Spellmaker

CHAPTER 4

Cuthbert knew he needn’t travel far from London to find Merton’s stolen opuses; he’d been able to make the trip from there to St. Katharine Docks in one night. The problem was, his memory stalled somewhere between cutting clay for future projects in his studio and finding himself on the docks with Elsie. In between, he recalled nothing but a handful of impressions: running through the dark, feeling stone beneath his hands, experiencing the confinement of a cold, starless place. A spiritual aspector could not erase his memory—only a rational magician could do that. But she could most definitely make it hard for him to recall what he had been doing, especially in the shadows of night.

Cuthbert had mulled over the puzzle pieces almost constantly this last week. He’d filled up an entire sketchbook with half-finished charcoal drawings. He’d even dreamed about his escape, and while he of all people knew dreams couldn’t be trusted, he’d sketched the dreams first thing upon waking, even before using the water closet. And so he was fairly certain Merton had guided him to a cemetery, sepulcher, or crypt, although that didn’t narrow things enough, given there were a multitude of them in London.

Were Merton here, he could rip the information from her mind himself. She couldn’t manipulate him again without touching him, and he was constantly on guard. A deep, damaged part of him wanted to seize her every thought, force her into a puppetlike state, rip apart her secrets and sorrows and drown her in them. Make her suffer as he had suffered. And yet, when he thought of Merton, he thought of Elsie, and that made him tuck away his anger and his hatred and focus on the task at hand. Because she was in prison, yes, but it was more than that. Despite being tied in with Merton from the start, Elsie made him want to do better, be better. She was the closest thing to a daughter he’d ever had. She’d been with him longer than Emmeline, and as a child, no less. She’d unknowingly brought bondage to him, but in the end, she’d also been his salvation.

She’d been a pawn, too. Cuthbert couldn’t dwell on vengeance until she’d had her liberation as well.

Merton’s London townhouse was the first place he went after seeing Elsie, and the space was entirely empty, without even a skeleton staff or housekeeper to look after it. She wasn’t to be found at the Spiritual Atheneum, either. Cuthbert didn’t want to give himself away by asking after her, so he broke his rules and dived into the minds of anyone who might know, pushing past goals and desires, complaints and crudeness, searching for any mark of his enemy. No one had seen her since the dinner at Kent just before his liberation.

Cuthbert could only hope it meant Merton saw him as a threat and sought to save her own hide, not that she was moving on to another portion of whatever mad plan she wanted to unfurl. How many spells did one person need? And what did she intend to do with them all?

Rubbing a hand down his face, Cuthbert dropped onto a bench in Burgess Park, considering. Thanks to a decade of church hopping, he knew which cathedrals and the like had crypts. Which had cemeteries large enough to hide away Merton’s secrets. Were it Cuthbert, he wouldn’t stow away his treasures at a large or frequently visited place, not where they could be discovered. It had to be something out of the way, but not so out of the way that he couldn’t retrieve them swiftly.

Closing his eyes, he replayed the night of his escape in his head. He was sure he hadn’t gone north, not at first. Would he find his way better if he mimicked the conditions of that night? If he searched in the dark, instead of the light?

Light. He’d been moving toward the light, hadn’t he? The moon rose in the east . . .

He needed to find the place now. Before Merton figured out they were on to her and ransacked the place herself.

Rising, he left the park and paid his way onto an omnibus. He’d asked around for the oldest churches and gravesites near East London. His eyes scanned the streets as he rode, as though he could spot her among the throngs of people.

He pulled his hat low when he reached the first village on his map, small enough that he might be seen as a stranger. He did not have a large repertoire of spells, given that those he knew had been gathered and adopted illegally, but those he did have were potent. He hopped from mind to mind, learning his way through the streets and alleyways as he did. He found the cemetery and its church easily. Somehow he knew it wasn’t right, but he checked anyway before moving on. He had to keep moving if he didn’t want to go mad.

It was at the third parish he visited that something raised gooseflesh on his arms. He paused, turning around, his surroundings completely unfamiliar and yet not. A wave of frustration worked through him. If only he could use spells on his own mind, hypnotize answers from his subconscious. But there was something.

