Spellmaker

CHAPTER 14

The problem was, Elsie couldn’t explain how she knew a thing about spellbreaking without revealing how she’d learned, which involved the Cowls. And she couldn’t explain the Cowls without mentioning the crimes they—and she—had committed.

Knowing Ogden could wipe Emmeline’s and Miss Prescott’s memories at the drop of a hat gave her courage. Emmeline was so loyal and kind Elsie didn’t actually worry that she’d act against them in any way. But Miss Prescott was a wild card. Elsie still understood her only as well as one might understand a painting viewed from across a room.

And so, Elsie chose her words very carefully. She began with the workhouse, where she discovered her abilities for the first time. She discussed the Cowls, but left off the victims’ names—it seemed more tasteful to do so, less real. By all means, if Miss Prescott really wanted to know, all she need do was read the papers. She ended with what had happened upstairs. She used Lily Merton’s name, feeling no need to protect a murderer, but didn’t specify Bacchus’s role in anything.

“And I believe strongly that he is the same person who attacked Master Hill.” Each syllable was pronounced. Elsie clasped her clammy hands together atop the table. Ogden twisted his head back and forth like a bird, ensuring no sudden customer would interrupt or overhear them.

Emmeline, at the table’s head, was wide-eyed and pale as a porcelain doll. Miss Prescott had been entirely animated during the story, as though it were a wholly fictional tale reenacted with hand puppets. Now, with the explanation over, a stiff silence fell over the room. It was so hushed Elsie would have heard an ant crawl across the floor. That is, it was quiet until Miss Prescott started tapping her fingers against the tabletop, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker. She worked her mouth, tightening it, relaxing it, pursing it. Her eyes crinkled, then her forehead. She seemed to be having a rather intense conversation with herself.

Emmeline worried her lip and stared at the ceiling, perhaps trying to work out a response.

And so Miss Prescott took the honor for herself. “That is utterly marvelous.” She shook her head. “It’s genius, really . . . not that I support murder or crime in any fashion. But when you think about it objectively . . .” She cleared her throat. “But you must tell the authorities! Then Master Merton will be out of the way—”

“Miss Prescott,” Elsie interrupted.

“You really should call me Irene, after all that.”

Elsie paused, considering. This was going strangely . . . well. “You’re not under a spell, too, are you?”

The fellow spellbreaker laughed. “No. I’ll let you check if you’d like.”

Elsie considered it for a moment. “No, thank you. But the point is that we cannot tell the authorities without condemning both Ogden and myself. We surely wouldn’t live through it.”

Irene blanched. “I suppose that’s right. But you might be granted clemency.”

Ogden said, “Might is not a guarantee.”

Frowning, Irene’s fingers tapped with yet more fervor. “Yes. The laws of aspecting are very strict. I don’t think it’s a risk I would take.”

“And . . . you two are just fine with this?” Elsie blurted, gaze shifting from Irene to Emmeline.

Emmeline peeped, “I-I am. It makes sense of some things, really. I think . . . I won’t tell, I promise.”

Elsie offered Emmeline a faint smile. She wholeheartedly believed the younger woman. Besides, if Ogden were turned in, Emmeline would be out a job.

“I suppose you could just take it right out of me, hm?” Irene glanced at Ogden. “That’s why you risked telling me at all.”

Ogden paused, then nodded.

Irene quieted a moment, save for her drumming fingers. “Miss Camden—Elsie, if I may—is one thing, but an unregistered rational aspector with master spells . . . that is a little harder to stomach. There are reasons rational magic is so strictly regulated.”

Ogden said nothing.

“He wouldn’t harm anyone,” Elsie pressed. “That is, he wouldn’t do it unless someone forced him to, and Merton no longer has any control over him.”

Irene considered this a long moment, taking her time as she always did. The kitchen was beginning to grow uncomfortable by the time she asked, “Might I see the articles?”

Ogden slipped from the room to retrieve his sketchbook. Meanwhile, Elsie explained, “We just have copies of them, not the actual articles themselves.”

“Good enough.”

Ogden returned, and Elsie felt a slight pulse in the air as a spell moved out from him. Irene took the sketchbook, then stiffened.

