Spellmaker

CHAPTER 19

It was hard, pretending everything was normal. To walk to Squire Douglas’s home to have a bust design approved, to fill out Ogden’s ledgers, to greet customers when they came. Their worlds kept spinning even though hers had stopped.

Master Phillips would almost certainly be executed, in the end, but the truthseekers’ findings were delaying the inevitable. He had said, and meant, three things—that he wasn’t the killer, that he hadn’t stolen opuses, and that he’d been under a spell. But there was no evidence to support Master Phillips’s claim other than his own words . . . which was not enough to exonerate him. A person could believe something to be true that wasn’t—a selfish person might think themselves kind, or an ugly person think themselves beautiful. And so truth was a sticky thing of wavering substance, not enough to acquit a man, especially when so many of the missing opuses had been found at his home.

With no evidence to support Master Phillips’s claims, he would probably be ruled as insane and his trial would proceed. Though surely there were alibis from others to show he wasn’t near, say, Viscount Byron or Alma Digby when they met their ends. Perhaps the confusion would keep Master Phillips safe long enough for Elsie to figure out what on earth Merton was up to, if she was even on Earth anymore.

If Elsie had been less devout to the Cowls, none of this would have happened. Not to Master Phillips, not to the deceased, and not to Ogden.

Which was part of her newest worry. Something Irene had said on the ride home yesterday evening had stuck in Elsie’s mind like a rusted knife, and she struggled to wrench it free.

Who knows who else she’s controlled. Irene had clucked her tongue and stared out the window, hopelessness on her face. Meanwhile, for Elsie, the trip from Oxford turned out to be the longest one yet.

Lily Merton was friendly with the Duke and Duchess of Kent, and Elsie had met her for the first time—officially, at least—the night she’d first dined at Seven Oaks. Back then, of course, she’d had no idea who Lily Merton was, but the woman had already sent her to Seven Oaks on Cowls duty twice before that. Either for the duke’s ancestral opus or for Bacchus’s. Perhaps for both.

Looking up from her path—she was coming back from the squire’s now, with Mr. Parker’s signature of approval in hand—she spied Bacchus waiting outside the stonemasonry shop. His arms were folded across his tight chest, and the way he squinted in the sunlight made him look menacing, or at least it might to one who didn’t know him. His dark hair glimmered in the light, and when he turned and saw her coming, recognition lit up his face. He walked to meet her, passing the well, crossing Main Street.

Elsie’s chest hurt as she met him near the dressmaker’s. “What’s wrong?”

He offered his elbow, which she took, and handed her a thin paper. There weren’t many out in the street, so Elsie needn’t worry about onlookers.

He’d given her a flyer for the Merton estate sale.

“Tuesday.” Bacchus spoke quietly as they walked down the lane leading to the stonemasonry shop. “Ogden’s information was good. The estate sale runs until Friday, but the opus will be on display only on Tuesday, for the memorial, before it’s taken to the atheneum.”

Elsie read over the paper, though it merely reiterated what Bacchus had said. “Irene?”

“She’s inside, speaking with Mr. Ogden.”

Elsie nodded. Folded the paper. “I don’t know how we’ll get to it.”

“He feels confident we can, if we go early.” He let out a breath. “He thinks he can turn the minds of the guards so I can access the opus.”

Elsie’s steps slowed. “You?”

He nodded. “It’s in Latin; it’s my understanding you’re not fluent.”

Elsie frowned, but nodded. “And if there are spells?”

“You’ll be in the room with us, and Irene will be nearby. He wants to bring Reggie and Emmeline along in case a distraction is needed.”

Elsie’s stomach tightened. “If they see you with the opus . . .”

“We’re all taking risks.” His elbow squeezed around her hand, reassuring her.

It was a risk. Ogden would have to slip into the minds of multiple guards . . . Elsie had never been to an estate sale before, let alone one for a master aspector. How many guards would there be? How far could Ogden’s spells stretch?

How far could Merton’s?

They approached the house, but Elsie tugged on Bacchus’s arm. “Can I . . . talk to you, for a moment?” She knew it would kill her to keep her fears to herself, letting them simmer in the back of her mind. With so much happening, she wouldn’t survive another problem.

Bacchus raised an eyebrow, but nodded, and Elsie guided him around the stonemasonry shop, to the wild land behind it. There was a copse of dogwood back there that offered some shade—the same place she had once argued with him about the propriety of traveling together to Ipswich.

Bacchus paused, unwinding her hand from his arm and cupping her elbow instead. “What’s wrong?”

Elsie laughed. “That is the question of the year, isn’t it?”

