Spellmaker

CHAPTER 16

It was late evening by the time Bacchus jerked back on the reins of Master Hill’s horse, slowing the cabriolet on the main road to London. He and Mr. Ogden both were speckled with rain and mud thanks to their speed. The enchanted lights fastened to either side of the carriage swung wildly as the horse staggered to a stop, highlighting the obstruction in the road and the handful of people around it, two of whom wore blue police uniforms.

Two carriages, one in the middle of the road, one pulled off to the side. The latter appeared to be occupied; two men, one in a driver’s livery, lingered nearby, talking quietly. One of the policemen waved his hand and approached Bacchus, who slid from the cabriolet into the rain.

“Turn around or go around,” the policeman said. “This is a crime sce—”

“Was there a woman in that carriage?” Bacchus interrupted.

The policeman paused. “Are you missing someone?”

“Elsie Camden,” Mr. Ogden interjected, pulling his coat closer. “She hired a carriage to go into London hours ago and hasn’t been seen.”

The policeman pursed his lips. Wiped rain from his upper lip. “No woman here, only a dead driver.”

A chill colder than the rain sank into Bacchus’s bones. “Dead driver?”

He nodded. “Shot through the neck and trampled.” He tilted his head back. Thanks to the storm, the night was especially dark, but Bacchus spied a blanket-covered mound near the first carriage.

He stepped forward only to have the policeman splay a hand on his chest and urge him back. “This is a crime scene.”

“Is there any evidence of a passenger?” Bacchus pressed, impatience bubbling up. “A driver’s log, a shoe—”

Mr. Ogden, without looking at Bacchus or the policeman, said, “A reticule.”

The officer stiffened. Emmeline had mentioned a reticule, but judging by the policeman’s reaction, Bacchus had to wonder if Mr. Ogden had searched his mind for clues. “There is a reticule,” the officer said, hesitant. “We found one in the grass.”

“With gray blossoms printed on it,” Mr. Ogden guessed.

The officer set his jaw, then nodded.

Bacchus cursed loudly enough that the other witnesses broke from their conversation to gawk at him. Mr. Ogden said quietly, “I take it they’re the ones who found the body and summoned the police?”

The policeman nodded. “Indeed.”

Bacchus stepped forward, his sheer size causing the officer to back up. “That reticule belongs to Elsie Camden, my fiancée. Please. Let us take a look.”

The man sighed and glanced to the other policeman on duty. “Wait here,” he said, before returning to his partner.

Bacchus put a hand on Mr. Ogden’s shoulder. “I don’t care if you listen in, but wait for them to answer before you start twisting their minds. Let’s do this legally.”

Mr. Ogden didn’t answer, merely stood there, a glowering stone of a man.

Several minutes passed before the first officer waved them forward. Bacchus rushed to the abandoned carriage, taking one of the enchanted lights with him. It was empty. He searched for signs of struggle and found none. Any prints leading away had been washed out by the rain.

He felt sick enough to empty his stomach.

Mr. Ogden had retrieved the reticule from the officers and searched through it. “Nothing of use.” He tucked it into his jacket.

Grabbing fistfuls of hair, Bacchus turned a slow circle, peering into the darkness for any sign of her, any clue, anything. “Do you have any evidence of where the murderer might have gone?”

The second officer said, “Not yet. Perhaps there will be more in the daylight, but with this rain . . .” He shrugged. “We’ll do what we can, but the weather will stall us.”

Bacchus tried not to let their response throw him into a rage. It wouldn’t benefit Elsie for him to lose his head now.

Quietly, Mr. Ogden murmured, “They don’t know anything. None of them do.” His voice was a hammer against a rusted nail.

Bacchus growled and turned to the officers. “I’m a master physical aspector. Is there anything I can do?”

The policemen glanced at each other. The first said, “Not unless you can stop the rain and make the sun come up, but even that will be of limited help.”

Cursing again, Bacchus stepped off the road into the wild grass, searching with his enchanted light. He walked east, then south, coming around to the west, then north. Moved about in larger and larger circles, searching futilely for any sign of her.

Soaked through and shivering, he shouted her name into the night.

No one answered.

