Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 20

She could have asked him about it on the way to London. There were so many ways Elsie could have started the conversation. Mr. Ogden, do you know what I am?

Or, I found an interesting knickknack in one of your drawers.

Or even, Why didn’t you tell me you were one of the Cowls?

Granted, Cowls was a nickname Elsie had invented. It wasn’t what the group actually called itself.

In the end, she didn’t say a word, knowing the ride to London would never be long enough for all of her questions. And if Ogden was angry that she’d inadvertently snooped and discovered his true identity . . . What if he did something that forbade her from going to Juniper Down?

She had to go. This was more important than . . . anything.

Elsie purchased a hotel room for the night in Reading, the closest train stop to Juniper Down, although she might as well not have bothered. She paced her small room for hours, then failed to sleep on both the chair and the bed. It wasn’t until near dawn she managed to drift off, only to wake to a rain-choked sunrise with a tiny bit of drool on her pillow.

It was just as well.

She dressed quickly, making herself nearly as presentable as she’d been for the duke’s dinner, though she couldn’t truss up her hair the same way Emmeline did. She would see her family today. The very thought made her heart flutter.

She wondered if Bacchus would still be in England when she returned. Would he want to know about this wonderful turn of events?

Someone had found her. Come back for her. This changed everything.

Smiling at herself in the small mirror on the wall, Elsie pinned her purple hat carefully to her hair. Then she packed up her valise and lugged it downstairs, where a concierge kindly hired her a carriage. The driver took her southwest, toward Juniper Down, a tiny village barely worth a dot on a map. She hadn’t been there since she was six. Never visited, only written. She wondered if it still looked how she remembered it . . . though she mostly just remembered the interior of the Halls’ house.

She wrung her fingers together until her lace gloves threatened blisters. Then she practiced what she would say. If it was her mother or her father—or perhaps both!—she’d of course ask why they had left. Why they’d waited so long to come back for her. But that couldn’t be the first thing out of her mouth. She wanted to start on the right foot. She wanted to make them happy they had at last come for her. The questions would follow.

If it was a sibling . . . Where have you been all this time? Do you remember me? Did they leave you, too?

Her throat constricted on that last one.

Surprisingly, Juniper Down came too soon, even with the driver having to stop to ask a farmer for directions. It was a tiny place, with only one carriage-sized road running alongside it, and it was in poor care, judging by the way Elsie jostled about. The horses stopped, Elsie’s heart leapt into her throat, and the driver opened her door.

“Sure this is it?” he asked, lending a hand to help her down.

Coming around the carriage, Elsie scanned the place. There was farmland off in the distance. The houses weren’t too dissimilar from those of the duke’s tenants, though they varied a little more in size and looked to be in worse repair. Each had a small garden. Narrow dirt paths crisscrossed around. An old man in a chair by a beehive near the road squinted at her.

Sensing her hesitation, the driver shouted, “Ho! This is Juniper Down, is it not?”

The man bellowed back, “’Tis! What’s it to ya?”

Drawing in a large breath, Elsie turned back to the driver. “I’ll find it, thank you.”

The man nodded and pulled down her valise from the back of the carriage. “Good luck to you.”

Elsie nodded and stayed on the road until the carriage turned about and pulled away. Then, trying not to chew on her lip, she approached the old man.

“I’m sorry, but do you know where the Halls live?” she asked.

“Henry’s lot?” he repeated, eyeing her. All his clothes, including his hat, boasted at least one hole, and here she was in one of her best dresses. Perhaps she had made a mistake, primping before coming here. But the man lifted an empty pipe and pointed it south. “Down the road, they is.”

He didn’t offer to escort her, which was just as well. “Thank you,” she said, and followed his direction.

The noises of young children—one of them a crying baby—reached her ears. A woman knelt in her garden, pulling weeds. Another drew water from a well, watching her pass. She wore a black hat and black ribbon around her wrists. Was she in mourning? Folk here likely couldn’t afford a special wardrobe for it.

Elsie nodded to her and continued on, soon spying a little girl also in black, and a black-dyed dress hanging on a clothesline. How terrible. What had happened here?

The path forked up ahead, but fortunately a woman perhaps in her late thirties stepped out of her house just then. “Oh!” she exclaimed, looking Elsie up and down. “Are you in from Foxstone?”

Elsie shook her head. “I’m from Brookley, actually. Near London.”

The woman whistled. “What are you doing in these parts?” She shook her head. “Don’t mean to be rude, just curious. Are you lost?”