His lip quirked, but his eyes were sober. He waited patiently, a wavy strand of hair falling from its tie. Elsie wanted to tuck it behind his ear, but she felt suddenly self-conscious. As though that simple touch would be more intimate than what they had already shared.

“Merton,” she began quietly, glancing around to ensure their privacy, “did she ever . . . touch you?”

“Touch me?” He thought a moment. “I did lead her into the dining room once.” His eyes softened. “She never set a spell on me. You would have found it, with the others.”

“Time has passed since we visited Master Pierrelo’s home,” she replied, her voice soft.

Bacchus put a knuckle under her chin. “For better or for worse, I haven’t seen the woman since Abel Nash tried to kill me.”

The words weren’t as reassuring as they should have been. Doubt was a long-term companion to Elsie, present in all her thoughts, all her conversations. She’d trusted the Cowls so blindly, and the debacle with Master Phillips had her questioning her own truths. “She could be making you say that.” She twisted the ring on her finger.

Bacchus considered a moment before stepping closer to her, his strong arms wrapping around her shoulders. There was no one to see, but embarrassment tickled Elsie’s spine regardless. Bacchus put his chin on her head. “Listen.”

Relax. It’s all right, she chided herself, and, muscle by muscle, loosened in his grasp, letting her hands curl up to his shoulders. She turned her head, ear near his collar, and listened. Crickets hummed in the nearby grass. Bacchus’s heartbeat was strong and steady beneath her cheek. There was no song outside of that—no spiritual spells.

Still in his embrace, she murmured, “Ogden hid his for nine years.”

“I could take my clothes off, if you insist.”

Elsie stiffened, and Bacchus laughed, which made her laugh, which made her realize there was not enough laughter in her life. Merton was controlling her even without a spell.

Stepping back, Elsie rubbed her neck, hoping to hide her pinkening cheeks. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Master Kelsey.” A flash of memory—of her hand on his shirtless chest—only made her skin flame brighter. Yet relief blossomed in her breast; surely all of their relationship had been genuine, from his initial manhandling of her at Seven Oaks to his insistence of her innocence to the proposal that never really happened to that kiss in the carriage to now. It was real, it had to be real, and yet it felt no more real to her than a novel reader. Any moment now Elsie would turn the page and the story would be over because that’s how fairy stories like this worked.

“Dogwood.”

She pulled from her reverie at the word and met Bacchus’s gaze. “What?”

He gestured to the bright-green bushes that stood even taller than he did. “Dogwood. Ogden had some control during those nine years, yes? To leave you those clues about the spell. If Merton really is alive, and she ever tries to bespell one of us, that’s how we’ll know. It will be a password, of sorts.”

“Dogwood,” Elsie repeated. A small smile pulled on her mouth. “But what if we’re sitting in this very spot and I insist on talking of the landscape?”

“Then we must refrain from speaking of the landscape, or horticulture in general. In truth, it is not my strongest subject, so you’ll have little to regret.”

She smiled fully at him, then brought herself back to the present. “We’ve a few days before the estate sale if you want to visit Seven Oaks.”

Bacchus planted his hands on his hips and sighed.

“They were invited to the wedding,” he said. “The duchess even picked out the invitations. But I do not think the duke would come, even if I forgave him.” He looked into the dogwood. The wind rippled its leaves, and one could almost imagine fairies hidden among them.

“Will you let him die with such guilt on his shoulders?” He glanced to her, and Elsie held up her hands in mock surrender. “I am not pardoning him. But he’s been like a father to you for many years.”

“And my own father had his hand in it,” Bacchus replied gruffly. He shook his head. “The further I get from it, the more civil I feel. But then I remember all the challenges and fears I had for my entire adult life and several years of my adolescence, and forgiveness seems . . . not impossible, but far away.” He paused, swallowed. “I wonder, if they’d approached me, if I would have offered to help of my own volition. I’m not sure; there’s no way to know, in the end.”

“Don’t hold yourself accountable for it.” She said it in the serious tone it deserved, then found herself chuckling. “Now where have I heard that advice before?”

Bacchus pressed a kiss to her forehead. She wished they could stay there in the spotty shade so Elsie could hold on to that fairy-tale-like respite, but it was not to be.

They had a caper to plan.

The opus was in the second-floor parlor.

They split up, Bacchus taking Elsie on his arm, Mr. Ogden wandering with Miss Prescott, while Miss Pratt and Mr. Camden toured the gardens. They did not want to draw attention to themselves as a large group, and they did not think it wise to head straight for the opus. This was an estate sale; they needed to present themselves as interested buyers. The flyer Miss Prescott had given them had been handed out at the atheneums, giving spellmakers—and breakers—priority with the event. In order to look the part, Bacchus had donned his garish master’s pin, and Irene wore a similar one depicting her as a licensed spellbreaker.