Back at the stonemasonry shop, Bacchus’s body was tense from crown to heel, like wet leather pulled taut over a frame, left to cure in the blistering sun. It was well past the hour of retiring, but he sat at the dining room table with Mr. Ogden and Miss Pratt, who had stoked the fire and the oven to warm them. Bacchus’s jacket lay drying near the latter, but he hadn’t changed out of his damp clothes—Mr. Ogden owned nothing that would fit him. He flexed and relaxed his fists atop the table, stopping only after he saw Miss Pratt staring at them, wide-eyed.

“No one has a motive but Merton.” Bacchus tried not to let his voice growl. “You’re sure you saw nothing notable about the man who attacked the house?”

Mr. Ogden shook his head, looking over his sketch work for the twentieth time. He’d drawn the attacker on multiple pages, from different angles, but the sketches were all alike, all next to useless. Each one depicted a man of slightly above-average build, clad in gray. Blue eyes. Physical aspector. That was all they knew.

All they knew.

Bacchus lifted a fist and slammed it on the table, making Miss Pratt jump. If they couldn’t find Merton, and they couldn’t find her goon, then they would never find Elsie.

Where was she right now? Tied up in some back room, or on her way across the Channel?

Bacchus’s stomach shifted. He really was going to be sick.

Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, he said, “Tell me everything about that night. Everything.”

“He was guarded.” Mr. Ogden leaned against the stove. “Mentally. I think Merton used one of her opus spells on him before sending him our way.”

“Which means they’ve been in recent contact,” Bacchus said.

Mr. Ogden nodded. “Or she simply directed him to where she left it. She’s well hidden. I don’t know if she’d risk . . . not that it matters. Point being that I couldn’t fight him myself. My attempts bounced off him. I got close to breaking through once, but I lost my concentration.”

Miss Pratt added, “It was so quiet at first. Then all of a sudden a loud ruckus came from upstairs. Elsie was shouting.”

“Sound dampening,” Mr. Ogden clarified. “Elsie broke it.”

“I thought Mr. Ogden had fallen,” the maid went on, “but . . . the thumping happened over and over again.”

“He came in through the window.” Mr. Ogden closed his eyes. “Slammed me back against the wall, then shot the bed at me, pinning me there. That’s when Elsie came in and took down the dampener. Then”—he chuckled—“she jumped on him.”

Bacchus shook his head. She would.

“I got free. The man drew a knife—”

“Wait.” Bacchus straightened. “You said he threw you into a wall? With what? Wind?”

Mr. Ogden shook his head. “He simply flung his hand out, like he pushed me without touching me. Same with the bed.”

Bacchus’s breath hitched. His mind moved through every spell he knew, but nothing else fit. “Ambulation.”

Mr. Ogden pushed off the stove. “Pardon?”

“An ambulation spell. The ability to move a physical object without touch. I had occasion to research it recently.” He stood, needing to move, needing to expel the energy building in his limbs. “It’s a very rare, very powerful master spell. Few people would have it.”

Mr. Ogden looked hopeful. “And you know who does?”

“I know where to look,” he said. “The London Physical Atheneum. No doubt someone on the assembly there has it, and they will know who else does. What time is it?”

“A-About half past two,” Miss Pratt said. “None of the atheneums will be open.”

Bacchus ground his teeth. “Then we’ll knock on the doors of each assembly member, one by one.”

“You know where they live?” Mr. Ogden seemed intrigued.

Bacchus rubbed his eyes. “I . . . have an idea on a few. Master Hill might have some of the locations in her study.”

Mr. Ogden sighed. “By the time we find them, the atheneum will be open. Eight o’clock, is it not?”

Bacchus nodded. “It’s worth a shot.”

The rational aspector rubbed his eyes. “Perhaps it would be best for us to get a few hours of rest before heading into London. We can be at the Physical Atheneum’s doors the moment they’re unlocked.”

Bacchus shook his head. “No. I’ll not sleep while she’s in danger.”

“Whoever took her is likely resting, too.” Mr. Ogden turned to Miss Pratt. “Would you get Elsie’s bed ready? Master Kelsey will be staying here tonight.”

Shaking his head, Bacchus snatched his damp coat from its place by the fire and pulled it on. “I’m going to London.”