“You needed merely to ask,” she murmured.

Ogden didn’t look at all chastised. He studied her a moment before saying, “She’s genuine. I think she’s trustworthy.” He sounded surprised. The pulse happened a second time, directed toward Emmeline, who didn’t react to it whatsoever. After several seconds, Ogden confirmed, “Emmeline is as well.”

“I told you so,” Emmeline said, then jumped in her chair. “Did you just magic me?”

Elsie wrung her hands together, trying to think of a way Irene could tamper with Ogden’s spell. But even if the woman possessed an opus page like Elsie did, she wouldn’t be able to use it without pulling it out and saying the word excitant. Yet Elsie struggled to believe that someone could simply be all right with what they’d confessed, or that the woman she’d seen as an obstacle had become an ally so easily. Even Bacchus had needed to be persuaded to keep her secret when he’d first learned she was an illegal spellbreaker.

Could it be that God, the universe, or fate was finally showing them a kindness?

It felt too good to be true, but she would simply have to trust Ogden. And, somehow, trust Irene as well.

Irene looked over the articles. “Interesting. And it’s spelled exactly this way in the original?” She turned the page.

“Letter for letter.” Elsie searched her face for clues, but she did seem genuine.

Irene flipped to the last article, the one from the United States, and turned back to the beginning, reading them through a second time. She turned one page too many at the end, landing on the half-finished sketch of Lily Merton. Continuing on, she came face-to-face with the rendering of the American.

“The one who stopped me in Juniper Down,” Elsie said.

Irene bit her lip and tilted the sketchbook closer to her face. She scrutinized him, tilting her head one way, then another. “I know him.”

Elsie’s heart leapt into her mouth. Ogden must have had a similar reaction, for he suddenly bumped the table. He said, “You do?” at the same time Elsie exclaimed, “Truly?”

Irene nodded, eyes still on the page. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she contemplated. “Let’s see . . . Boston . . . Raven. Something Raven . . .”

Ogden stiffened, his pale eyes shooting to Elsie’s. “The articles. One of them mentioned ravens.”

Numb, Elsie recited the title of the article from the Boston Herald: The Intrigue of Bespelling Ravens in the Spiritual Alignment. “And the Manchester Guardian mentioned black birds.”

Ogden looked weak in the knees, and he pulled out a chair and sat down. “She called him by name.”

Swallowing, Elsie worked to recall what else had been in that article. She’d read it so many times it wasn’t difficult. “‘It is critical to recognize the need for organizing ravens, either in the United States or Britain itself.’ That means she wants to meet him and she doesn’t care where.”

“Quinn!” Irene shouted, dropping Elsie’s heart back into her chest. “Quinn Raven. I’m sure that was it.

“I knew of him during my time in America—I lived there for a short while,” she explained. “He vanished suddenly about eleven years ago. I remember because he left nearly everything behind, outside of emptying his bank account. It was quite extraordinary. No one knew where he went. They still don’t, I believe.

“I was working under Maurice Barre at the time—he was the head of accounting at the Boston Spiritual Atheneum. He was in charge of sorting through Raven’s estate. In fact . . . yes, I believe that’s where I first met Master Merton.”

“She was in the States?” Emmeline leaned over the table with utmost interest.

“Mr. Barre brought me along in case anything was, well, rigged or baited,” Irene explained. “Aspectors, especially master ones, tend to use grave security measures to protect themselves and their property. The place was in utter disarray.” She set the sketchbook down. “His notes were scattered, many of them burnt or half so. We believe he was in a deep study of some theory or another before he vanished. He was a very secretive fellow. Eccentric and reclusive.”

Ogden gripped the edge of the table. “Is there anything else you remember?”

Irene pondered a moment while Elsie’s pulse pounded through her entire body. She snapped her fingers. “Drops. There was a large amount of drops in the steward’s records that were never found. It would have been surprising if he’d left something so valuable behind. Mr. Barre was quite put out about it.”

Elsie considered this. Spellmakers tended to purchase drops—the quartz-based “currency” needed to absorb spells—as they needed them, because they were painfully expensive and every spell required a different amount. The more powerful the spell, the more drops necessary to absorb it.