They had a plan, but there were many things that could go wrong. Bacchus was worried about Mr. Ogden, who was too emotionally invested in this matter. He hadn’t been sleeping well—Bacchus had seen him up late in the sitting room with his sketchbook more than once, and his left eye had taken to occasionally twitching. Hopefully the drive to protect the others would overpower his personal need for closure. And if the opus was Merton’s . . . then this entire venture was more or less over. Truthfully, Bacchus hoped for that outcome, even if it robbed justice. It would be nice to have peace, for once. Though it might leave Master Phillips in dire straits. Despite Bacchus’s personal dislike for the man, his sense of justice insisted that he not suffer for another’s crimes.

He and Elsie had looked over the paintings, feigning interest in some, though a depiction of the English countryside did appeal to his aesthetic. A few rooms were closed and roped off. One of the windows that had been broken was boarded up, and there was a pale spot on the carpet where a rug used to be—a rug that had supposedly been stained with blood from the “attack.” Other rooms still needed sorting or were being used for storage.

Merton’s home was quaint but spacious, more room than a single woman would likely need, especially since the only servant she had kept on hand was, apparently, a cook. The parlor sat at the end of a large hall, and great windows leading to a narrow veranda let in the early-morning light, illuminating the space. Two rooms lay on either side of the parlor—the library and Merton’s study—where a few other early risers were perusing books, perhaps hoping to find aspecting secrets between their pages.

The parlor’s walls were stark white and simply adorned, the carpet burgundy, and in the back of the room, several feet off center, stood a white-painted podium of wood, surrounded by taupe cords to dissuade the passing public from touching. Atop that podium sat a thick opus, its cover marbled mauve and cream, its thick pages lined silver, its corners rounded. A rather feminine opus. And, of course, it was closed.

More importantly, there were five guards in the parlor alone, each armed with a sword and rifle. One stood between the podium and the veranda. One lingered near the library entrance, another near the study entrance, and two watched from where the hall opened up into the parlor. One of those men wore blue lapels, labeling him as a physical aspector. His lack of a pin indicated he was likely an intermediate spellmaker who had burned out and taken a position in law enforcement instead of staying with the atheneum.

Elsie squeezed Bacchus’s arm as they approached to pay their respects, just as one would at a coffin. She looked beyond the opus, her eyes going out of focus.

“It’s the real thing,” she whispered, then blinked in surprise. “I thought . . . I thought it might be an astral projection, and the real book would be in one of those locked rooms. But there are no active spiritual spells here.”

Bacchus, pointedly not looking at the guards, walked Elsie around the podium slowly. Anyone watching would think they were just admiring the opus. “What else?”

She closed her eyes a moment. “There’s a rational spell on the podium. An emotional one.”

“Perhaps fear, to dissuade those who are too interested.”

She nodded, still unfocused, trying to perceive any other spells they might face. A few faint freckles dotted the bridge of her nose. For a moment, Bacchus let his thoughts wander elsewhere, to Barbados, to Elsie strolling along the beach, freckles blooming across the entirety of her face. She would hate the notion, he was sure, but the image his mind conjured was rather beautiful.

“There’s a spell thickening the air around the opus, and I think it’s also fused to the podium. And”—she sniffed—“possibly a temporal spell to keep the pages well, but that might just be the opus itself. I . . . I haven’t smelled a lot of opuses.”

Bacchus chuckled and led Elsie away before they could garner too much of the guards’ attention. It was unfortunate none of the others could do the job; Bacchus tended to rouse suspicion no matter his behavior, as he had at Christie’s Auction House. At least the pin helped. He’d seen more than one security detail’s eyes drop to it.

Mr. Ogden’s voice pushed into his head.

Elsie perked, sensing the spell. Bacchus guided her into the study.

he thought back.

All the spells Elsie had mentioned were in Bacchus’s repertoire.

They wandered about the study, Elsie and he taking turns glancing out the door. Another pair entered the parlor, an older couple, neither wearing a pin. Possibly a local baron and his wife? Regardless, they needed to act quickly. The crowd would only grow.

The people who’d gathered in the library also stepped into the parlor, but they must have already looked at the opus, for they turned back for the hall.

Bacchus ran his hand over the smooth oak desktop. A price tag on it read, £100.