“And you’ll be too weary to be of any use to anyone,” the stonemason countered. “Rest only a few hours.”

“I will not—”

“I can force you to, and I will.” He stifled a yawn. “There is nothing we can do now. We’ll leave the moment the clock strikes six.”

Bacchus glowered. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Mr. Ogden met his glare. “I am a practitioner in the rational arts, Master Kelsey, however unlicensed. When a man is not being rational, I must force him to be.”

Bacchus’s jaw was so tight he feared he’d chip several teeth. Buttoning his coat, he stepped around Mr. Ogden and headed for the back door.

He had almost reached it when his mind suddenly felt fuzzy, his thoughts dripping like wet paint. He couldn’t think straight . . . He was so tired . . .

“Blast you,” he muttered, leaning hard against the wall, sliding to the floor.

And then, against his will, he slept.

Elsie leaned against the cold wall of the cellar. The chill had seeped into all of her, down to her bones, despite the fact that it was summer and she had a decent blanket. Even prison had been warmer than this. She didn’t shiver, just felt frigid through every inch of skin and muscle. Even her teeth were cold.

Every now and then she got up and walked the perimeter of the space—at least she had the option to do that. In jail, she hadn’t. Then again, she’d at least had some idea of what might happen in jail. Here, she hadn’t a clue.

She’d woken to a new loaf of bread and some cheese. Their mere existence shocked her. No one had come in last night. She hadn’t slept . . . not really. She’d tried to, after a time. But food and water couldn’t just spell themselves into a room. She was sure of that. And surely no physical aspector could open a hole in the wall willy-nilly, slide the food through it, and seal it up again. Or at least it sounded like a terrible amount of effort.

She’d missed something. Something important.

Her tailbone was sore, but she didn’t move. She was tired but not sleepy, weak but not hungry. She listened to her breathing, thinking half-formed thoughts that slid away before they had any real meaning.

That was, until one pressed on her.

She felt something.

A sensation, hard to describe, but she’d felt it before. In the kitchen, with Irene. And with Bacchus and the duke. Spellbreakers identified physical spells by sight, but she’d sensed all those spells without ever glimpsing the runes.

Closing her eyes, Elsie tried to focus on the sensation. It felt like an itch on bone, too deep to scratch. It wasn’t terribly close—not in this room—and for some reason she got an earthy taste in the back of her mouth. A temporal spell? It made sense. There was probably a wine cellar, or a cellar used for actual food nearby. A temporal spell would keep it from wasting. It was . . . above her and behind, she thought.

Interesting. Had Irene ever sensed spells this way? Elsie would have to ask when . . . if . . . she saw the woman again.

She dwelled on the temporal spell a little longer before trying to push out her awareness. She imagined herself as one of the Tibetan monks she’d read about, meditating, seeking enlightenment. The room around her was silent, still, cool. Not even a rat to interrupt her.

There was a distant whisper of a spell, higher up, near the door. A physical spell. Was that . . . a sound-dampening spell? So no one could hear her scream? She shuddered and sensed another farther away, a feather brush across her mind. She couldn’t quite tell what it was. A color-changing one, perhaps. Something to keep mortar hard or corkboard soft? Actually . . . it felt like two of them, close together.

Physical and temporal. Not opus spells—judging by Merton’s projection, she’d contacted Elsie from some distance, so this couldn’t be her residence. It would have been foolish for her to bring an enemy to her hideaway anyway.

Perhaps this was the enslaved physical aspector’s home, but spells were expensive. If he had multiple classes of spells, he was probably rich. Granted, all master aspectors were well-off, so it wasn’t surprising that he should be.

Elsie suspected she would find more spells if she were to escape her prison. Opulent ones, excessive ones. Perhaps there was a great manor overhead, stretches of green speckled with gardens. That’s how it looked in her mind, at least.

Her head began to throb, and her wrists itched as though she’d been spellbreaking. Elsie opened her eyes, and the faraway sensations of spells slowly receded.

So she crossed the room, sat down, and tried again.

Bacchus woke to a spell in his brain at a quarter to six, his shoulder stiff from lying on the floor. But any hard words he had for Mr. Ogden were quashed when he said, “Emmeline has the horse ready.”

