Spellmaker

CHAPTER 2

Bacchus Kelsey lifted his eyes to realize everyone was staring at him.

It wasn’t a large party gathered for luncheon, just the family—Isaiah Scott, the Duke of Kent; his wife, Abigail; and his daughters, Ida and Josie. But they all looked at him intently, causing Bacchus to rub his half beard to see if there was food in it.

Fortunately, Duchess Scott clarified their interest before he had to ask. “You’re not even halfway through, dear.”

He glanced down to his plate, to the half-eaten mutton and vegetables staring back up at him. Everyone else’s dishes had already been taken away by the help.

Offering a weak smile, he said, “I suppose I’m lost in thought today.”

Josie perked up. “Not about Miss Camden, is it?”

Duchess Scott frowned. “Josie.”

Bacchus didn’t reply, but she was correct. He had been thinking about Elsie. He’d sent a telegram to Brookley that morning. Brief but to the point. He would have contacted her earlier, but he’d thought it best to wait. Alas, there weren’t any straightforward rules of decorum for how to comfort a lady after she was nearly murdered by her possessed employer. Cuthbert Ogden had still looked unwell when Bacchus had left the hospital in London, and Elsie had appeared little better. She’d told Bacchus everything, and although he believed her, he still struggled to wrap his head around it.

Cuthbert Ogden, behind all the murders and stolen opuses. Except he wasn’t.

So who was?

Bacchus dug his knife into the mutton and finished sawing off the piece he’d been halfheartedly working on for the last couple of minutes. “Just upcoming plans,” he finally said.

“You’re welcome to stay, of course.” The duke leaned his elbows on the table.

“You are very generous, thank you.” Bacchus chewed the mutton, swallowed. Thought. “I should be getting everything arranged this week.” Barbados called to him—he had responsibilities there, friends, employees who depended on him—but he was too anchored in England to want to leave. Anchored by unanswered questions and an unsure future. He didn’t have the same limitations he’d suffered for half his life, for one. That changed things. And then there was the question of how to approach a certain woman—

Baxter, the butler, stepped into the second dining room just then, the sound of the door echoing against the high ceiling. It wasn’t as large as the usual dining room, but that one was still under repairs following Abel Nash’s attack on Bacchus. The attack Elsie had nearly died to stop. And Bacchus was far more skilled at putting holes in floors than repairing them. Even a master physical aspector—a spellmaker who could affect properties of the physical world—could do only so much.

The butler bowed. “I apologize for interrupting, Your Grace, but there’s a visitor in the drawing room for Master Kelsey.”

Meal forgotten, Bacchus stood from his chair, trying not to notice the way Josie lit with excitement. His own pulse quickened. “Who?”

“A Mr. Ogden, from Brookley.”

Bacchus tried to mask his surprise. “He’s alone?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Bacchus glanced back to the duke, but it was the duchess who waved at him. “Go on. We’ll see you at tea, perhaps?”

Bacchus nodded and followed the butler, nearly mowing him over on their way to the drawing room. When Baxter opened the door, Cuthbert Ogden turned from the window, dressed modestly but with finesse, his hair combed back. He was a stout man, solid, his color fully returned. He was a few inches shorter than Bacchus and had his hands clasped behind his back.

He smiled. “Ah, Master Kelsey. I was hoping to discuss the ornaments you wanted before your return home.”

Bacchus’s brows drew together. “Orna—”

Bacchus nearly choked on his question as Mr. Ogden’s voice inserted itself into his mind. Gooseflesh rose on his arms. It was true, then. This man was a rational aspector, a magician of the mind. Something Elsie had uncovered during their chase through the St. Katharine Docks.

“Yes, thank you for seeing me.” He nodded to the butler, who gave a cursory glance to their visitor before silently excusing himself. “I was hoping you’d be able to work on a tight schedule.”

Mr. Ogden nodded. “Of course.”

Bacchus gestured past the door. “Would you care to discuss it on the grounds? My legs are in need of exercise.”

“Gladly.” Another smile, and Mr. Ogden followed Bacchus’s direction. Neither of them said another word as they followed the hallway to the first door that led outside. Mr. Ogden waited until they were some distance from the house before speaking again.

“It is my understanding that you’re aware of certain things,” he said, hands still clasped behind him as they walked.

Bacchus matched his posture and speed. “If you’re referring to the events a week prior, then yes, I am.”

“Excellent.” He stopped suddenly, peering briefly at the house. “Forgive my intrusion, but I’m in need of your aid, Master Kelsey. I’ve neither the funds nor the standing to help her, and we need all the allies we can get.”

“Help her?” Bacchus repeated, stomach tightening. His voice dropped. “Has something happened to Elsie?”

Mr. Ogden’s jaw tensed. “She’s been arrested.”

Dropping his hands, Bacchus stepped back. “On what charges?”