“Perhaps he used them,” Ogden murmured. When the others looked at him, he continued, “We’ve deduced he has a spell Merton wants. Think on it. A spiritual aspector, working on some great theory, vanished, only to be hunted down by another spiritual aspector. His theory likely pertained to a master spell. A spell that would require a large amount of drops. Many do.”

Elsie wondered how Ogden obtained the drops for his spells. Likely not by legal means, but she thought it best not to ask in front of Irene. Her willingness to overlook their illegal activities might go only so far.

“Perhaps,” Irene considered. “But the spells of aspection have been solidified for centuries. One does not merely make up a new one.”

“It may not be made-up,” Ogden countered. “It might merely have been lost.” Opuses saved aspection from the throes of time, but there was no evidence that all the spells mankind knew now equaled all the spells mankind had known a millennia ago.

“Master Merton knows.” Elsie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She knows what he found, spell or theory or whatever it may be. And she wants it.”

Silence again filled the dining room until Ogden asked, “Anything else?”

Irene shook her head. “I don’t recall. I’m sorry. I didn’t know him personally. I might not have remembered him at all, but the mystery revolving around his disappearance was . . . noteworthy.”

Elsie clasped her hands together. This was so much more information than they’d had before. They had a name! He was no longer “the American,” but Master Quinn Raven. They also had a motivation: Merton wanted something he had, likely a spiritual spell. And they had a new partner, who in the matter of an hour had already proven herself incredibly useful.

Closing her eyes, Elsie transported back to Juniper Down, remembering the man’s stance, his scowl, the gun in his hands. I know what you want, but I’ll kill you before I utter the words, he’d said.

Utter the words. It had to be a spell. But what spell had he discovered that Merton wanted so badly? So badly that she’d devolved into a thief and a murderer?

Irene broke Elsie’s train of thought. “Will you tell me how you did it? How you stopped the gust spell before it had a chance to start?”

Elsie opened her eyes. “I . . . I don’t know how I did it. I mean, I can try? We can simulate it later, with Bacchus.” Her focus shifted to Ogden. “We need to reach out to Raven. Let him know he has allies to stand with him against Merton.”

“How?” Emmeline asked.

“The same way Merton did.” Ogden folded his arms. “Through the newspapers.”

Elsie nodded. “Irene said Master Raven vanished eleven years ago. We can’t wait another eleven years.”

Ogden interjected, “He knows that’s how she’s trying to reach him. He also knows your name. If we publish under your name, he’ll likely take notice. He might even still be in Europe.”

Elsie considered this, then perked up. “Reggie said he repairs letterpresses. He must have connections to newspapers all over London.”

Emmeline grinned. “What a wonderful idea! He could help us!”

“Who is this person?” Irene asked.

“My brother.” Those words still felt so singular passing her lips. “We’ll invite him here and tell him—it will be easier if we don’t have to tiptoe around him. Ogden, you can ensure he’s trustworthy. I’ll start writing up articles to publish. We might need to be more direct than Merton was if we want to do this quickly.” She’d write to Bacchus straightaway and let him know. He needed to be kept in the loop, and Elsie didn’t mind the excuse to contact him.

Closing the sketchbook, Irene said, “Will Master Merton notice?”

Elsie shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe not, if she’s in hiding. But we’ll have to risk it.”

“I’ll send a telegram.” Emmeline hopped up from her chair. Reggie had left his contact information before leaving yesterday.

“Good. And I’ll write to Bacchus. Perhaps he can fund us if the newspapers insist we pay.” She winced at the idea of asking him for more money. She still felt guilty about the dress.

“I can fund it,” Irene said. “And I’ll help you write the articles, too.”

Elsie nearly crumbled with relief. Irene smiled, and for the first time, Elsie saw the bright possibility of friendship with her tutor. “That would be wonderful.”

Irene nodded resolutely. “And I’ll keep checking off on your lessons. None will be the wiser.”

Elsie could have hugged the woman. “I am in your debt.”

“As am I,” Ogden added. “Let’s get started.”

