Spellmaker, page 13
part #2 of Spellbreaker Series
“What?” Elsie blurted at the same time Ogden said, “Good God.”
“She’s alive,” he added. “In serious condition, but the doctors believe she will recover. She was transferred to a hospital in the city late last night after a temporal aspector slowed her bleeding.”
Elsie pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s . . . terrible. Was she shot?”
“Stabbed.”
Elsie blanched and reached for Bacchus’s hand. “You fought him, didn’t you? The attacker.”
Ogden turned to the door. “Emmeline, would you make us some tea?”
The maid hesitated, obviously wanting to hear the conversation, but she curtsied and left.
Bacchus’s nod was severe. “Briefly. But this was no Abel Nash. He was a physical aspector. A master one.”
Ogden cursed. “She’s found another pawn.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Bacchus agreed. “It was a man of average build, perhaps a little taller. He wore black entirely, even on his face. I had no means of recognizing him.”
Elsie said, “We could get a list of registered spellmakers in London and weed it down from there—”
“Who is to say he’s registered?” Ogden asked. “I wasn’t.”
“She never used you to kill spellmakers directly,” Elsie whispered.
Ogden frowned. “Not that I can remember, at least.”
Elsie reached for him as well, squeezing his hand before shifting her attention to Bacchus. “Where else are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing serious. Only bruises.”
Elsie sighed, pulling both her hands back to herself. “I want this to end. I want this to be over.”
“Soon enough it will be, one way or another.” Ogden picked up the stack of articles and handed them to Bacchus. “We should catch you up on our research. We’ve deciphered Merton’s code, though we’ve found only five articles under Elsie’s name.” He went on to explain everything they knew, which, unfortunately, did not take long.
“I see.” Bacchus flipped through the papers. “This is good. The information, I mean.”
Elsie’s eyes dropped to the line on his neck. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Lowering the papers, Bacchus gave her a soft smile. “I am. In truth, it is fortunate I was there. I don’t think Merton, or whoever this attacker was, expected a second aspector to be in residence. He must have come upon her suddenly to avoid retaliation. She’d been stabbed three times . . .”
Elsie considered that. Bacchus had likely saved Master Hill’s life. That made one more opus that Merton didn’t have, and surely the attacker wouldn’t risk attacking a patient in a public hospital to finish the job. Not where there were so many witnesses . . .
Emmeline returned, and the conversation went silent under her watch. She set a silver tray on the table to Bacchus’s left and poured three cups, filling Ogden’s only half full with tea, then adding cream to bring the liquid up to the top. “Master Kelsey, how do you like your tea?”
A knock sounded downstairs.
“Oh.” Emmeline set down the cream. “I’ll answer that.”
“Thank you,” Ogden said.
Emmeline scurried from the room, wiping her hands on her apron as she went.
A moment passed before Bacchus said, “The vicar is available July 16.”
Elsie had forgotten the date they had discussed at the engagement dinner. “Oh. But . . . is Kent the right place?” She initially hadn’t wanted the ceremony in Brookley. The whole town might expect to be invited, and if she didn’t invite them, they might invite themselves. The last thing she wanted was the Wright sisters tittering over Bacchus.
But with the recent break from the Scotts . . .
His eyes turned downcast for a moment. “I also inquired of Mr. Harrison.”
Elsie nodded. Mr. Harrison was the vicar for Brookley. Nice enough man. And really, moving the ceremony to Brookley was the sensible thing to do, was it not? It would make things easier on Bacchus.
She rubbed her arms. “You’ve not heard from them.”
Ogden, clearing his throat, stood from his chair and moved to the window, peering down at the street below. It wasn’t the subtlest attempt to give them privacy, but Elsie appreciated it all the same.
“From the duchess, yes. I received her letter as I was leaving this morning.” Bacchus reached into his jacket and pulled out the folded missive. He handed it to her.
She glanced at his face, ensuring he did in fact want her to read it, before unfurling the message. It was rather long, the penmanship even finer than Bacchus’s. It was an apology interlaced with kind words regarding Bacchus . . . oh, and Elsie.