“Illegal spellbreaking, what else?”

Mr. Ogden began walking again, and it took a moment for Bacchus’s thoughts to connect to his legs so he could follow. He did, half hissing, “You’re awfully calm about this.”

“I am calm because I have to be.” The words were hard as wrought iron. “Because even I can’t get into the minds of every bobby and magistrate and convince them that Elsie is innocent. We’d best be on our way; I’m not certain how to proceed, or how quickly she might be sentenced. You know far more about the workings of the atheneums than I.”

Bacchus’s heart thudded against his chest, and his spine grew stiff as marble. “I’ll call for a carriage right away.”

“No need. There’s one waiting for us. I convinced one of your servants it was of utmost importance on my way in.”

The thought of this man penetrating the staff’s minds, his mind, should have bothered him, but Bacchus couldn’t tear his thoughts from Elsie. “When did they take her?”

“This morning. I’ll explain everything I know on the way there.”

Sure enough, as they neared the front lane, one of the duke’s drivers came around with a carriage. The fastest in the fleet, if Bacchus wasn’t mistaken. Good, they couldn’t waste any time. Not when Elsie’s life was on the line.

To think, only two fortnights ago, Bacchus had been ready to throw her into a cell himself. Now he’d give his right arm to keep her out of one. She’d saved his life twice: first by detecting and removing the siphoning spell that had been draining his strength and energy since adolescence, and second by thwarting Abel Nash’s plan to shoot him through with a lightning bolt. But even without the acts of valor, she had startled him with her courage, her tenacity, the soft heart she kept tucked away in a vault of her own making. She made him laugh, made him think, made him feel, and envisioning a rope around her neck made Bacchus sick to his very core.

He quickened his pace, Mr. Ogden keeping up well enough. Before they reached the lane, however, Mr. Ogden asked, “You haven’t perchance seen Master Lily Merton this past week, have you?”

Bacchus slowed. “No, why?”

Mr. Ogden’s eyes stared dead ahead. “Because she’s the only one who could have turned Elsie in.”

Elsie didn’t know what to think. What to do. What to hope. So she just gazed at the crisscrossing bars of the door to her tiny cell, listening to occasional footsteps, blank and scared and cold.

The ride here had been long and hard, for the wagon they’d taken her in had lacked even a simple bench for sitting. She’d thought they’d take her directly to the London Physical Atheneum, but apparently the assembly did not want criminals of her ilk near their precious books. No, she’d been brought to Her Majesty’s Prison Oxford, a facility designed by the London atheneums to hold aspectors—men and women who could potentially melt their bars or sway their jailers to let them escape. There were spellbreakers among the patrol as well, she noticed, outfitted with violet badges that stood out from the color-coded badges of the spellmakers—blue for physical, red for rational, yellow for spiritual, and green for temporal.

They’d put her in a cell the size of a closet, protected only by bars and stones. For Elsie, they were all the precautions needed. While she could unwind any spell used to entrap her, she could cast nothing to get herself out. The cell was about five feet tall, five feet long, and three feet across. Not quite large enough for her to lie down without bending her knees, or stand without stooping her head. Perhaps that was the point. The centuries-old stone was mottled gray and white, the plaster chipping at the corners of the ceiling. No mattress, no straw, but she did have a rough blanket and a pot for excrement. No one stood outside the cage-like door, but even so, Elsie couldn’t imagine hiking up her dress to use the pot when someone might pass by at any time. She hadn’t yet, though her bladder was growing more and more uncomfortable.

Night would fall eventually. Then she would use it. She could wait. They’d already brought her a dingy tray of food for supper. Darkness wouldn’t be long now.

She wasn’t sure she wanted darkness to come.

Perhaps it would have been better if she weren’t alone—if she were instead in one of the larger cells with other prisoners. At least then she’d have someone to talk to. But that company might consist of bandits, murderers, and other ruffians.

The chill finally grew sharp enough that Elsie took the blanket. It didn’t smell good, but it was clean, and she wrapped it around her shoulders, leaning onto one side to alleviate some of the pain building in her rump. At least they hadn’t put her in the stocks. She’d seen two of them on her way here, one of them in use. The man locked within it had great iron bowls strapped over his hands to dissuade him from using any magic. Praise the Lord, they hadn’t taken her hands away. Yet.

Elsie’s imagination bristled as the sunlight coming through a window in the hallway—there were none in her cell—faded to orange. Would they cut off her hands? Send her to the workhouse? Or merely put a rope around her neck and end it quickly?

A sob caught halfway up her throat. Elsie fumbled with her dress until she could loosen her corset and breathe. Then she brought her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them, hiding her face with the blanket. God help her, she’d never been so scared in her entire life. Even after her family had abandoned her and the Halls had brought her to the workhouse. At least then she hadn’t feared dying.