As promised, they were on the road by six, the dawn only a whisper of promise on the horizon.

When Bacchus entered the London Physical Atheneum this time, it was Mr. Ogden who got the looks. Bacchus was an increasingly familiar presence, whereas Mr. Ogden was a nobody—as far as anyone could tell.

They’d gone over the names of everyone in the assembly, as well as their descriptions, though Bacchus was fuzzy on a few of them. Only Master Hill was not a suspect. The plan they’d formed was simple, and completely dependent upon the rational aspector’s abilities.

Once they entered the library, Mr. Ogden nudged Bacchus with his elbow and tilted his head toward a heavy smattering of bookshelves. Bacchus followed him there, the light dimming as the expansive shelves blocked the glow from the high windows. Mr. Ogden paused near the back and walked to the middle of one shelf.

Then he closed his eyes.

Nothing extraordinary happened, but Bacchus knew spells were being cast. He had never considered rational aspecting—he had enough issues getting people to trust him without the threat that he could rip all their secrets from their brains—but its usefulness was becoming more and more apparent.

He wondered what this would look like—feel like?—to Elsie if she were in his place. Listening to Miss Prescott explain runes during Elsie’s lessons somewhat fascinated him, but he preferred the more colorful descriptions Elsie shared with him in quiet moments afterward. Knots and glitter and mushrooms. He hadn’t asked her what rational spells felt like.

Chest tightening, Bacchus feigned an interest in the book spines in front of them. The embossed lettering might as well have been in another language. Dear God, please help us find her before it’s too late. Please.

If she died . . . Bacchus didn’t know what he’d do. Lock himself away in Barbados and never cross the ocean again. Too many reminders . . .

Several minutes passed before Mr. Ogden opened his eyes. “I think I found someone useful. Come.”

He left like he owned the place, though it was apparent he’d never stepped foot in it, since he tried to walk through a wall more than once. Making his way to the “someone useful,” no doubt. Paying more attention to thoughts than to reality. Questions flitted about Bacchus’s uneasy mind, but he didn’t voice them.

They stayed on the main floor. Passed through a study hall before entering another chamber crammed with books. Mr. Ogden paused once, then took a sharp left.

A young man, probably a little younger than Bacchus, sat at a small round table in the corner, the enchanted disk on the table giving off enough light to illuminate the old book clutched in his hands. He didn’t look up when they approached.

Judging by his appearance, age, and the book he was reading, Bacchus guessed him to be an advanced physical aspector.

“My good sir,” Mr. Ogden said with authority, but quietly enough to keep his voice from carrying, “I have questions for you.”

The man looked up, forehead crinkled with irritation at being interrupted. Before he spoke, however, his entire expression changed, and he slammed the book shut and tried to stand, knocking the enchanted light off his table. “Master Bennett! What brings you here?”

Bacchus scooped up the light and replaced it as Mr. Ogden said, “No need for exclamations, young man. Sit.”

He did, admiration in his eyes.

Master Bennett? Bacchus eyed his companion. Had he planted a false memory in the man, making him think he was speaking to a venerable master aspector?

He’s even more powerful than I thought. Which put Bacchus on edge. Had he ever been enchanted in such a way? Rational aspectors were very closely monitored because of the nature of their spells. But Mr. Ogden was not a member of any atheneum—there was no oversight for his use of the magic. And while it was possible to purchase a rational master spell protecting the mind, not unlike what Ruth Hill’s assailant had worn when attacking Mr. Ogden, Bacchus certainly would not delay Elsie’s rescue in order to acquire one. Which left him with little choice but to push his misgivings aside and go with the plan.

“Tell me.” Mr. Ogden waved his hand. “I need to speak with the assembly about an ambulation spell, but it’s very private, involving the queen and all. I don’t want everyone knowing until I learn a few things for certain.”

Then, in Bacchus’s mind,

Bacchus nodded, never taking his eyes off the advanced aspector, whom he noted was as English and male as they came. Mr. Ogden had chosen this man because he was favored enough to know things, while also unimportant enough not to break the trust of someone he thought more senior.

