Spellmaker

CHAPTER 18

The woman might as well have slapped Cuthbert in the face.

“Pardon?” A mind-reading spell—an intermediate one, subtle, skimming the surface—went out almost of its own volition, scanning her for truthfulness. But that was exactly what he got. Honesty. Shock. Emergency. Her emotions were strong. Her information rang true, at least to her.

“Master Lily Merton is dead,” Miss Prescott repeated, and this time, instead of a slap, it felt like a bullet to his chest, right where that bloody spell had been all those years. “I . . . They didn’t know much. I was eavesdropping. She was an older woman, yes, but seemingly in good health. Still, it might have been natural causes, or the murderer could have struck again—”

“She is the murderer!” Cuthbert slammed his hand on the table hard enough to make the plates rattle. Elsie gaped at him. Emmeline squeaked, then touched Reggie’s shoulder and whispered to him. The two left the room, giving the others blessed privacy. Hopefully Emmeline would explain what the boy needed to know so Cuthbert wouldn’t have to. He was sick of reviewing what they already knew without adding to it.

“Many of the stolen opuses were found in Master Phillips’s London home—”

“Of course they were. But they didn’t find all of them, did they?” Cuthbert pulled his hand back and ran it down his face, feeling old. “There is no doubt it’s a ruse, Miss Prescott. What better way for Merton to hide herself, to assuage any guilt, than to fake her own death?”

Miss Prescott looked as though she might cry. “But, Mr. Ogden. She left an opus.”

“What?” Elsie blurted.

“That’s what I heard. She had a summer home she recently purchased in Rochester—”

Rochester. So she hadn’t been far.

“—and her neighbors heard a clatter while passing by. Called the local police, and they found her opus . . . along with shattered windows and”—she grimaced—“well, signs of a struggle. Blood. There will be an investigation, of course.”

Master Kelsey growled, “If someone murdered her, they would have taken the opus.”

Cuthbert nodded, frustration boiling beneath his skin.

“Unless she had fortifications to stop him, or defended herself before giving up the ghost.” Miss Prescott met Cuthbert’s eyes. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t wish to cause you grief. I’m merely repeating what I heard.”

Elsie hugged herself. “Master Phillips in jail and Merton dead? But surely she’s the one who arranged his arrest, just like she did with me!”

“Yes, it’s far too convenient.” Cuthbert gripped the table edge and leaned over his barely touched dinner. “Are we truly to believe she met with some unfortunate fate less than a day after we found Elsie and unmasked her pawn?”

“Found Elsie?” Miss Prescott was baffled. “What?”

Elsie sighed. “I was the unfortunate victim of an abduction by Master Phillips. That’s how we know about him. I will tell you all of it momentarily. But this . . .” She glanced to Cuthbert, her blue eyes bright and afraid. “I agree. This is too easy.”

“There’s only one way we can know for sure.” Cuthbert’s fingernails dug into the wood. “We have to see that opus.”

They were silent for a moment, until Master Kelsey spoke.

“It will not go to auction,” he said, his tone low and dark, reflecting Cuthbert’s feelings perfectly. “But Master Merton has no family, from what we understand.” He gestured to Elsie. “Which means the London Spiritual Atheneum will do her rights for her.”

Miss Prescott nodded. “There may be an estate sale, like there was for Master Quinn Raven. Whatever happens, the opus will be heavily guarded for a viewing before being taken to the atheneum.”

“Unless they skip the viewing and take it straight to the vaults,” Master Kelsey said. “There’s no family to complain.”

Cuthbert grabbed both sides of his head. Pain bloomed under his skull above both temples. “She’s not dead. Damn it all. She’s acquitting herself.”

And he wouldn’t let that happen.

Pushing off the table, he went to the back door to retrieve his coat.

Elsie limped after him. “Where are you going?”

“To Rochester.”

She glanced out the window. The sun had nearly set. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” His tone was sharp, but he couldn’t reel it in, even for her. “I have to know. I have to, Elsie.” He sighed. Set his jaw. “Don’t wait up for me.”

He wrenched the back door open and stepped into the cooling night, thankful that Elsie had twisted her ankle.

It was likely the only thing that kept her from going after him.

Reggie knew now. That made six of them.

Bacchus graciously helped Elsie up the stairs to the sitting room, where Emmeline had taken Reggie. Elsie refused to lose her dignity and be carried, but she did allow him to keep a firm grip on her elbow. Irene followed behind.

Once they were seated comfortably, Elsie filled in the holes of the story, though in the interest of saving time—and face—she was somewhat less forthcoming than she’d been with Emmeline and Irene. Neither woman corrected her, thankfully. Irene, in turn, gave full details of Master Phillips’s arrest and the announcement of Merton’s supposed demise, though those details pertained more to such logistical concerns as what she had been doing and where she had been standing. Nothing that would help Ogden, in the long run.

