeful at the same time, similar to how she felt when reading the climax of a good book. Except this was much more visceral. This was real.

What are you doing here? she almost blurted, but the double time of her heartbeat created a blessed disconnect between her thoughts and her mouth.

“Elsie, your good friend Master Kelsey dropped by to see if we were all right,” Ogden explained. “That paper has certainly circulated the news quickly.”

Master. Had it happened already? Cold disappointment tempered the storm in her stomach. But—

He’d come to see if she was all right? Didn’t that mean he cared about her welfare? It wasn’t yet evening—how quickly had he ridden over after hearing the news?

Desperate for a moment to think, she stumbled, “Would you, uh, like some tea?”

“Emmeline’s taking care of it. Come, sit.” Ogden gestured to a chair. He didn’t appear angry, only puzzled. “Master Kelsey says you met in the market?”

Elsie’s gaze flitted like a fledgling sparrow from Bacchus to Ogden, to Bacchus, to the mantel, to Bacchus, and back to the chair he occupied. By the time she reached her own seat, she’d investigated everything in the room, and Master Kelsey a dozen times over. “Yes, when I went to get those paints.” Truth. Her mind spun through everything that was safe to share. She sat. Tried to read Bacchus’s expression, but he was so bloody good at hiding his thoughts all she got was stoic curiosity, if such a thing existed. “You’ve tested, then?”

“It was not so much a test as a formality of my acceptance, but yes.” His English accent was crisp, flawless. His green gaze swept over her quickly. Elsie checked her posture.

In reply she said, “We are generally unharmed, though as you can see, Mr. Ogden took the brunt of the attack.” Ogden’s eye was a nice mix of yellow, red, and violet, and it would only be darker tomorrow. Remembering herself, she added to Ogden, “The blacksmith will be here tonight, the glazier tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Turning to Bacchus—it was unreal to have him sitting there, in their sitting room, looking so normal, so present—she asked, “How is the duke? Mr. Ogden, I don’t know if Mr.—Master—Kelsey told you, but he’s staying with the Duke of Kent. Apparently he was good friends with Bacchus’s late father.” She was talking too fast.

Master Kelsey. Master Kelsey. She certainly wouldn’t get used to that. And the more she dwelled on it, the smaller their sitting room seemed, the plainer her dress became, the simpler her life, her interests, and her employment. One word, one title, had done all that.

She hated it.

“He did mention it, yes.”

Emmeline stepped in then, carrying the tea service. She set it down, but Bacchus politely declined, and Elsie waved her cup away, stomach too tight to accept so much as a sip. Ogden, however, took his, sugar and cream and all.

“The duke is unwell,” Bacchus finally answered as Emmeline departed, looking over her shoulder every fourth step. “I often forget how old he is, how mortal.”

“Oh no.” Elsie leaned forward. “Not terribly ill, is he?”

Bacchus shook his head. “A temporal aspector came by, but the duke is seventy already, so he could only do so much. The outlook is rather dim.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Ogden set aside his tea. “I imagine you are close to him.”

“Will you stay?” Elsie asked. Then, realizing how pleading the words sounded, she added, “I-In Kent, I mean. For the duke’s convalescence.”

He nodded. “Of course. But I did not come to share my grievances, only to ensure you were dealing well with your own.”

Ogden replied, “Journalists will embellish any story to make it sell. It was a by-the-books failed robbery, I’d say.”

“I agree with you, about the journalists.” Bacchus folded his hands together. His sleeves seemed more fitted, as did the shoulders of his frock coat. Goodness, was it possible for the man to get even larger now that the siphoning spell wasn’t sucking his strength away? “But you are an aspector, and if your attack is related to the other crimes, it could be a serious matter.”

Ogden chuckled. “Then the culprit is indeed getting desperate.”

Bacchus seemed to consider this.

“And you?” Elsie tried, still struggling to discern his state of mind. “You’re well? Outside of the duke’s health?”