Reggie’s eyes widened as Elsie greeted him in the studio with a stack of twelve handwritten articles, all brief and stylized like the ones she and Ogden had found in the British papers. “You weren’t having a laugh about this, were you?” Reggie said. Each article had a clue buried in the headline, and each one mentioned ravens. Reggie glimpsed at the first.

“Don’t worry about what they say,” Elsie insisted. Like Merton’s articles, they were vague unto the point of meaninglessness, the messages hidden within. “Just get them published. Front page if possible.”

Beside her, Irene handed Reggie an envelope. “In case you need to purchase the space.”

“As soon as possible,” Ogden pressed.

Reggie didn’t know everything, not in the way Irene and Emmeline now did—they’d told him an aspector crook was at large and Quinn Raven might be able to help find her.

“Don’t give them any reasoning if you don’t have to,” Elsie added.

“And be careful,” Emmeline interjected.

Reggie managed a lopsided smile at the last request. “Makes me feel sort of like a vigilante. But a good one.” He counted the individual papers. “I’ll see what I can do. Couple might need to be in the same paper, but I can do different dates.”

“Perfect.” Elsie kissed him on the cheek. “It will be such a help to us. To me.”

Reggie shrugged. “Not a problem. Anything for my sister.”

Elsie beamed as brightly as if a gas lamp burned behind her smile. She saw Reggie back out to his mount—he’d ridden on horseback instead of taking a cab—and hurried back in to find Irene pinning her hat into her hair. She always had on a different hat. Perhaps when Elsie became fully certified, she’d have a plethora of hats of her own.

“With luck, they’ll be in Monday’s paper.” Irene hung her umbrella over her arm, though yesterday’s storm was long gone.

“With luck,” Elsie repeated. They’d had plenty of it, hadn’t they? She still struggled to believe they’d found such a friend in Irene, but Ogden had declared her trustworthy. And Elsie so desperately wanted to believe it. “I’ll repay you.”

Irene waved her hand. “I might not be a spellmaker, but I’ve a good salary in my own right and no family to spend it on.” There was a sad note at the end of the confession, but the spellbreaker merely smiled. “I’ll check in with you on Tuesday.”

“Perfect.” Elsie saw her to the door, then went up to her room to rest. She heard the scratching of a pencil as she opened the door, and spied on her table the enchanted green pencil dancing as though held by a ghost. Hurrying over, she read the script pouring out onto the blank page she’d left beneath it, noting that the pencil was in need of sharpening. She and Bacchus had been corresponding for much of the day about the attack on Ogden and its aftermath, plus Master Hill’s health. The tail end of their last conversation took up the top quarter of the paper.

His message from earlier caught her eye first: It would not be a problem for me to stay there.

Her reply: Why, so he can have two opuses if he returns? Ogden is looking into it. I don’t think he’ll try again. Especially not with Irene here so frequently.

Bacchus’s script had turned dark, as though he’d pushed on the pencil too hard. Assumptions like that are how villains get the upper hand.

She skipped the material she’d already read and focused on the new words still writing themselves down: Elsie, Bacchus’s fine script spelled, I’ve been contacted by the duke. He wants to talk, but—the pencil paused for a moment—I’d prefer to have you with me. I do not believe the duke or anyone in his household intends me harm. Nor do I think there will be any nonsense with spells. But I’ve not yet sorted through my feelings regarding the revelation about the siphoning spell, and I believe your presence will help me remain steady.

Elsie’s heart softened like butter. Help him remain steady. Smiling, she reached for the pencil, but it moved again, and she stayed her hand.

He wishes to see me tonight. I do not expect you to rearrange your plans for this. I’m prepared to reschedule. I believe he will do as I wish; if the duchess’s letters are to be believed, Isaiah feels guilty for the part he has played in this. I am happy to provide transport—

Elsie grabbed the pencil and wrenched it out of Bacchus’s invisible hand. She felt the moment he let it go, and beneath his half-finished sentence, she wrote, Of course I’ll come, you lummox. You don’t need to beg me. What more important thing could I possibly have to do?

She set the pencil down and waited. A few seconds passed before it rose and tilted, nub pressing to the paper.