It was only then that Bacchus truly understood how dangerous this all was. Elsie might not be the only one sleeping in a jail cell.

“Oh.” The man looked uncomfortable for a moment. Mr. Ogden subtly waved his hands again.

“You can trust me, lad,” he pressed.

After a few seconds, the aspector nodded. “Well, you know only Master Phillips and Master Ulf know the master ambulation spell.”

Bacchus cut in, “Tell me about Master Ulf.” He was one of three men in the assembly that Bacchus knew very little about.

“Master Johan Ulf.” His gaze slid back to Mr. Ogden, as though entranced by his presence. “German scholar, the one with red sideburns. He lives just down the street in the gated neighborhood.” The aspector shifted in his chair. “Doesn’t like me much.”

“And Master Phillips doesn’t like anyone,” Bacchus muttered.

Mr. Ogden shifted suddenly, his gaze on the younger man. “What was that?”

The aspector blinked. “I . . . didn’t say anything, sir.”

Another wave of his hand. “Yes, you did, son. About Master Phillips?”

The man fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. Bacchus intuited that Mr. Ogden had heard a thought and was forcing the aspector to verbalize it. “Just that he’s been acting strangely lately. He hasn’t been to the atheneum in a couple days. He missed a meeting I was taking notes at. Very unlike him.”

Bacchus’s pulse quickened. He pressed his hand to the stone wall for balance. “Where does Master Phillips live?”

“In London, on the east side,” the man said. “Never been there, but his estate is called Wide Springs.”

Mr. Ogden turned to Bacchus. “So one of us will go there, the other to Master Ulf.”

Bacchus nodded.

“Though,” the man added, “he does have a country estate over in Childwickbury. He had a Christmas party there a few years back.”

Bacchus tensed. “Childwickbury? Where is that?”

“Northeast,” Mr. Ogden said. “A few hours’ ride, if I’m not mistaken.”

Bacchus swallowed, his throat constricting. Whispering, he said, “If it’s him, then that would be a good place—”

Mr. Ogden stalled him with a raised hand. “Thank you, lad. What is that on the wall?”

The man turned to look. “I don’t see any—”

His voice cut off, and Mr. Ogden pushed Bacchus away. They walked, somewhat leisurely, away from the space. Bacchus glanced over his shoulder, only to catch the advanced aspector opening his book again, seemingly unaware of them.

“You made him forget us,” he whispered once they were a good distance away.

“It’s easier when someone’s attention is diverted elsewhere. But yes.” Mr. Ogden’s tone had a dark edge to it. “My spells are strong, but they are few. I’ve learned how to use what I have the best I can.”

Bacchus didn’t dare speak again until they’d cleared the front door of the atheneum, and when he did, it was hushed. “Childwickbury. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not sure of it,” Mr. Ogden stressed, then massaged tension from his forehead with his fingers. “None of us are. But it’s a good lead.”

“We’ll go together.”

But the artist shook his head. “Master Ulf is nearby. I’ll see to him, then find Master Phillips’s London home, just to be safe. If they’re dead ends, I’ll meet you in Childwickbury. I’ll only be an hour behind. If it’s dangerous, wait for me, do you understand?”

Normally, taking orders from an illegal spellmaker would rankle Bacchus. But this was no ordinary situation, and Mr. Ogden was no ordinary spellmaker. “Of course.”

“Don’t let him see you,” Mr. Ogden warned. “I won’t be able to erase his mind.”

Bacchus nodded.

With nothing else left to be said, they went their separate ways. Mr. Ogden hired a cab, and Bacchus returned to their carriage, where he unhitched Master Hill’s horse and barked at a stable hand to get him a saddle.

Elsie sensed a new spell.

She was nearly ready to fall asleep when she did. Her only way to tell time was through the slim crack between basement doors, which let in a hair of light—which she could see only if she stood directly under them. So she knew it was night, but she didn’t know when in the night. It could be the tenth hour. It could be nearly dawn, for all she knew.

But she sensed a new spell, farther out, and it was moving.

She bolted upright, breath catching, and listened. Yes . . . it was only the slightest itch of sensation, something she wouldn’t have noticed had she not spent all day reaching out for the house spells above her. This one was moving. Definitely coming closer.