He nodded. “Very well.” There was an intonation in the words that warmed her, like he was thanking her yet again for his newfound vivacity. “As for the duke, time will tell.”

Of course, Bacchus was going to leave eventually, no matter how long he stayed. From what he’d told her on the way to Ipswich, he had no interest in furthering himself with the London Physical Atheneum. His real life was in Barbados, where he didn’t have to fake an accent or complain about frigid weather. She knew that—had reminded herself of it often—and yet she was glad he’d come to see her. Perhaps he would stop by again before sailing the River Thames. Perhaps.

The small talk ran low, and Elsie heard the front door open downstairs. Ogden must have heard it as well, for he stood, tugged down his shirt, and offered a hand to their guest. “I thank you for looking out for us, Master Kelsey. It’s unnecessarily kind of you.”

He nodded. “I hope your eye heals quickly.”

They ventured downstairs, Elsie wringing her hands together, and had just turned toward the studio when Emmeline, flustered, came barreling down the hall. “M-Mr. Ogden, Nash is here for you.”

“Tell him now is not a good time.”

The blond-haired man appeared in the hallway behind her, dressed casually in a linen shirt with no cravat or waistcoat. “Sir, if I might—”

“Not now, Nash.” Ogden didn’t shout it, but he might as well have. The venom in his voice gave Elsie pause, and even Bacchus looked askance at him.

The deliveryman looked offended—even enraged—for half a second, but he didn’t say anything as he turned and strode away, exiting through the studio door. Elsie thought he’d slam it, but he didn’t.

Emmeline sighed in relief.

“My apologies.” Ogden rubbed his forehead, then again adjusted his shirt. “I suppose last night has caused more stress than I care to let on. Nothing some work won’t fix.”

He nodded politely to Elsie and Bacchus before following Nash’s footsteps into the studio.

“I . . . Why don’t we exit through the back door, hmm?” Elsie offered, exchanging a look with Emmeline she hoped said, Make sure Ogden is all right.

She led the way, and Bacchus followed silently behind her, though he might as well have been a wolf breathing down her neck, the way he loomed. At the back door, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Emmeline hadn’t strayed, she whispered, “You’ve no luck figuring out who did it?” She was very close to him—close enough to detect a spell, if he still had one. The faintest scent of cut wood and oranges danced around her, no longer seasoned by that earthy note of the temporal rune, and she again thought about the feel of his chest beneath her hand. She cleared her throat and willed her skin not to flush.

It took Bacchus a moment to answer—she hadn’t been very specific, so she didn’t blame him. “No. I will look into it, but I fear it will be a fruitless endeavor. It happened long ago, and I cannot even connect which continent it happened on.” He sighed and slipped his hands into his coat pockets.

“How very strange.”

“Are you honestly well, Elsie?” His eyes seemed too knowing for some reason, like they could burrow beneath her skin. She dashed her traitorous thoughts away, fearing he’d pluck them right from her head. “You are unharmed? You have no concerns?”

She thought of Ogden’s flaring temper, so unusual for him. “I’m certainly concerned,” she admitted. “But what is there to be done? The man, thief, whatever he may be, is gone, and none of us got a good look at him. The constable can’t search for a person with no description. And the truthseeker didn’t seem interested.”

“They alerted the High Court?”

The front door opened and closed, meaning Nash was on his way again. “Ogden is an aspector. It’s procedure, apparently, with everything happening.” She offered a weak smile. She still couldn’t believe the attack was related to the ones previously in the papers—Ogden was a feeble spellmaker. Yet the incident had still left a mark on her nerves. “No need to worry. I’ve avoided shackles once again.”

“Good.” He averted his eyes in thought. “I wonder if it is only one person. There’s such a breadth to the crimes, and no real evidence to speak of. If we start connecting every crime in the aspector world, we’ll never solve anything. The academy, for example.”

That gave her pause. “What academy?”