“Ogden,” Elsie whispered, so faint Bacchus barely picked up on it. His pulse picked up, but he forced himself to continue to wander through the room, looking over a few things, writing down, silver candlesticks, £2, on his bid card so he would not leave entirely empty-handed. Elsie’s grip on his arm tightened, but otherwise she hid her nerves well.

When they finally returned to the parlor, they spied Ogden on the veranda and Miss Prescott studying a grandmother clock on the far wall. The couple from before stepped into the library.

Mr. Ogden’s voice forced its way into Bacchus’s skull.

And suddenly the guards all looked up at once, squinting at something on the ceiling. Something only they could see.

Elsie rushed to the podium, her fingers picking at the air as though they spun a web. Bacchus hurried after her. It didn’t matter if the opus was fused with the podium. They didn’t need to take it, only look at it—

He jerked his hand away as though the book had bitten him.

Elsie reached for what he assumed was the rational spell.

“Don’t,” he whispered, gritting his teeth. Ogden was pushing himself to the limit, distracting five men at once. He might not have the chance to replace a rational spell as well.

Hand shaking, Bacchus grabbed the cover of the book and flipped it open. His heartbeat soared until it rattled in his skin. At least his clammy hands made turning the pages easier. He flipped to the back of the book, where the master spells were penned in surprisingly sloppy handwriting. Did Merton have an uneven hand? He couldn’t recall.

Heaven help him, the fear spell was like dipping his hand into the mouth of a snake. Elsie’s grip on his bicep helped steady him, even as his breaths came too fast. As long as her hand was there, he knew the guards were still distracted. His job was to read.

The fear helped him read faster.

He had to read several lines of each spell to assess what they were. A slew of curses and blessings, communications spells for plants and animals—

“Oh, I absolutely love your dress!” Miss Prescott’s voice rang out from the library. The couple must have been on their way back into the parlor. She was distracting them. “Wherever did you get it? The color looks so well on you.”

Bacchus’s shaking hands tore one of the opus pages. He winced, flipping past astral projection of oneself, and then a very similar spell allowing astral projection of another person.

Which was when he reached the back cover.

He slammed the book shut and reeled back, breathing hard as the fear spell released its grip. Wiping his forehead, he said, “It’s not hers.” There was no spell that controlled another person. Merton had faked her death with another spellmaker’s opus.

The sound of vomiting brought Bacchus back to the present.

“You! Stop!” Two of the five guards rushed to the veranda, where Mr. Ogden was doubled over and retching on the marble floor.

“Oh, you poor man!” Elsie exclaimed, acting a hair on the excessive side. “Here, now.” She handed him her handkerchief. Ogden’s skin was pale, his eyes hollow. “You should know better than to go out when you’re ill. At least it’s on stone, hmm?” She put an arm around Ogden’s shoulders. “My name is Elsie. Let me help you outside.”

Bacchus wiped the perspiration from his face with his own handkerchief and hurried over. Elsie’s hands were trembling. In addition to the vomit, Mr. Ogden’s nose was bleeding profusely. He’d extended himself too far.

Had Bacchus paged through the master spells any slower, he would surely have been caught with his hands on the opus.

He rushed forward, helping to steady Mr. Ogden as well. “Let’s get you home,” he said, then whispered, “It’s not her.”

Mr. Ogden shut his eyes as though overcome by heavy exhaustion. Validation. He had been right. But it also meant Merton was out there, somewhere, pursuing the heinous plans that had brought them all together.

“Oh dear, he’s with me. I’ve got him.” Miss Prescott gently took Elsie’s place. She apologized profusely to the guards, one of whom remained with them as they escorted Mr. Ogden out of the house. Bacchus pressed Elsie’s handkerchief to Mr. Ogden’s nose so he would not bleed on the carpet. It ruined the cloth, of course, but it hardly mattered. Elsie would need an updated handkerchief soon besides. One that read EK instead of EC.

Miss Pratt and Mr. Camden were near the front of the house when Bacchus and the others emerged. Mr. Camden rushed to the stonemason’s side, and Miss Pratt paled nearly as much as Ogden had.

“I’ll get ’im a carriage,” Mr. Camden said, and ran for the lane. Meanwhile, Bacchus and Miss Prescott led Mr. Ogden to the grass and sat him down. He looked ready to vomit a second time.

“Take her away,” Miss Prescott murmured, tilting her head to Elsie. “It’s best we’re not seen together too long, just in case.”

Elsie’s lips parted as though to protest, but she closed them again, pressing them into a thin line. Bacchus took her hand and guided her away. They would hire their own carriage home.

“He’ll be fine,” he assured her. “It will pass.”