Lummox?

She chuckled. It’s a term of endearment.

The pencil jerked in her hand—Bacchus had started writing before she could set it down. Then you find me endearing.

He’d underlined the word. Something about the smooth stroke brought heat to her face. Taking the pencil, she touched its tip to the paper, ready to scrawl out a snarky response, but something held her back. Pulse quickening, she found herself glancing up at what he’d written earlier: Your presence will help me remain steady.

She reflected on their conversation in the carriage, before Bacchus had kissed her. With her free hand, she tentatively touched her lips.

He cares for you, she carefully admitted, keeping the thought far from the paper. It was still hard to believe, hard to swallow, hard to feel, but she wanted to feel it. She’d spent her whole life wanting to be wanted. To be . . . loved.

Biting on the inside of her lower lip, building her courage, she wrote, I do. And set the pencil down.

Several seconds passed before the enchantment took hold of it again. Perhaps I could see you sooner?

Warmth bloomed in her breast. She wrote, I would love a stroll in Hyde Park.

His reply, I can be there within an hour.

It would take her an hour to get there herself. I’ll find a cab in Brookley. Her hand shook a little on the letters, and she halfheartedly chided herself for letting her excitement get the better of her. She needed to talk to him about the newspapers—she’d been very roundabout when writing to him before, unsure if someone else might read it—but she didn’t want to ruin the mood by insinuating she merely wanted to talk shop.

Bacchus took the pencil from her grip and simply scrawled, Thank you, Elsie.

In her mind, Elsie replied, I love you, Bacchus, and it startled her hand from taking the pencil up again. Her pulse galloped; she pressed suddenly cool fingers to its rhythm. She stared at the green pencil, waiting for it to move—afraid that it would, terrified that it wouldn’t. But the conversation would continue only if she wrote something, and she didn’t dare pick up the pencil with that thought echoing so loudly within her skull.

She took a deep breath, then another, to calm herself before taking the paper and folding it carefully, stowing it away in her drawer for later reading. She replaced it with fresh parchment and gingerly lay the green pencil atop it. Antsy for distraction, she moved to the small mirror on her wall and tidied her hair, pinned on her hat, and readied her reticule before finding Ogden in the sitting room.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she started carefully—he had his sketchbook in hand and was staring at the sketch of a more youthful Lily Merton. “We don’t have a lot of orders ready . . . Bacchus was hoping I could go to London to take care of some . . . affairs. Regarding the Duke of Kent.” She’d mentioned the situation to Ogden last night after the attack.

He glanced up. “Of course. I should probably work on something, shouldn’t I? Income is a fairly important matter.”

Elsie smiled. “I can’t imagine why you aren’t jumping at the chance to finish the squire’s likeness.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind the free time.”

“Your purse might mind its lightness soon enough.” He set down the sketchbook. “You’ll return late?”

“I think so.”

He nodded. “Take care.”

Offering a wave, Elsie closed the door to a crack and forced herself not to skip down the stairs, opting for the back door and taking the shortcut into town. She went to the hotel, where she found a cab just dropping off its passengers. She hailed it, announced her destination, and hopped inside. The carriage pulled away as soon as the horses were watered.

Sighing, Elsie leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling the familiar bumps of Brookley pass beneath the carriage wheels. As they pulled out of town and merged with the main road, she leaned forward and opened her reticule, counting the notes in it. She’d spent a large percentage of her life savings on her trip to Juniper Down and Reading. The rest, save some change, had been returned to her account at the bank. She had just enough for this trip.

Ogden’s earlier comment about income surfaced in her thoughts. Was it too early for her to take on spellbreaking assignments herself? Perhaps if Irene came with her . . . Of course, she’d be a married woman soon. Her finances would be taken care of, and Ogden would have one less mouth to feed until he hired her replacement. Still, Elsie itched to make her own way in the world. She adored and trusted Bacchus, but given that she had a lucrative gift, she didn’t need to be dependent on him. Or she wouldn’t need to once the bother with this “training” was finished. Then she could help him, Ogden, Reggie, Emmeline, and anyone else occupying space in her heart.