He could see the spires of the local chapel and began toward it, but that felt wrong somehow. Retreating, he again stood in the place from before, a cobbled road at the crest of the town. It would have been a good view, if not for the thick trees.

Turning slowly, he noticed a narrow staircase to the east, centuries old and laid with stone. A chill coursed down his back. He’d been on that staircase before. The second-to-last step was uneven. He’d tripped on it in his rush . . .

His rush . . .

Clenching his jaw, Cuthbert ran toward the stairs, not out of a desire for speed, but to help him remember. She’d driven him hard; he’d been exhausted upon reaching the docks, which was why Merton had demanded he use opus spells to slow down his pursuers. He sprinted for the stairs, and despite expecting the dip in the stone, he tripped and fell onto his hands and knees at the bottom.

His right knee pounded painfully, the stone striking an old bruise. A bruise he must have gotten here.

Standing slowly, Cuthbert closed his eyes, imagining night wind in his hair despite it being midafternoon. He felt a questioning gaze from a passerby and ignored it.

Running downhill, toward a gas lamp. Around the corner. Another stumble at the end of the cobblestone path.

Opening his eyes, Cuthbert jogged down the way, finding an unlit lamp at a crossroads. Left would take him deeper into town, right . . . at the end of the street, the trees were overgrown and the path narrowed, turning to packed dirt.

Cuthbert ran right.

He slowed when he reached the trees, stooping to avoid their branches. He looked around for any broken boughs, any opening in the green. He found nothing. He followed the path for an eighth of a mile before it ended at an old stone wall, flowering weeds poking through its mortar.

He almost didn’t notice the steep dip to his right. Sitting, he slid down it five feet and followed the wall. The trees lifted just enough for him to identify three burial chambers, the stone crosses at their heads weathered and nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the stone.

This was it.

Holding his breath, he approached the first sepulcher, scanned for witnesses, and shouldered the heavy door open, the scents of must and mildew rushing at him. The interior was small, but the chill was achingly familiar. He checked the tombs. The first held only bones and remnants of rotted clothes. The next was the same. But the third . . . the third was larger. There was a stone casket in the back, and just behind it a smaller one, made for a child. The moment he touched it, Cuthbert knew it. The roughness of the ancient stone, the weight of the lid. This was it. Grasping the lip with both hands, he heaved it up and over, then stood aside so light from the doorway could pour in.

The casket was far deeper than the others, at least four feet, and it was entirely empty, even of bones.

Merton had already been here, and none of the dead could tell him where she’d gone.

Elsie had dozed off again. She startled awake, her stomach cramping as she did so. The jailer kept her fed, but it was food she wasn’t used to, as the bucket in the far corner could attest. She wasn’t sure if it was a lucky rotation or pity from one of the guards, but they’d let her bathe last night. The water hadn’t been fresh, but it had been a bath. She wore the same dress she’d been arrested in, and the hair at the center of her simple braid was still damp.

It was her third day in prison. She hadn’t seen either Ogden or Bacchus in a day and a half, although she could have sworn Merton had returned to her cell in the dead of night. She couldn’t remember anything else about it—just a fleeting impression—so it may have been a dream. She’d had lots of those here. Snippets of things not quite real, sometimes in the darkness, sometimes in the daylight. She wondered if that was how madness started. Either way, it would make a great plot for a novel reader. Perhaps, if she ever got out of this horrid place, she could sell it to someone.

If she ever got out.

Looking at the bars longingly, Elsie touched her neck, wondering what it would feel like to have it snap. Would she die right away, or just hang there, broken and hurting, until blood stopped flowing to her brain?

Footsteps sounded, and while Elsie longed for company, her heart dropped to her hips and her fingers turned to ice. She stood up slowly, not wanting to upset her stomach, as one of the guards approached the door. He pulled a key ring from his belt and looked up at her through dark eyelashes.

“Miss Camden.” He unlocked the door. Her name sounded so final on his lips, like it was the only polite thing he could think to say. Pulling the door open, he gestured for her to follow him.

God help her, it was time for her trial. What was she supposed to say? Should she lie and hope, or be completely truthful and pray for a sentence of hard labor instead of death? But not completely truthful. She couldn’t mention her involvement with the Cowls. That would see her hanged for certain.