Throwing off her blanket, Elsie ran to the basement doors, ready to scream for help at a volume even a sound-dampening spell couldn’t temper—but stopped. Closing her eyes, steadying her breathing, she reached for the spell, trying to get a better feel for it. After several seconds, she determined it was moving straight for her, not meandering. Like it had a purpose. No, this wasn’t some innocent passerby who might help her. In all likelihood it was her abductor, headed straight for her, and she was sensing Merton’s spell!

Terror woke her limbs and pricked gooseflesh along her skin. What to do, what to do?

Backing away from the doors, Elsie tried to calm down. She was losing the sensation. Focus.

She couldn’t still her racing heart, but she closed her eyes and reached for that spell. Closer, closer . . .

Physical.

What did he want now? Was he going to take her away from here? To Merton? Or had Merton decided Elsie was too much of a problem? Or was Merton busy and this crook had something entirely different up his sleeve. Torture, or . . .

She swallowed, her corset too tight. She planted a hand over the opus spell there. She couldn’t lose it. But she could use it if she had to. She could make this man forget his intentions. It might give her the opening she needed to break the spell.

Then she noticed the empty tray and bottle of water.

The bread and cheese. Someone had to replace those, didn’t they?

Either way, Elsie intended to put up a fight.

The spell was practically screaming at her with its nearness, though she heard nothing. Bolting across the room, Elsie grabbed the bottle—it was about the length of her elbow to the tip of her middle finger—and stretched back onto the floor, pulling her blanket over her, careful not to touch the spiritual spell embedded in the glass. Worried her expression might give her away, she turned her back to the small enchanted light on the ceiling.

Breathe. Breathe! she urged herself, trying to deepen and slow her breaths as the spell came ever closer.

She lay there, counting heartbeats, focusing on deep breaths and the spell . . . which was so close now. So close. She hadn’t heard a single footstep or the creaking of the doors, but Elsie could have sworn the carrier of that spell was in the cellar with her—

Mute spell. She thought she could sense it now. Just like the spell that had sucked all the sound from Ogden’s attack.

Her heart flipped, and it took all her effort not to let her breathing hitch. He’s in here right now. And I can’t hear him. Was this why Merton wanted to keep her unconscious?

Closer, closer. Over to the tray. Did he notice the missing bottle? The spell stalled for just a moment. Elsie’s heart lodged firmly in her throat. Then the person passed by her.

Gritting her teeth, Elsie pushed herself up off the floor and whirled around, colliding into another body. She barely registered it as a man before she swung the bottle with all her might into the side of his head.

He crumpled to the ground, soundless.

Her hands slick on the bottle’s neck, Elsie gasped for air, her hair wild around her face and shoulders. He wore all black, along with a high collar that might have been pulled up over his mouth if he’d had the mind. A large nose, slender shoulders . . . he looked to be a little younger than Elsie.

She took a step back. His build was wrong, and his eyes. This wasn’t her abductor.

There was bread on the tray, and a tin pitcher beside it.

A servant of some kind. Another Nash. She swallowed and, keeping one hand on the bottle, knelt next to him, searching for . . . yes, a rune glimmering through his black sleeve.

Cringing, Elsie grabbed his wrist and pulled back the cloth. She untied the spell, and suddenly the lad’s breathing touched her ears. A little strained, but even. There was a sizeable goose egg growing behind his ear. But no compulsion spell, and he wasn’t armed.

And the left basement door was open, a ladder set against it.

“Sweet merciful heaven.” Abandoning the servant, Elsie bolted to the ladder, picking up her skirts so she could climb it. It was difficult with the bottle still in hand, but it was her only weapon, and she wasn’t going to give it up anytime soon.

A cool night wind caught her hair as she climbed out. The first thing she noticed was the untamed grass nearby, and the dark silhouettes of tall trees. Then the light in a window not far from her.

She’d been right—there was a house. A big house, belonging to some nobleman or another. She might have scoffed at it at another time, but right now she needed to flee before the servant woke and spread the alarm.

Setting the bottle down, she grabbed the ladder with both hands and hauled it out of the basement, then carefully shut the door so it wouldn’t slam, just in case the mute spell she’d sensed earlier wouldn’t cover that noise.

