Spellmaker

CHAPTER 12

Thus far, Ogden had received two articles through the spirit line from the United States: one from the Boston Herald and another from the New York Times.

Elsie sat with him in his sitting room, looking over the information under the guise that he was helping her with her wedding finances. Emmeline remained innocent of the situation they were in, and they intended to keep it that way. Like with the British articles, Elsie had found the lines she wanted via their spelling, only this time, the articles were predominantly in American English, with the coded lines in British English.

The first, The Intrigue of Bespelling Ravens in the Spiritual Alignment, had the line It is critical to recognise the need for organising ravens, either in the United States or Britain itself. It referenced spiritual aspecting just as the Daily Telegraph had, which was surely no coincidence.

The second article, titled A Letter to My Colleague, read, Humour me and come; open a dialogue. We are but neighbours, are we not?

Ogden had come to the same conclusion Elsie had. Merton was after this American man, who was a spiritual aspector, because he had a spell she wanted—a rare spell that was, so far, not in any of the spiritual opuses she had collected. He was hiding from her, and the articles were her attempt to bait him out. Ogden suspected she’d published more articles, possibly hundreds of them, although finding them might not be helpful.

“Merton is unlikely to show her hand more than this.” Ogden set down his sketchbook, which was opened to the drawing of the American Elsie had described. “Whoever this man is, he understands her meaning.”

“But this isn’t her end goal.” Elsie tapped the end of her pencil against the article on ravens. “Because she’s taking more than just spiritual opuses. She’s attacked aspectors from every alignment.”

“To gain power, perhaps,” he replied. “Or to weaken those who would oppose her.”

“But oppose her in what?” Elsie asked, and not for the first time. She picked up the Daily Telegraph article and murmured, “What are you after, Merton?”

Could they track down the American to ask? Elsie doubted he would come after her again. Perhaps she could—

The sitting room door opened. Ogden grabbed his sketchbook and closed it. “Yes, Emmeline?”

“Visitor for you.” She opened the door wider, and Bacchus strode in.

Elsie leapt to her feet, but her heart soared higher than that, and a flush of remembrance rose to her cheeks. “Bacchus! We weren’t expecting you.” I would have done something better with my hair—

Then she noticed the angry red line around his neck and gasped.

“What happened?” In her haste to get to him, she nearly tripped over the short table in the center of the room. She moved to embrace him, but stopped short under the gazes of Ogden and Emmeline. Instead she clutched his forearms, and he cupped her elbows. “Bacchus, you look like you haven’t slept.”

“I did on the way over.” His lilt was caught somewhere between feigned British and natural Bajan.

Ogden gathered up the articles and set them aside. “Please, come sit.”

“Thank you.” Bacchus offered a weak smile to Elsie and sat in the armchair; Elsie resumed her earlier seat. Before she could ask more questions, Bacchus said, “Master Hill was assaulted last night.”

“What?” Elsie blurted at the same time Ogden said, “Good God.”

“She’s alive,” he added. “In serious condition, but the doctors believe she will recover. She was transferred to a hospital in the city late last night after a temporal aspector slowed her bleeding.”

Elsie pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s . . . terrible. Was she shot?”

“Stabbed.”

Elsie blanched and reached for Bacchus’s hand. “You fought him, didn’t you? The attacker.”

Ogden turned to the door. “Emmeline, would you make us some tea?”

The maid hesitated, obviously wanting to hear the conversation, but she curtsied and left.

Bacchus’s nod was severe. “Briefly. But this was no Abel Nash. He was a physical aspector. A master one.”

Ogden cursed. “She’s found another pawn.”

“My thoughts precisely,” Bacchus agreed. “It was a man of average build, perhaps a little taller. He wore black entirely, even on his face. I had no means of recognizing him.”

Elsie said, “We could get a list of registered spellmakers in London and weed it down from there—”

“Who is to say he’s registered?” Ogden asked. “I wasn’t.”

“She never used you to kill spellmakers directly,” Elsie whispered.

Ogden frowned. “Not that I can remember, at least.”