Clasping quivering fingers in front of her, Elsie allowed the guard to cuff her before following him out of the cell. Part of her thought she should try to look dignified, but she didn’t have the stamina for it. His footsteps were loud in the stone halls; hers were silent. As though she were already a ghost.

Gooseflesh prickled her arms and back. They descended a narrow set of stairs, the air growing even cooler as they did, and wound through massive, ancient stone pillars. Around a corner, down another corridor. Elsie was already lost. Through an open window she saw a small wooden stage, a pole standing just off center. No rope, but she knew death when she saw it.

She tried to swallow and found she couldn’t.

Finally, the guard took her up another flight of stairs, past two others in uniform, before shoving open a heavy door with his shoulder. Brilliant sunlight stung Elsie’s eyes, and she stumbled blindly for a moment, trying to gain her bearings. She nearly toppled down a set of steps.

She blinked several times, eyes tearing, before the old castle bailey came into view. A few guards walked its perimeter. And there, standing at the base of the steps, was—

“Bacchus?” His name was more breath than voice.

The guard took her wrists and began uncuffing her.

Her pulse sped like a wild horse. “I don’t understand.”

Bacchus took a step closer. “I spoke with the magistrate about your case and provided him with witness documents. He’s released you.”

Elsie stared at him, the news taking too long to register in her thoughts. It wasn’t until the second cuff dropped from her skin that she understood.

“I’m free to go?” she squeaked.

Bacchus nodded.

In an abrupt burst of anger, she wheeled on her guard and said, “For heaven’s sake, you could have said something!”

The man shrugged indifferently before heading back inside.

Suddenly weary, Elsie’s knees buckled. She sat on the steps, landing hard. Bacchus, bless him, tried to catch her, but he wasn’t quite quick enough. Instead, he sat beside her.

“I-I don’t believe it.” She rubbed her wrists, studied her hands. Was very aware of Bacchus’s closeness, for that side of her grew almost uncomfortably warm. “Wh-What did you say? I mean, thank you.” She let out a short, heavy breath. “Thank you. But what did you say? Has Ogden . . . ?”

“I haven’t heard from him.” His tone was low and measured, careful. “First, I want to ensure you can easily reach me if anything like this happens again.” He reached into the pocket in the lining of his jacket and pulled out two pencils. As he turned one over in his fingers, the wood glimmered and turned a warm shade of green. He focused on the pencils only for a second before handing the green one to her.

Elsie accepted the strange gift hesitantly. Had he known green was her favorite color? She turned it over in her hands, noting that when she did so, the other pencil jerked in his fingers in a similar fashion.

“They’re connected by a spell,” he explained, carefully returning his pencil to his jacket pocket. Elsie’s shifted slightly as he did so. “Leave it home on a piece of paper. If you need to contact me, whatever you write down will transfer to my end.”

She blinked. “How smart. And much less expensive than a telegram.” She would have to be careful with it so she didn’t accidentally stab Bacchus or scribble graphite all over his clothing. There was something reassuring about the gift, about the connection it gave her to him. She ran her thumb over the tiny blue rune only a spellbreaker could see, and a smile touched her lips.

“Second . . . there were some caveats to your release.”

She straightened. “I’m listening.”

“You’ll be required to register.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“And train under another spellbreaker.”

Elsie paused. Opened her mouth, closed it. She’d been spellbreaking for ten years. She’d broken spells as they were conjured, even! To submit to training . . .

There was a strain in Bacchus’s eyes, and her resistance immediately evaporated. “Yes, that makes sense.”

Softer, he said, “I convinced the magistrate you discovered your abilities only a month ago. You’ll need to act the part.”

Only a month ago. “I can play along.” A shiver coursed up her spine and tickled her hair. She slouched. “Oh, Bacchus, thank you.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I don’t know . . . I was so afraid.”

His lip quirked in the semblance of a smile, but there was something about his expression that made her uneasy. “What?” she asked, then blanched. “Bacchus, what did you do? Did you pay some unlordly fine?” She would get a second job to pay him back if she had to. Sell anything she had of value . . .

He shook his head and stood, taking her elbow to help her up as well. The delight she felt when he strung her arm through his didn’t fully banish her fear. He still hadn’t answered her. As he began walking through the bailey, toward the exit, she tried again, quieter. “Bacchus?”