Elsie’s shoulders began to ache, and she forced her posture to relax. “Only a little. I’m looking for Agatha Hall.”

“Agatha?” The woman stepped onto the path and gestured for Elsie to follow. “She’s just around this way.” They passed an older woman washing clothes. “Here to see Agatha,” the first said, as though the other had asked. They continued along, but Elsie heard the second woman pass the information along to someone else before leaving earshot.

“Right here.” Her guide gestured to a house that looked like all the others. “Need me to come along?”

“Uh, no, thank you.” She nodded her gratitude and, holding her breath, approached the house.

She knocked thrice, feeling eyes on her back.

Footsteps sounded within, followed by a sharp word, likely to a child. The door opened. Elsie barely recognized her—she was working off the memory of a six-year-old child, after all, and the woman had aged since then. Perhaps it was the dress, or the obvious fact that Elsie didn’t belong, but Agatha knew her immediately.

“Elsie Camden!” The words were uttered on a gasp. “Oh goodness, you came. And so fast! Come in, come in.” She put a hand on Elsie’s elbow and ushered her inside.

The home was cozy. Small. An old dining table took up half the room, and the bottom floor had only one room. A narrow set of stairs led up to what Elsie presumed would be one or two bedrooms. A boy of perhaps ten sat by the window, polishing a pair of shoes. There was a fire in the hearth, warming a great iron pot, and the air was overly hot, but it smelled like bread and earth. That smell was more familiar to her than anything else she saw.

Elsie set down her valise, her manners fleeing her. “Where is he? She?”

“He,” Agatha corrected. “And he didn’t stay. I mean, he’s here, but he ain’t here.” She turned and ventured toward a wooden shelf. Pulled an envelope from it and handed it over. The edge was smeared with some sort of grease. “Sorry,” she added, gesturing to it, “one of the littles got to it.”

An envelope? Elsie turned it over. No seal. “What’s this?”

Agatha shrugged. “He wouldn’t say much about it. Only to give that to you.”

Clutching the envelope in her trembling hands, Elsie asked, “How old is he?”

Agatha shrugged. “Maybe a bit older than meself. Grew out a beard; swear he was clean shaven when you all came around the first time, but it’s been so long, and it was only the one night.”

Father, she thought, and a chill flowed down her arms. “But he’s still here? In Juniper Down?” She broke the wax on the envelope. It was made of fine parchment. The letter within was delicate, the paper small.

“Said ‘nearby.’ Must’ve been staying round Birmingham, the way he talked.”

Birmingham? That was a ways north of here. Had he been there this whole time?

Elsie held the brief message, written with a fine hand, up to her face.

By the plum where the road turns for Foxstone. Come alone.

That was it.

Elsie turned the paper over, but there was nothing else upon it. Did he want their meeting to be private? Did he intend to wait by the tree day by day until she arrived? It made little sense to her, but Elsie was used to short, direct messages like this.

“Where is the road for Foxstone?”

“That where he is?” Agatha asked, but she pointed toward a corner of the house. “Goes east that way, curves through a bit of a forest. You got to turn right after that, or it’ll send you to Pingewood.”

Elsie turned for the door. Paused. “Thank you so much, Agatha. Might I keep my things here?”

“Of course. Bring him back, if you like, and I’ll see you both fed.” She smiled. “I’m right happy for you, Elsie. Glad it turned out.”

Nodding, Elsie stepped back into the sunlight. A few people, including children, were lurking around the house, likely curious about what had brought a stranger to the Halls’. Ignoring them, she ventured east, searching for a path wide enough to be called a road. After finding it, she glanced over her shoulder once, but no one followed her. Most likely they were pestering Agatha with their questions. Some of them might even remember the little girl who’d been abandoned by her family fifteen years ago . . . but Elsie would worry about that later.

The way was farther than she expected; the woods weren’t close, but she was in a hurry, and she kept up a brisk enough pace that her ribs hurt by the time she reached them. Forcing herself to slow, Elsie scanned the sparse trees, keeping to the center of the road. Father, she thought, disbelieving. She tried to remember the lines she’d rehearsed in the carriage, only to find them forgotten.

Why come back now?

Why did you wait so long?

What is your name?