Elsie reached for him as well, squeezing his hand before shifting her attention to Bacchus. “Where else are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing serious. Only bruises.”

Elsie sighed, pulling both her hands back to herself. “I want this to end. I want this to be over.”

“Soon enough it will be, one way or another.” Ogden picked up the stack of articles and handed them to Bacchus. “We should catch you up on our research. We’ve deciphered Merton’s code, though we’ve found only five articles under Elsie’s name.” He went on to explain everything they knew, which, unfortunately, did not take long.

“I see.” Bacchus flipped through the papers. “This is good. The information, I mean.”

Elsie’s eyes dropped to the line on his neck. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Lowering the papers, Bacchus gave her a soft smile. “I am. In truth, it is fortunate I was there. I don’t think Merton, or whoever this attacker was, expected a second aspector to be in residence. He must have come upon her suddenly to avoid retaliation. She’d been stabbed three times . . .”

Elsie considered that. Bacchus had likely saved Master Hill’s life. That made one more opus that Merton didn’t have, and surely the attacker wouldn’t risk attacking a patient in a public hospital to finish the job. Not where there were so many witnesses . . .

Emmeline returned, and the conversation went silent under her watch. She set a silver tray on the table to Bacchus’s left and poured three cups, filling Ogden’s only half full with tea, then adding cream to bring the liquid up to the top. “Master Kelsey, how do you like your tea?”

A knock sounded downstairs.

“Oh.” Emmeline set down the cream. “I’ll answer that.”

“Thank you,” Ogden said.

Emmeline scurried from the room, wiping her hands on her apron as she went.

A moment passed before Bacchus said, “The vicar is available July 16.”

Elsie had forgotten the date they had discussed at the engagement dinner. “Oh. But . . . is Kent the right place?” She initially hadn’t wanted the ceremony in Brookley. The whole town might expect to be invited, and if she didn’t invite them, they might invite themselves. The last thing she wanted was the Wright sisters tittering over Bacchus.

But with the recent break from the Scotts . . .

His eyes turned downcast for a moment. “I also inquired of Mr. Harrison.”

Elsie nodded. Mr. Harrison was the vicar for Brookley. Nice enough man. And really, moving the ceremony to Brookley was the sensible thing to do, was it not? It would make things easier on Bacchus.

She rubbed her arms. “You’ve not heard from them.”

Ogden, clearing his throat, stood from his chair and moved to the window, peering down at the street below. It wasn’t the subtlest attempt to give them privacy, but Elsie appreciated it all the same.

“From the duchess, yes. I received her letter as I was leaving this morning.” Bacchus reached into his jacket and pulled out the folded missive. He handed it to her.

She glanced at his face, ensuring he did in fact want her to read it, before unfurling the message. It was rather long, the penmanship even finer than Bacchus’s. It was an apology interlaced with kind words regarding Bacchus . . . oh, and Elsie.

She really is a marvelous find. I only wish we could have resolved this in a better way. Please believe me when I say I had no idea, Bacchus. Isaiah didn’t want me or the children to know. He didn’t want us to worry. I’m not condoning his choice. Of course I want my husband to live a long life. Of course I want his health to be pristine. But I fear the cost has been too high. You are already greatly missed. All of our consciences are heavy over this, Isaiah’s especially.

Elsie folded the letter in her lap. “How are you?” she murmured.

Bacchus stretched his arm over the back of the couch, running a finger along one of the curls at the nape of Elsie’s neck as he did so. Shivers rained down her spine. “I believe her, of course.” He sighed. “It’s too much to sort out right now. I’ve not yet replied to her. I don’t know if I will. So perhaps Kent . . .”

When he trailed off, Elsie supplied, “I really don’t mind having it in the church here. It’s smaller. Fewer flowers, smaller bill.”

His lip quirked. “I don’t mind purchasing you flowers.”

“And what am I to do with them after?” She sat up straighter. “Who’s even going to see them? Besides, all eyes should be on the bride anyway.”

He tugged that curl again. “They will be.”