Ogden. Elsie prayed he’d be all right. If he was caught snooping around . . . well, Bacchus couldn’t marry both of them.

“I didn’t see him myself,” Irene said, concluding her story, “but I saw the prison wagon pull away. They had aspectors to keep him in line.”

Because a master physical aspector could easily decimate any vehicle that tried to apprehend him.

Leaning back against the settee, Elsie said, “Thank you, Irene, for everything.”

The woman nodded, and it seemed like she wanted to say more—to ask for details on Elsie’s abduction, perhaps. But she must have sensed the mood in the room, for instead she said, “I should probably go. I’ll be in contact.”

“Your efforts are appreciated,” Bacchus said. He sounded almost as tired as he had while under the influence of the siphoning spell. Another thing they needed to address.

Irene left first, followed by Reggie, who insisted he had to get back to London for work in the morning—his days started early—despite the necessity of riding back in the dark. Once Emmeline saw him out, the candles burning low, Elsie said, “Seven Oaks.”

Bacchus sighed. He sat beside her on the settee, his arm draped across its back, a few inches above Elsie’s shoulders. She hoped it would lose its balance and plop down on her.

He rubbed his eyes. “I need to write to the duchess and explain. She’s likely worried. First thing in the morning. You’ll have to show me where the post office is.”

“It’s not hard to find.”

Emmeline slipped in, stepping carefully as though they were sleeping. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

“Reggie is smart and good with his horse,” Elsie answered. “He’ll be fine.”

Emmeline smiled, but it soon faded. “I meant Mr. Ogden.”

Elsie’s heart sank. “I . . . yes, I’m sure he will be. He’s made it fifty-five years yet. I would be shocked if he had anything less than another fifty-five in him.”

Emmeline seemed comforted and dropped into a chair across from them, thumbing listlessly at the edge of yesterday’s newspaper. Bacchus asked after her family, and Elsie was filled with a keen awareness of how close he sat—his voice in her ear, his body inches away from hers. A halo of warmth emanated from him, and she wondered how a man could burn so hot and still be comfortable in a frock coat.

Which of course made her think of the last time she was very close to him. Her body flushed, and her heat in addition to his was nigh unbearable.

She’d been forward. Very forward. How reckless she’d been! And yet Bacchus hadn’t seemed put off by it. Quite the opposite, in fact . . .

What would happen if she were to be forward a second time?

But Emmeline chatted about the views in Aylesbury, and her familiar, cheerful voice was a stark reminder that Elsie and Bacchus were not alone in the room. For the better, of course. Yet Elsie found herself wanting to reach over and touch his knee, just to see how he would react. To pull on his fingers and coax his arm around her. To feel his beard against her mouth, because she liked the idea of him having unchristian thoughts about her.

But then she thought of Ogden, of Merton, of Master Phillips, and the awareness of her own selfishness crashed down on her, banishing the heat beneath her skin so thoroughly she shivered.

Bacchus glanced at her, and his arm did come around her shoulders. He pressed his fingers and palm into her upper arm, and a splendid warmth emanated from them—too strong to merely be from the contact. It was a novice temperature spell. To keep her comfortable.

Of all the things that had happened the last few days, this was the one that made her want to weep.

Finding her voice, she asked Emmeline, “Did you visit Waddesdon Manor on this last trip home?” The manor was a local house often opened up for tour to the public. Emmeline talked about it often enough that Elsie felt she’d taken a tour herself.

She shook her head. “No, there was so much to do at the house. But you should come by sometime, Elsie, and take the tour with me. I might know enough to give it myself.” She grinned.

The candlelight held, and so the three of them talked quietly for a while longer, Elsie listening for Ogden despite his admonition not to wait up. Bacchus fell asleep first, his head against the backrest. Elsie studied his face in his slumber as Emmeline caught her up on the events of the novel readers she’d failed to read. Bacchus looked younger, peaceful, beautiful in repose, and had Emmeline not been there, Elsie might have had the courage to whisper the truth of her feelings to him, and let him think he’d dreamed the entire thing.

Ogden did not return home until a quarter past ten the next morning. Fortunately, Elsie was hale enough to take the stairs down on her own.

It was obvious he had not slept; dark circles rimmed his eyes, and there was a hunch to his shoulders that betrayed his age. His overall presence was haggard, though that might have been due to the thick disappointment dripping off him like undercooked caramel.

“The entire place is under heavy guard.” His voice was twenty years too old. “But there will be an estate sale. Four days. The opus will be on display on the first day only.” He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “The question remains when it will happen. None of the men standing watch appeared to know, either. I . . . I couldn’t get inside. Too many people.”

Elsie set a light hand on Ogden’s shoulder, relieved when he didn’t shrug it off. “Then we’ll wait. I’ll send a message to Irene. She has the best chance of finding out first, what with Bacchus staying here instead of London.”