“There is . . . one other caveat.” He nodded to a passing guard.

Elsie worried her lip, waiting for him to explain. When he didn’t, she pressed. “What?”

They reached the exterior doors and waited for two guards to open them. They passed through, and an invisible weight lifted from her. Everything felt cleaner and greener and more open. But Bacchus still didn’t answer. He escorted her over the grounds, short bursts of clover and gravel passing under their feet. A carriage Elsie recognized as the Duke of Kent’s waited down at the road, four black horses tethered to it.

Dread filled Elsie like tar. What had Bacchus given up to free her? Money? Lands? His mastership? What could it be?

This was it. Surely his silence was out of anger, or maybe distaste. Perhaps the worst had happened, and Bacchus had discovered her flaw—the quality that made her so distasteful to others—or the system had found it for him. This could be goodbye. She’d be free, but Bacchus . . .

Tears stung her eyes, and she forced them back. Don’t think about it. Just smile and nod, understand. Hold it in until you get home. Then Ogden can erase all of it. You won’t have to feel a thing. Just last a little longer . . .

She bit the inside of her cheek.

Bacchus’s steps slowed, stopped. He dropped her arm. Turned toward her. Elsie tried her best to look cheery and reposed, but found her acting skills had severely waned during her captivity.

He sighed. Gripped her shoulders, his warmth seeping through her sleeves, then suddenly let her go. A feeling of loss seized her. Would that be the last time he ever touched her?

In a voice too weak for her liking, she said, “Bacchus, you’re scaring me.”

He barked a chuckle. “That is my main concern, yes.”

Confused, she waited.

He drew a hand down his face. “I convinced the magistrate that I was a personal witness to your spellbreaking discovery. Because we’ve spent a lot of time together.”

Elsie blinked. “Nothing wrong with that.” It was true.

“Obviously I couldn’t discuss our work arrangement,” he went on. “The witness documents I turned in attest to our . . . courtship. From both the Duke and the Duchess of Kent and Miss Emmeline Pratt.”

She felt the heat work its way up her neck and to her cheeks. She desperately wanted to press her cool fingers to her face, yet such an action would draw Bacchus’s attention to the color. She cleared her throat. “Not so far-fetched.”

He glanced toward the carriage. It wasn’t so far-fetched . . . was it? Or did the idea of a master aspector courting the employee of a stonemason upset him? Her heart gave a quick, unpleasant thud just before he met her eyes once more.

“Elsie.” He looked so uncertain. “I had to sell it, you understand. Convince him of my motivation to be around you. He believes us to be engaged.”

Elsie’s lips parted.

“And.” He hesitated. “Expects to be invited to the wedding.”

She stared at him, again struggling to internalize what he was saying. Engaged? But they weren’t . . . but there was to be a wedding?

She would not faint. Only dramatic damsels fainted.

Bacchus continued, “He led me to believe that his suspicions remain. We must go through with it, Elsie. That is the only way to assuage his doubts.”

Elsie knew she was gawking, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Engaged.

Engaged?

Engaged to Bacchus Kelsey. Master Bacchus Kelsey.

Her numb lips stuttered, “You didn’t . . .” and stopped. You didn’t have to do that, she wanted to say, but he did have to do that if she wanted to walk away from this awful place. And he already had done it. For her.

He was throwing his life away for her.

Oh God, he must hate her.

Her face must have been something to see, for Bacchus notably withdrew into himself. “It won’t be terrible. I’ve already considered . . . We can stay in England, of course.”

“I . . . no. What I mean is . . .” She wrung her hands, searching for words. “I-I’m just surprised, is all. I didn’t expect—”

“Neither did I.”

A laugh escaped her mouth, a nervous sound born of nerves and uncertainty. She tried to reel it back in, but such a thing was impossible. Her stomach growled, and she pressed both hands to it.

“You did it,” she tried, unable to meet his eyes. “You said you’d get me out and you did.” Her organs twisted inside her. “But, Bacchus—”

“Let’s discuss it in the carriage,” he said softly, offering his arm.

Finding her wits, Elsie accepted it and let him lead her to the road.

Despite Bacchus’s suggestion, the carriage ride to Brookley was rather silent.