Shivering, she pulled the blanket closer. She wished she could just sleep and wake up when this was all over, but her fear-riddled body refused to rest. Elsie was fairly certain she’d never sleep again.

Clenching her jaw, she tried to pull her wits together.

Dear Lord, I know I’m not the most devout, but please help—

“What a drab place this is.”

Lightning shot up her limbs at the familiar voice, and she bolted upright, the blanket falling from her shoulders, the crown of her head knocking against the low ceiling. She looked wildly to the door, which remained firmly locked. The woman who had spoken was just inside it, against the left wall.

The cold seeped down to Elsie’s bones as she gaped at Master Lily Merton.

The middle-aged woman tucked a short curl behind one of her ears. “But it suits our purposes, doesn’t it, dear? We wouldn’t want to be interrupted.”

Elsie retreated until her back touched the wall behind her. “You did this.”

Master Merton waved a dismissive hand. “I couldn’t talk to you at the stonemasonry shop, now could I? Not with that lug lurking around the corner.” She clicked her tongue. “What a sorry loss. I really should be angry with you, Elsie.”

Her stomach curled. “Angry? After what you did—”

The words caught on her tongue as she stared at the shorter woman. She could see through her face and shoulders to where the stone behind her shifted from dark to light; the violet dress she wore seemed made of air, the edges blurry.

A projection. Of course. Most master-level spiritual aspectors had the ability to cast one. Yet the projection was solid enough that she had to be close. Perhaps not on the grounds, but in the wood surrounding them?

Elsie swallowed. “Where are you?”

Master Merton chuckled. “I’m not going to tell you that.” She looked behind her, but Elsie couldn’t tell if she was studying the prison outside the bars or perhaps peering at something in her true location. Maybe she’d heard a noise.

Elsie’s breath caught—if she could keep Master Merton talking, perhaps a guard would come by and see her! Then Elsie could tell the authorities everything and have Master Merton arrested. Elsie had nothing to lose, so long as she could keep Ogden out of the confession.

Calculating, she said, “That night, at the duke’s house—”

“I’m not here for chitchat, dear,” the projection replied, voice just above a whisper. No footsteps sounded overhead or in the halls. Did Master Merton know the guards’ schedules, or had she distracted them somehow? “But I will make you an offer. I’ll clear your name if you’ll come with me.”

Elsie gaped. “But why?”

The projection folded her hands together. “You really are valuable, Elsie, especially after what happened with Nash.”

Elsie pushed off the wall. “What happened with Nash was your doing—”

“And I’d hate to lose you,” Master Merton went on. “Really, you’re like a daughter to me.”

The sentiment pricked her. Once Elsie had considered the Cowls her treasured secret—the anonymous benefactors who had plucked her out of obscurity and given her something important to do . . . and then she’d learned the truth. She shook her head. The opus spell beneath her bodice pressed against her, reminding her of its presence, but it would do her no good here. “You’re a murderer and a thief. You used me from the start!”

“Hardly.” She looked away, expression downcast. “I didn’t involve you, in the beginning. I wanted you to learn your ability and use it to good purpose. The rest . . . it’s all happening much later than I had hoped.”

Elsie stared at her. In the beginning. Was she referring to the childhood tasks she’d assigned to Elsie? Dis-spelling the wall in the middle of farmland and bringing bread baskets to the orphanage? Did she think such small acts could really counterbalance murder?

“What do you mean it’s happening later than you’d hoped?” Elsie pressed carefully.

Merton glanced over, meeting her gaze. “I wanted to adopt you, dear child, when I saved you from that workhouse. But I knew if I were to use your talents, the connection would be too obvious. So I set you up in Brookley instead.”

“A-Adopt me?” Surely Merton was jesting. Yet she looked and sounded sincere. As sincere as such a woman could be.

She shook any soft feelings from her heart. “You put me to work under a terrible man.” Squire Hughes had been her first employer in Brookley, and he was no better than Robin Hood’s portrayal of King John.

“I put you to work under a rich man. You were provided for,” Merton countered. “And you saw firsthand the evils we needed to fight.”

The mention of evil brought Elsie’s teeth down on her tongue for the hypocrisy. She inched closer. “You took away Ogden’s will—”

“That was your doing, dear.” Her facial features sharpened again. “I would never have known about him if you’d stayed put.”

Elsie reeled back as though she’d been slapped. It wasn’t her fault. Deep down, she knew that. She hadn’t placed the spell on Ogden. She hadn’t used his secret abilities to plan the murders of aspectors and theft of their opuses.

Yet she had led Merton right to him, unknowingly.

Ignorance didn’t lessen the sting.

Master Merton brushed off her skirt. “Perhaps you need a little more time to think about it.” A pause. “I do hope the judge is lenient,” she added, tone flippant.

And just as quickly as it had come, the projection of Master Merton disappeared as though it never were, leaving Elsie utterly and helplessly alone.

Again.