Elsie glanced over her shoulder as they neared the lane her brother had darted toward. A small carriage was pulling around, hopefully for Mr. Ogden. It couldn’t pull too close; as the morning wore on, more and more people were arriving for the memorial-turned-estate-sale, and those who owned their vehicles left them parked as close to the house as they could get. At least the clutter made it easy for Bacchus and Elsie to vanish from sight. The guards outside the home were likely watching Mr. Ogden like a hawk.

Elsie somehow managed to take in a deep breath; Bacchus wasn’t sure how women breathed in those contraptions they wore around their waists. Perhaps sometime he’d ask her. “He’ll be fine,” she repeated. Then, “I suppose we won’t be getting those candlesticks.”

Bacchus had forgotten about the card in his pocket. “I suppose not.”

She squeezed his arm, drawing closer to him, which Bacchus didn’t mind in the slightest. “You’re sure it wasn’t . . . ?”

“The pages were thick and easy to turn. I saw every spell. That opus is not Master Merton’s.”

Elsie nodded, looking straight ahead. They’d reached the main road, and Bacchus turned them west to keep the sun from their eyes. They could walk off the morning’s events before finding transportation. Even Bacchus needed a moment, his body still recovering from the rational spell.

“What next?” he asked.

Elsie shrugged. “More newspaper articles? Perhaps once Ogden is recovered, he can search for clues around Rochester . . . but I’m honestly not—”

She stopped—speech, movement, everything—her eyes glued to a couple coming across the street. There was nothing special about them; they were well dressed, but not to the extent an aristocrat would be. The man appeared to be close to Bacchus’s age, with coiffed ginger hair that was beginning to recede from his forehead. The woman looked older, perhaps Miss Prescott’s age. Her hat was so wide it nearly hit the gentleman in the head while they walked.

“Someone you know?” Bacchus inquired.

Elsie nodded. “That is Alfred Miller.”

It took a second for Bacchus to place the name; Elsie had mentioned the man only once.

This was her old beau.

Bacchus altered their course slightly to be sure they’d cross paths with the couple.

Elsie didn’t object, but her hand tightened on his arm. For a moment it seemed the couple wouldn’t notice them, so Bacchus cleared his throat.

Mr. Miller looked up first, noticing Elsie at once. His countenance was first that of surprise, which he quickly tucked away with a too-wide smile. “Oh! My dear, look. You remember Miss—”

And then his gaze shifted to Bacchus, who stood a full head taller than he and nearly twice as broad. Bacchus made a point of keeping his chin up so he could look down his nose at the man. Here was another reason to be grateful for that gaudy aspector’s pin.

Elsie leaned into Bacchus as they paused on the side of the road. “Oh, Alfred. You’re looking well.” She said nothing to his wife. “What are you doing way out here?”

“The estate sale, of course . . .” Mr. Miller’s eyes kept jerking over Bacchus, like he was trying to ignore him and having a hard time. In that moment, Bacchus found great joy in standing out like a cat in a crow’s nest.

“Oh, I didn’t think you would be interested.” Elsie smiled. “Do stay clear of the veranda; I hear a man lost his breakfast there, looking at the prices of everything.”

Mr. Miller flushed slightly. “And what are you doing here, Elsie?” He eyed the pin on Bacchus’s lapel.

Before Elsie could answer, Bacchus said, “Have you not heard? Mrs. Kelsey is a spellbreaker. She has priority.”

The flush faded to a blanch. “Are you really?”

His wife tugged on his arm. “Alfred.”

“We’d best be going.” Bacchus offered only a nod in farewell before escorting Elsie farther down the street. Neither of them looked back. Elsie walked with a straight spine until they turned the next corner.

Then her flat affect slipped, and she broke out in laughter.

“That was brilliant,” she said, releasing his arm and clapping her hands. “Did you see the look on his face? Just brilliant. You’re so direct, Bacchus. It’s quite menacing.”

Bacchus smirked. “Is it?”

She softly jabbed his ribs. “Do not pretend like you did not mean it to be. This was so much more satisfying than the trick we played on Duchess Morris.” Her laughter softened, and she took in their surroundings. A few shops pocked a narrow road. A few boys chatted with one another, one holding a dog’s leash.

“Perhaps I should have asked,” he tried, seeing her expression shift.

But she waved his words away. “Oh no, not that. It’s just . . . you called me Mrs. Kelsey.”

“More or less accurate,” he said. “It has a certain ring to it.”

She smiled, though she seemed to be fighting it. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Four more days. One bright thing in the midst of so much darkness.

Bacchus offered Elsie his elbow, and they slowly made their way back to Brookley.