Ogden nodded. He seemed like a man at a funeral for a loved one. “I’m going to go rest.”

“Breakfast?” Elsie offered.

But he waved it away and dragged himself up the stairs.

Wednesday, the question arose of whether or not Elsie and Bacchus’s wedding date should be postponed, given the turn of events. It was only ten days away. Bacchus gave a firm no, saying he didn’t want to allow Merton that power over them. But Elsie also heard what he didn’t say: better to keep Elsie from the noose. Invitations had already been mailed, and Lord Astley, the magistrate who’d overseen her case, had received one. He’d already sent his confirmation that he would be in attendance.

Bacchus had claimed he would have courted her regardless of their unique situation. But how? Would he have started showing up at the stonemasonry shop more often? Invited her to more dinners at Seven Oaks? Or would he have sailed home and mulled it over longer, not seeking her out until his next trip to England?

Where would Elsie be right now, had the justice system not forced his hand? Certainly not standing on a stool in a cream-colored gown while the seamstress measured her hem. Elsie pressed her palm against her stomach. Remember how he kisses you. He doesn’t not want this.

Chewing on her lip, Elsie dared to look in the nearby mirror. The dress wasn’t quite finished, but all the important bits were there. The sleeves, the collar, the gathers in the skirt. Three kinds of lace trim were spread over Emmeline’s lap, and her friend touched each one gingerly, reverently. Elsie hoped she’d be in that chair when Emmeline found someone worthy of her. In truth, she dared to hope her friend’s eye had already been turned to a certain family member of hers.

“You can choose,” Elsie offered, turning a smidge when the dressmaker indicated. “I like all of them.”

Beaming, Emmeline picked up the center strip. “This one will be perfect.”

She prayed Bacchus thought so, too.

Thursday, Reggie returned. He had copies of all the newspapers their articles had been printed in, and though Elsie knew exactly what the articles said, she looked them over anyway, trying to imagine what Quinn Raven’s reaction would be when and if he saw them. She wondered if Reggie could pull in a few favors and get the articles published more than once.

With Elsie occupied, Reggie handed the last paper under his arm to Ogden, whose sleeves were rolled up from pottery work, a few flecks of gray clay clinging to his dark arm hair. “Wasn’t sure if you saw this one.”

Ogden unfurled the paper. The headline font was large enough that when Elsie glanced up, she could easily read it from where she sat at the dining table. Master Enoch Phillips Found Guilty of Opus Thefts, Murders.

Her mouth went dry.

Sighing, Bacchus rubbed his beard. “At least there should be no more, not if Merton wants him to be her scapegoat. The stonemasonry shop should be safe.”

He said nothing about moving out, for which Elsie was grateful. Not only did she feel safer with him there, but she’d come to depend on his steady presence, their late-night talks, his astute nature. He made her feel seen in a way she’d never been seen before.

But this wasn’t right. They couldn’t let Merton get away with it.

“What if it was Ogden behind bars?” She felt the chill of her Oxford cell on her skin, and shivered at the sensation. “Master Phillips . . . he was terrifying, and he was made to do some awful things, but it wasn’t him. I saw him fight it. This isn’t right.”

Ogden lowered the paper. “What would you have us do, Elsie?”

She worried her lip, thinking as Reggie took a seat beside her. “I’ll write to Irene. Perhaps she can bring me to see him before the sentencing. If she says there’s a spell on him, they’ll listen to her. We can prove he was used.”

Bacchus considered. “He would make a powerful ally.”

“I’ll do it now.” She stood, pushing her chair back.

“Careful how you word it,” Ogden warned.

Elsie cast him her best attempt at a withering look. “Really? Ten years of hiding what I am, and you think I’ll make a mistake now?”

Ogden’s lip quirked. He waved, gesturing for her to proceed. “See if she’s heard about the estate, please,” he said, quieter.

Elsie nodded, but she knew Irene would have nothing for her. The spellbreaker had promised to contact them the moment she found out, and thus far, no messages had arrived at the house.

Friday, Irene and Elsie set out before dawn for Her Majesty’s Prison Oxford, where Master Phillips was being held. The same place where Elsie had spent three days herself.

Elsie described the points of the knot of the spiritual spell on the way there, and Irene explained how they would work this trip into Elsie’s studies. Aspector prisons were the most secure jails in the country, and they employed spellbreakers to keep prisoners in line. “It’s a grim job, but a well-paying one,” she offered.

Elsie had no desire to step into Her Majesty’s Prison Oxford again after today, let alone make her living there.

The ride seemed to carry on forever, though the journey had felt even longer in the back of a prison wagon. Her nerves danced when they finally arrived at the stone behemoth, her mind inventing scenarios of being found out and caged once more. But surely Merton wouldn’t surface now, when she was supposed to be dead, and Irene . . . she trusted Irene. The woman had no reason to sell her out.