Taking the bottle in hand, she ran.

Away from the house. She didn’t care where she was going as long as it was away. The terrain was smooth enough, the moon high but partially shielded by clouds. She carried the front of her skirt in her arms in a very unladylike manner, pumping her legs, running, running—

She nearly ran into the stone wall, it was so dark. She skidded to a stop right before it.

“No,” she whispered, pressing a hand against it. It was about ten feet high.

Cursing, she followed the wall in one direction, then the other, but she couldn’t see where it ended. So she dropped the bottle and wedged her fingertips between layers of weathered stone, but there wasn’t enough of a lip for her to get a strong hold. She tried in several spots, her fingers always slipping.

So she jumped, trying to reach the top of the wall to pull herself over—but she didn’t come close to breaching it.

Her breaths were hoarse now. “Oh God, help me,” she whispered, turning back, the partially lit mansion looming in the distance. If she kept moving away from it, who knew how long she’d be wandering around. Many houses this large had extensive properties.

Gate. There had to be a gate somewhere closer to the house. Retrieving her glass weapon, Elsie hurried along the wall, keeping one hand to it as she went. A physical spell glowed ahead of her—a fortification spell, just like the ones she’d unbound at Seven Oaks. Hope swelled in her. She untied it, but no, the wall didn’t crumble in the absence of magic. In fact, it looked entirely unchanged. Able to be taken out by a sledgehammer, perhaps, not a woman’s bare hands.

So Elsie hurried on, quickening her pace, ignoring the next fortification spell when she reached it. Gate, gate, gate.

The moon snuck out from behind a thick cloud, casting her in darkness. She stepped in a rabbit hole and fell forward, biting her tongue to keep from crying out. The bottle flew from her grasp.

Groaning, she got her knees under her and stood. Her ankle throbbed—it hurt to put weight on it, but it wasn’t broken, thank heaven. So she continued, hobbling as she went. She lost her shoe almost immediately, but didn’t stop to retrieve it. Or the bottle. If the foot was going to swell up, it wouldn’t fit in the shoe anyway. And as much as she needed the bottle, she also needed time.

She reached a junction in the wall. Tried again for handholds, with no luck. She scanned the dark yard—perhaps she could find . . . oh, a stump or a bucket or something to give her a lift. But she saw nothing. No back gate, either.

So she followed the next wall, eyeing the mansion she was slowly moving closer to, praying for a hidden door, a latch, anything.

And then, moments later, she found one.

And it was locked.

Stay calm. She ran her hands over the wrought iron gate, the moon peeking out to help her. The gate started close to the ground and rose just as high as the rest of the wall. It wasn’t locked by magical means—no, that would be too easy. It had a thick steel contraption on it.

But there were crossbars on it. So, ignoring the pointed tips of the gate, Elsie set her good foot onto the first crossbar, which was just below the height of her hip, and lifted herself up. The gate shifted on its hinges. Elsie held on tightly, hissing through her teeth when she put weight on her sore ankle. Using as much upper-body strength as she could to relieve it, she swung over the top of the gate, her skirt catching as she did.

She jumped down the rest of the way, a sharp whine trapped in her throat when she landed on her sore foot, a loud rip sounding as the tip of an iron bar tore through her skirt.

She was a spellbreaker, for goodness’s sake. She could buy another bloody dress.

She had only just gotten back on her feet—her right ankle throbbing anew—when she heard her name.

“Hello, Elsie.”

She whirled around, first to the gate, which was still locked, then to the silhouette a few paces . . . north, was it? She recognized his voice from the carriage. And his stature . . . it was the same.

She limped backward, stumbling. “I-I can help you. I can take it off.”

The man took a step forward. The moonlight highlighted his pointed chin and the gray strands running through his short, side-swept hair. He didn’t have on a mask. He wore normal, tailored clothes. Like he hadn’t had time to disguise himself before Merton had sent him to check on her.

And then he stopped suddenly, like the air had hardened around him. He trembled.

Just like Ogden had.

He was fighting back.