Her thoughts quickly turned to Bacchus. Soon she would be Mrs. Kelsey. It had a nice ring to it, so long as her first name was omitted. She should ask Reggie if she had a middle name! Perhaps it was her mother’s given name. Did he remember that? He hadn’t been able to find them, so perhaps not. Or maybe they had changed their names, or wandered so far that no one could find them. Who knew if they were still in Britain at all.

She frowned at the familiar ache that always accompanied thoughts of her parents, but she pushed it away. Elsie Amanda Camden. Amanda Kelsey, she tried. That sounded well. So did Elsie Elizabeth. Was that too many E’s for a name? Elsie Mary. Hmmm . . . no.

Perhaps Bacchus had a name he was fond of. Though he was just as likely to tell her Elsie Kelsey wasn’t silly at all and she should keep it. Elsie rolled her eyes. He would.

Her gaze fell to the sapphire ring on her finger, and she tilted her hand, letting it catch a wink of sunlight coming through the window. It sparked patterns across the carriage wall, like a cluster of fairies.

Did Bacchus love her? She couldn’t imagine it. She tried to picture the words coming from his lips, honest and earnest in his Bajan accent, but her mind refused to stitch the daydream together. She couldn’t be the first to admit it. What if they went years without saying it, even after they married, and she finally mustered up the courage to tell him how she felt, only for him to look at her with pity and say something ridiculous, like You’re a good woman or I’m glad, and Elsie was left feeling like a fool for the rest of her years, exposed like a half-healed wound, a stranger in her own house?

She thought of Alfred. He’d told her he loved her. Multiple times. But he’d never once meant it.

Elsie covered the ring with her other hand, snuffing its sparkles.

She dared to hope, but hoping hurt. It was only wise to keep it in check. To let no more than a thin trickle seep in until she found better footing.

But whatever Bacchus felt for her, whether it was affection and friendship or something more, she loved him. She knew it, and it hurt like she’d drunk too-hot tea that had scalded her throat. Like her heart was somehow too big and too small for her body. Like it pulsed his name, and anyone who listened would be able to hear it.

Sighing, Elsie glanced out the window just as a man on horseback rushed toward it, perpendicular to the road. A dark-brown cloak billowed behind him, and a dark mask covered his face.

Then he raised a pistol and fired.

Elsie screamed. The horses whinnied and jerked, and the carriage bucked, as though rolling over something large. It took a moment for Elsie to realize the rider had shot her driver. He must have fallen from his seat and . . . and . . . God help them, if the bullet hadn’t killed him, the trampling would have.

It felt like Elsie’s spirit had abandoned her body, leaving her skin and bones numb, like they were someone else’s. She barely registered the highwayman whisking by her window to slow the horses, but she had enough sense to push herself to the other side of the carriage, feeling for a door handle. Of course there was only one door, and the highwayman, still mounted, was already wrenching it open.

Elsie gathered herself enough to throw her reticule at him. Part of her feared he was no simple thief, but she had to try. “Take it, please! Just leave me be!”

The highwayman’s eyes—the only part of his face she could see—narrowed. And in that moment she knew for sure. She’d last seen those eyes in Ogden’s bedroom. The glimmer of a spell caught her attention as the air froze around her, forbidding her to move.

Nausea turned sharp in her stomach. Her lungs weakened, and she strained to breathe.

The man’s gloved hand picked up the reticule, weighed it, and tossed it onto the bench. “She wants you,” he said simply, his voice low and gruff. He closed his eyes for a moment, the lids creasing, as though he was in pain. It reminded her of the way Ogden had acted on the docks, fighting his own spell. Then the man’s glare hardened, and briefly Elsie was sure she heard the faint pitch of a spiritual spell, like the magic was flaring, forcing him back under its thumb.

The man leveled his gun at her. “Can’t spellbreak a bullet, Elsie Camden. Come quietly.”

Elsie needn’t agree; the stiffened air around her shifted, carrying her to the door. “Please, I can help you. I can break the spell she has on you—”

His other hand whipped out and pressed a foul-smelling rag to her face, and the world around her went dark.