The woods broke, and Elsie couldn’t help herself—she hurried again, ignoring the stitch re-forming beneath her corset. After another minute of walking, she saw the fork up ahead, as well as a crude, faded sign that pointed toward Foxstone. Sure enough, there was a massive plum tree a short ways to the west. Upon seeing it, Elsie left the road behind and trekked through the long wild grass, crinkling the letter as she picked up her skirts.

She was nearly there when a man stepped out from behind the tree. She slowed, her tongue twisting, her entire body a pulse. He was tall, just like she was, with a prominent nose and dark eyes, unlike hers. His tan spoke of days out in the sun, and his hair was long and straight, streaked with gray that made it look the color of sand. It might have been Elsie’s color, years ago.

She stopped a few paces away from him, surprised at the hardness in his face. Lost for words, she tried, “Hello.”

Her father lunged at her, his calloused hand grabbing her neck. Elsie stumbled backward until she hit the plum tree’s trunk.

It was only then she saw the pistol leveled with her forehead.

Speech fled.

“You won, I’m here. Tell me what you want.”

Elsie gaped. He spoke with an American accent.

This was not her father.

Confusion, fear, and disappointment swirled within her. She grabbed the man’s arm, but he easily overpowered her, and she could not lift his hand from her neck. She croaked, “Who are you?”

He scowled. “Don’t play games with me, Elsie Camden.”

He knew her name. He had come looking for her, then. But why?

When she didn’t answer, he said, “I read your articles. You thought we’d do this on your terms? I looked up your workhouse records. I know what you want, but I’ll kill you before I utter the words.” He dug the pistol into her forehead.

“Stop!” she screamed, writhing, though it cut off her dwindling supply of air. “Help!” The call was little more than a rasp. Clawing at the man’s grip, she said, “What articles? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!”

He sneered. Stared at her for a moment. Released her, but kept his gun level. Elsie bent over, gasping for air.

“You’re too young.” He lowered his gun slightly. “Who sent you?”

Straightening, she looked at him, incredulous. “Who sent me? You did, you blunderbuss! I got a telegram saying you were looking for me!” Her words tight, she said, “I-I thought you were my father.” He must have faked his dialect with Agatha. Either that, or she’d simply gotten it wrong.

Confusion lined his forehead. Elsie shivered with the effort of keeping her thoughts organized and her heart in one piece.

“What articles?” She pushed the question through her sore and tight throat, eyeing the gun. She didn’t think it was enchanted, not that it mattered.

“The newspapers. Magazines. All over Europe and the States.” He glared at her, and his gun twitched. “You’re a pawn.”

“I’m no one’s pawn. Put that bloody thing away!” She gestured toward the gun. The man lowered it a fraction more, so he’d only blow off her knee instead of her head. “I’m no writer. You’ve the wrong person.”

“No.” He shook his head, but he stepped back. He glanced around, as though expecting someone to jump out of the grass and tackle him. “No, it’s you. You must be an apprentice.” He raised the gun again.

Elsie lifted both hands. The letter fell to the ground. “I work for a stonemason!”

“You’re an aspector. And I’m telling you now that you won’t have it.” His arm tensed.

“Stop!” she shouted again, half hoping someone would hear, but the road remained empty. “I-I’m not! I’m a spellbreaker, I swear it.” Dangerous, to offer her secret to a man holding her at gunpoint, but it was the only thing she could offer to prove he’d mistaken her for someone else. “I’m only looking for my family. They left me in Juniper Down when I was a girl. That’s why I have a workhouse record. I swear it!”

He lowered the gun again, which fountained cool relief up Elsie’s stomach. “Prove it.”

She opened her hands. She needed a spell first.

He stepped forward; she retreated. He raised the pistol. Elsie held still.

He touched her forehead, and Elsie felt a spell seep into her skin, the same one the truthseeker had used. A spiritual aspector, then. The spell crept over her skin like a worm, and she tried her best not to cringe.

“I’ve never published a newspaper or magazine article in my life.” She was glad for the spell if only because it verified her words. “I haven’t the faintest idea who you are.” Then, reaching up, she felt for the threads of the rune and pulled it apart, relieved when its magic dissipated.

The man holstered his gun. “An unknowing pawn.” He shook his head. “Watch yourself. If our paths cross again, I won’t be so forgiving.”

He headed for the road.

“Wait!” Elsie charged after him. “Tell me what you—”

His gun reappeared in his hand. “I will shoot you if you follow me.”

Stopped in her tracks, Elsie held up her hands in surrender. She kept them there until the mysterious foreigner turned for the woods. He vanished, and moments later, the galloping of horse hooves swept into the distance.