“The aspection academy that filters into the atheneums.” When she didn’t react, he continued, “A wing of it burned down, killing a professor and two apprentices.” He frowned. “Their opuses weren’t recovered, but that’s to be expected in a fire. And yet even that is being attributed to this bandit.”

She tried to ignore the gooseflesh rising on her back and arms. “That’s . . . terrible.”

Rubbing his beard, Bacchus hummed his agreement.

Elsie wondered if the squire had been to the academy on one of his trips to London. He’d need a reason to visit, having not a magical hair on his body. Perhaps Bacchus was right, and it wasn’t one great murdering criminal, but several wayward souls trying to cause a storm. Or perhaps the uprisings of the seventeenth century were upon them once more, the magicless and downtrodden attacking aristocrats, stealing their opuses so they could have some semblance of power for themselves. “Ogden may be right about journalists,” she offered. “And about him being a target for his opus. He barely knows more spells than my shoe, really.”

His lip quirked at that. If only he would smile at her, fully, one more time. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask, nor to be witty enough to merit it.

“Give my best to the duke, Bacchus.” She touched his sleeve, then instantly regretted it when her cheeks warmed. “Take care of yourself, and . . . let me know if I can help.”

It was a foolish offer. If their acquaintance deepened, he might discover what Ogden and Emmeline still had not. He might catch sight of her wrongness.

He nodded. “You as well. I . . . might place a few wards on my way out.”

“I would like that, thank you.”

They stood there awkwardly for a moment before Elsie opened the door. “I don’t mean to insult you by sending you out the back—”

“I’d rather not interrupt Mr. Ogden’s business.” He offered her a nod, the hair gathered at the nape of his neck bouncing slightly, and departed. Just like that. Elsie forced herself not to watch him go. She needn’t stand in the doorway like some lovesick pup.

I’m not lovesick, she snapped at herself, closing the door a little too hard. Bacchus was merely an adventure. A fancy. Proof that she read too much fiction.

Perhaps she should switch to scientific journals for a while. She couldn’t think of a better medicine for her twisted insides at the moment besides warm milk.

The studio door opened and closed. Best she help the next customer.

But when Elsie stepped into the studio, it was empty, save for Ogden hacking at a lump of clay in the corner.

“Did Emmeline leave?” she asked.

“I believe she’s in the dining room.” Ogden’s focus stayed on the clay.

Elsie glanced to the door. “Didn’t someone just come in?”

Looking up, he shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Odd. Perhaps her mind had merely sought out an excuse to change the pattern of her thoughts.

“Elsie”—Ogden turned his stylus in his hand—“is that man courting you?”

Her cheeks burned. “Goodness, no. I barely know him.”

He nodded halfheartedly. “It would be good for you, after . . .” He didn’t dare say Alfred, not when that wound was so newly opened. “Though I’d hate to see you heartbroken again, my dear. And heartbreak is inevitable across the class divide.”

He might as well have taken that carving tool and stabbed it through her breast.

“I’m well aware.” She forced the words to be light. “But like I said, I barely know him. And he’s off to Barbados soon, besides.”

“Is that where he’s from? I didn’t know if it was rude to ask.”

Elsie rolled her eyes.

Ogden paused. “Hand me that order, would you?” He gestured weakly toward the counter. Fortunately, Elsie knew what he meant. She strode over to retrieve the latest work order—

A gray envelope poked out from beneath it.

Her breath caught. How?

Perhaps she hadn’t imagined the opening and closing of the door, after all. Had they just delivered this? But how could it have escaped Ogden’s attention?

Grabbing the envelope, Elsie bolted around the counter and out the front door, ignoring Ogden’s alarmed cry that followed her. She ran out onto the street, turning, looking everywhere there was to look.

She’d been too slow. No strangers lingered around the house, no one in hiding. Not that she could see.

Pinching her lips together, she stole away to the shade at the back of the house and brought the crescent-moon-and-bird-foot seal to her face. Broke it. Read the name of her next target.

The London Physical Atheneum.