Her cheeks warmed. Goodness, July 16 was very close—only sixteen days away. To be married . . .

Elsie’s thoughts flew back to the conversation they’d had in the carriage, which naturally made her think of that kiss, and the warmth flooded into her ears. Bacchus must have noticed, because he chuckled softly beside her, and it took all of Elsie’s willpower not to swat him.

Emmeline returned, poking her head in. “Someone for you, Elsie. I don’t know who he is. He wouldn’t tell me his name.”

Elsie’s breath caught. “He’s not in uniform, is he?”

But Emmeline shook her head. “Normal-looking bloke if you ask me.”

Elsie exchanged a glance with Ogden. It couldn’t be the American, could it? Surely they wouldn’t be so lucky. Or unlucky, depending on his approach.

Standing, Elsie smoothed her dress and hurried to the door. “I’m getting a little tired of surprise visitors,” she said flippantly, though her stomach was in knots. Perhaps Miss Prescott had sent an aspector to her home? Elsie couldn’t recall any appointments, but she’d been so flustered as of late, she might have forgotten.

Ogden and Bacchus followed Elsie as she wound her way down the stairs, through the kitchen and hall, into the studio. Emmeline hadn’t exaggerated—the man waiting just beside the counter was a normal-looking bloke, indeed. He appeared to be a couple of years Elsie’s senior, and he wrung a cap in his hands. He was as well dressed as a working man could be, in all shades of brown, though his jacket was olive. He had a mop of wavy hair atop his head. He looked up when Elsie entered, and there was something oddly familiar about his blue eyes, but Elsie couldn’t place what. She was sure she’d never met the fellow before.

“Elsie . . . that is, you’re Elsie Camden,” the man said immediately.

Elsie hesitated, but nodded. “I am, but I’m not the artist here.” Ogden and Bacchus came in, and she pointed to the former. “He is.”

“Oh, uh . . .” He laughed awkwardly. “Not here about art. It’s just. Well.” He put his cap on, rubbed his hands together, then took his cap off again. “Well, this might sound a little strange.”

I assure you it’s already strange, Elsie thought with apprehension, glancing sidelong to Bacchus.

“But, uh, I saw your wedding announcement in the paper.” His eyes moved between Bacchus and Ogden before returning to her. “And, well, if I could ask you a personal question . . .”

Elsie frowned. “I’m not sure I should agree.”

“Please, Miss Camden.”

Emmeline met her eyes, and she looked so hopeful that Elsie consented with a nod.

He wrung that hat like it was a chicken’s neck. “It’s just that . . . Do you know your parents, Miss Camden?”

Her stomach tightened. “That is a personal question. And an odd one at that.”

“I know. It’s just . . .” He finally had mercy on the cap and set it on the counter. He took one step forward, no more. “It’s just that, you see, my parents . . . they were real poor, you know? Had a hard time keeping us. Left me with a family in Reading.” A soft chuckle passed his lips, but Elsie’s stomach tightened further. “And it’s just . . . I had a sister named Elsie. Haven’t seen her since I was eight. And you . . . you’re the right age. Haven’t been able to find an Elsie Camden until I saw the announcement last week, you see.”

Elsie’s hand moved up to her mouth. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

“Lad,” Ogden started gently, “what did you say your name was?”

“Reggie,” he answered, now wringing the hem of his coat. “That is, Reginald. Reginald Camden.”

And just like that, Elsie knew why his eyes looked familiar. Because she’d seen them every day in her mirror.

They were her eyes.

Tears blurred her vision. In a weak whisper, she said, “D-Do you know where they left her?”

Reggie shook his head. “I don’t. Somewhere near Reading. A small town. We lost her first, although I’m not sure why. I didn’t know they planned it for all of us. Ma and Pa . . . they never explained it to me. I didn’t understand until I was older.”

A sore lump pressed into Elsie’s throat. How could he know that? How could he know that, unless . . .

“You’re my brother,” she breathed, and a sob escaped her lips.

The man smiled, his own eyes watering. “Yeah, Elsie. I’m pretty sure I am.”