Suppressing her instinct to flee, Elsie hurried toward him and grabbed the front of his shirt. She . . . yes! She could hear Merton’s spell humming—

The man grabbed her wrists. “I don’t think so,” he said, then worked his mouth, a puppet refusing to obey its strings.

Sharpness entered his blue eyes. Merton had won control.

Elsie pulled against his grip, but it didn’t relent. So she kneed him in the groin instead.

The man let out a wheeze, and Elsie twisted her arms, breaking his hold. She turned and ran, stumbling on her aching ankle. Limped to a dark tree line. She could barely see, but it didn’t matter. She had to get away.

Her abductor was following her, feet swift and sure. And truly, what hope did she have of escaping this man on his own property?

Tears flew from her eyes and caught in her hair. God help me. Help me!

She stumbled over a tree branch. Changed direction and rushed south, or what she thought was south. She barely made out a dip in the earth and managed to get over it without tripping. She could feel her foot swelling. Every other step was torture, like glass had wedged into the joints. Her skirt caught on something else, and she yanked it free, tearing more fabric. The trees grew thicker to the east, so she hobbled that way, trying to keep her steps light but knowing she was making a ruckus. She ducked behind one tree, changed direction, pushed between two more. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She couldn’t feel the toes on her right foot.

The ground evened a little, and she picked up speed, feeling like an injured deer with beagles on its tail. She grasped trees as she ran, trying to keep her balance as her foot screamed at her—

Two hands grabbed her.

“No!” she screamed, beating away at them. “Let me go!”

“Elsie!”

Everything stopped.

That voice.

That accent.

She blinked, tears running freely now. “Bacchus?”

He crushed her to him, and the scents of citrus and fresh-cut wood filled her senses. She clung to him, shuddering, weeping—

Then she ripped away and turned around, nearly falling to her knees. “He’s here. He was just here.”

Bacchus’s arm wrapped around her, his hand splayed across her stomach. He searched the dark wood around them. Elsie strained to hear.

Nothing but crickets and the breeze.

She swallowed. “I got out of the cellar, but he f-found me—”

“Let’s go,” he whispered, the words heavy and sharp. “While we have a chance.”

He tugged her south, and Elsie hissed, grabbing him for support. “I-I twisted my ankle—”

Bacchus bent down, and in one effortless swoop picked her up, holding her like a small child. She gripped fistfuls of his shirt—he didn’t have on a jacket or a waistcoat—and frantically searched the forest beyond his shoulder. There was no sign of her abductor. Had he managed to thwart Merton’s will after all, or had he seen Bacchus and determined it best to stand down?

Bacchus’s footsteps were long and swift. The ground turned downward, sloping into a hill, and she saw a road at the base of it, with a large horse tied across the way. The relief that burst through Elsie was nearly enough to make her lose consciousness.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, thank you.”

He was tense and silent as he strode across the road, glancing over his shoulder as he did. He mustn’t have seen anything, because he simply lifted her onto the saddle.

Elsie swallowed against a tight throat. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Elsie.” His tone was dark. “If you apologize again, I’m going to rip out my own beard.” Grabbing the horse’s neck, he swung up behind her, quick to take the reins and pull the horse away. They went straight into a gallop, taking off down the dark road, not even a lamp to guide their way. It wasn’t safe, especially not for the horse, but Elsie didn’t complain.

Finally, he said against her neck, “I was so scared I’d find you dead.”

The hairs on her arms stood on end. She leaned against him, head pressed into the valley between his neck and shoulder. She was so utterly terrified and so blissfully happy she barely knew how to feel at all.

“I saw him,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the horse. “I saw his face. It was narrow, pointed—”

“Master Enoch Phillips.”

She stiffened. “What?”

“This is his estate,” Bacchus practically growled. “Blue eyes, severe features, gray hair?”

She nodded.

“Merton has perhaps the most powerful physical aspector in England under her thumb,” he said. “But she no longer has the element of surprise.”

“What will we do now?” she asked.

Bacchus’s arms tightened around her. “I don’t know.”

His breath was warm against her ear. Words pushed against her tongue—I love you. Thank you. I love you—but she swallowed them back down. She clung to his arms with both hands as they sped into the shadows, leaving her nightmare behind them.

For now, at least.