A guard led them to the prison warden, who wore the pin of a physical aspector himself. Not a master’s pin, like the one Bacchus had, but a blue one that indicated his specialty. Elsie wondered briefly how experienced he was—Intermediate? Advanced?—but didn’t ask. His office was as gray and stony as the rest of the prison, with a single barred window facing south. He sat behind a simple desk nearly empty but for a hibiscus plant sitting on the corner, along with a large magnifying glass and a cup of cold tea.

Irene introduced them, referring to Elsie as her apprentice. She had already telegrammed ahead, so their arrival was expected. Leave it to Irene to not miss a detail. Despite what Elsie had once thought of her, Irene Prescott was one of the most competent people of Elsie’s acquaintance. Elsie did not like to think where she would be had the London Physical Atheneum assigned her a different tutor.

“And you believe this spell to be on his person?” The warden, who looked about Ogden’s age, sounded skeptical.

“I know Master Phillips,” Irene assured him. “From what I’ve studied of the spell . . . well, he exhibits the symptoms. You must let me check. Send as many guards with me as you wish.”

“I found your telegram very interesting.” The warden leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Because he, too, claims there was a spell on him.”

A shock jolted up Elsie’s spine. Of course Master Phillips knew. He’d been actively fighting it that night on his estate, just as Ogden had been at the docks.

Irene kept her composure. “Then surely the truthseekers have confirmed it.”

The warden frowned. “I don’t know of any way a physical aspector could get around a truth spell, but yes, they have. You’re welcome to look, Miss Prescott, but we’ve seen no evidence as to a spell, and he can’t tell us who placed it. Unless you know.”

Irene glanced to Elsie. “That is yet to be determined.”

The warden’s gaze shifted to Elsie, but he didn’t complain about her presence. Irene had told him she wished to expose her student to all aspects of spellbreaking. He shrugged. “Very well. He’s in our highest-security holding, but I’ll send a few extra guards with you just in case, myself included.” He stood and gestured for the exit. Once in the corridor, he spoke quietly to a nonspellmaking guard on hand, who left to collect three men to attend them. Elsie noted two were spellbreakers and one was a spiritual aspector.

Had the prison’s own spellbreakers attempted to confirm Master Phillips’s claims, or were they simply there to prevent him from using his magic? Elsie glanced to Irene, whose face was a stiff mask.

The warden, keys in hand, led them to Master Phillips’s cell.

Elsie set her jaw to keep her teeth from clattering as the warden led them deeper into the castle, and then down, down, down, each stair growing darker, until sunlight vanished completely. Simple aspected lights hung from the walls, but not nearly enough to brighten the place or add the slightest bit of cheerfulness.

The warden had not lied: the cells were heavily guarded. There were two armored men to each one, plus more who stood guard at the exits or simply paced back and forth, ready to spring into action. Several of them nodded to the warden as they passed, eyeing Elsie and Irene curiously. They were the only women on the floor.

Master Phillips was in the second-farthest cell from the exit. His hands were gloved with enchanted mail, and his wrists and ankles were tied. He wore gray prison clothes and looked haggard, his beard growing in like someone had seasoned him unevenly with pepper and salt.

It struck Elsie viscerally that she’d been lucky to come here as a spellbreaker. Spellbreakers had no power over iron and stone—they were no more dangerous than the average prisoner and were treated as such. But spellmakers could warp their environment, physical aspectors especially. Master Phillips lacked even the simplest freedom of movement. He eyed them without recognition until he spied Elsie. Afraid he might say something, she hung back and let Irene take charge.

“Spellbreaker, Phillips,” the warden said, handing his keys to a guard, who unlocked the heavy door. “Looking you over for a project. Don’t try anything. I’d hate to bind you further.”

Phillips said nothing, but glanced at Irene with such sorrowful eyes Elsie’s heart hurt. The prison spellbreakers entered first, coming to stand on either side of Phillips. Irene stepped in next, pulling her skirts beneath her so she could kneel before the master aspector.

Elsie pushed forward, watching. Irene dipped her head, placing her ear on Master Phillips’s chest as if she were a doctor and this were a perfectly normal examination. Phillips murmured something to her, and it took a moment for Elsie’s brain to put the sounds together.

“You won’t find it,” he’d said.

Elsie held her breath. Irene investigated him, his front and back, his legs, even going so far as to lift his shirt. Then she turned, bright eyes first finding Elsie, then the warden.

“I’m afraid I was mistaken.” Her voice was fragile, uneasy. “I must further my studies, it seems. There isn’t a single spell on him.”

Elsie wrapped a hand around the bars, needing something to balance her. There were only two ways a spell like that could be vanished from Master Phillips’s person. First, if Merton had truly thought of everything and arranged for it to be removed before turning him in. The second . . .

Lily Merton might be truly dead.