Elsie stood by the plum tree for a long time, staring at the bit of road where the man had vanished. She stood until her spine and knees ached. Then she dropped to her knees like a dress freed of its mannequin. Her head filled with the complaints of crickets, and a spot on her cheek started to burn where sunlight scissored through the leaves. Confusion simmered like tea in the back of her mind, but its pungency was nothing compared to the hard truth rooting her.

Mr. Hall had been right. They were never coming back.

Her tongue felt swollen in her mouth, her ribs bruised, her stomach empty. All of her, empty.

Had it been so foolish to hope? To think someone from her faded memories had remembered her, thought of her, determined that she wasn’t so unlovable after all, and come looking for her? She’d been ready to give them everything—forgiveness, understanding, kinship, and every penny she’d saved since she was eleven years old.

But they hadn’t come. He had.

Blinking her eyes to clear her vision, her thoughts sluggishly turned toward the American. What did he mean, a pawn? A pawn of what? Newspaper articles, under her name? And they had to be traceable to England, and to this area, if he’d known where to look up her workhouse records. Where to find the Halls. And it was her name, not a pseudonym. What exactly did the articles say? And why her?

Why all of it?

She finally moved—rubbing her eyes to alleviate a headache pounding beneath her skull. Would the Cowls know? Ogden? More kindling to add to her fire of questions. So many questions.

It was her corset that finally got her moving. It wasn’t comfortable, out in this heat and in that position. Her skirt was thoroughly wrinkled, too. So Elsie stood, her legs shaky, and dragged herself back to Juniper Down. The echo of her footsteps sounded hollow to her ears. Her mouth was dry. Her back hurt.

The little town seemed to have forgotten her as she approached. She spied another family in all black and gray, among them an older woman, a mother perhaps, with a drawn face. Elsie felt for her and her loss. She felt it keenly.

She spied two others dressed for mourning before reaching Agatha’s house. She was sweeping off her porch.

“There you are!” she exclaimed when Elsie’s shadow drew near. She spied around her. “He’s not coming with you?”

Her lungs constricted, but she managed a quiet “No. Later.”

Agatha nodded. “Will you be staying the night? We can make you a space by the fire, unless you want to share a bed with the children.”

Stay the night. Would she? Elsie wanted nothing more than to be back in Brookley, in her own bed, the shutters drawn and the door locked. “I’m not sure.” Then, eager to shift the conversation from herself, she asked, “Why are so many mourning?”

A frown pulled at the woman’s lips, and she set the broom against the door frame. “Most terrible thing. Happened almost a week ago now, but they’re expecting the ashes anytime now.”

Elsie touched her chest. “Oh dear.”

Agatha nodded, a tear coming to her eye. She dabbed it with a rough knuckle. “Poor lad. He was only fifteen, and had such a future ahead of him. Got a sponsorship for aspection, he did.”

Elsie’s stomach sank, and she almost wished she hadn’t asked. She didn’t know how much more bad news she could take. “A sponsorship?”

“The Crumleys’ boy. Been studying for three years already. They pinned their hopes on him, and now it’s rubbish.” She shook her head. “Terrible way to go, too. Died in the fire at the academy. Weren’t too big a flame to start, we’ve heard, but the local firemen couldn’t put it out. Their water staffs had been disenchanted.”

Elsie rolled her lips together, then stiffened. Her breath caught in her throat, and it took half a second for her to push it out. “Water staffs?” she asked. Pre-enchanted tools that called up water from the ground and even the air. Hands cold, she added, “Y-You said this happened a week ago?”

“A week tomorrow.” Elsie’s expression must have been dire, for Agatha laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Terrible, isn’t it? Him and another boy, as well as one of their professors. To top it off, there ain’t even an opus to send home. Fire ate it up, too. Professor John Clive—that was his sponsor—sent his regrets himself, before he . . .” Agatha’s words caught, and she turned her head to clear her throat. “Sorry, lass, that one is still fresh.” Withdrawing her hand, Agatha took in a shuddering breath. “Still can’t believe it. None of us can.”

Elsie tried to swallow and found she couldn’t. “Agatha. Where . . . Where is the academy?”

She tilted her head, confused by the question. “Up in Colchester. Why?”

Elsie might as well have bled out on Agatha’s doorstep. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The same time, the same place, the same magic . . .

She had disenchanted those water staffs.

Which most certainly meant the Cowls had started the fire.