She really is a marvelous find. I only wish we could have resolved this in a better way. Please believe me when I say I had no idea, Bacchus. Isaiah didn’t want me or the children to know. He didn’t want us to worry. I’m not condoning his choice. Of course I want my husband to live a long life. Of course I want his health to be pristine. But I fear the cost has been too high. You are already greatly missed. All of our consciences are heavy over this, Isaiah’s especially.
Elsie folded the letter in her lap. “How are you?” she murmured.
Bacchus stretched his arm over the back of the couch, running a finger along one of the curls at the nape of Elsie’s neck as he did so. Shivers rained down her spine. “I believe her, of course.” He sighed. “It’s too much to sort out right now. I’ve not yet replied to her. I don’t know if I will. So perhaps Kent . . .”
When he trailed off, Elsie supplied, “I really don’t mind having it in the church here. It’s smaller. Fewer flowers, smaller bill.”
His lip quirked. “I don’t mind purchasing you flowers.”
“And what am I to do with them after?” She sat up straighter. “Who’s even going to see them? Besides, all eyes should be on the bride anyway.”
He tugged that curl again. “They will be.”
Her cheeks warmed. Goodness, July 16 was very close—only sixteen days away. To be married . . .
Elsie’s thoughts flew back to the conversation they’d had in the carriage, which naturally made her think of that kiss, and the warmth flooded into her ears. Bacchus must have noticed, because he chuckled softly beside her, and it took all of Elsie’s willpower not to swat him.
Emmeline returned, poking her head in. “Someone for you, Elsie. I don’t know who he is. He wouldn’t tell me his name.”
Elsie’s breath caught. “He’s not in uniform, is he?”
But Emmeline shook her head. “Normal-looking bloke if you ask me.”
Elsie exchanged a glance with Ogden. It couldn’t be the American, could it? Surely they wouldn’t be so lucky. Or unlucky, depending on his approach.
Standing, Elsie smoothed her dress and hurried to the door. “I’m getting a little tired of surprise visitors,” she said flippantly, though her stomach was in knots. Perhaps Miss Prescott had sent an aspector to her home? Elsie couldn’t recall any appointments, but she’d been so flustered as of late, she might have forgotten.
Ogden and Bacchus followed Elsie as she wound her way down the stairs, through the kitchen and hall, into the studio. Emmeline hadn’t exaggerated—the man waiting just beside the counter was a normal-looking bloke, indeed. He appeared to be a couple of years Elsie’s senior, and he wrung a cap in his hands. He was as well dressed as a working man could be, in all shades of brown, though his jacket was olive. He had a mop of wavy hair atop his head. He looked up when Elsie entered, and there was something oddly familiar about his blue eyes, but Elsie couldn’t place what. She was sure she’d never met the fellow before.
“Elsie . . . that is, you’re Elsie Camden,” the man said immediately.
Elsie hesitated, but nodded. “I am, but I’m not the artist here.” Ogden and Bacchus came in, and she pointed to the former. “He is.”
“Oh, uh . . .” He laughed awkwardly. “Not here about art. It’s just. Well.” He put his cap on, rubbed his hands together, then took his cap off again. “Well, this might sound a little strange.”
I assure you it’s already strange, Elsie thought with apprehension, glancing sidelong to Bacchus.
“But, uh, I saw your wedding announcement in the paper.” His eyes moved between Bacchus and Ogden before returning to her. “And, well, if I could ask you a personal question . . .”
Elsie frowned. “I’m not sure I should agree.”
“Please, Miss Camden.”
Emmeline met her eyes, and she looked so hopeful that Elsie consented with a nod.
He wrung that hat like it was a chicken’s neck. “It’s just that . . . Do you know your parents, Miss Camden?”
Her stomach tightened. “That is a personal question. And an odd one at that.”
“I know. It’s just . . .” He finally had mercy on the cap and set it on the counter. He took one step forward, no more. “It’s just that, you see, my parents . . . they were real poor, you know? Had a hard time keeping us. Left me with a family in Reading.” A soft chuckle passed his lips, but Elsie’s stomach tightened further. “And it’s just . . . I had a sister named Elsie. Haven’t seen her since I was eight. And you . . . you’re the right age. Haven’t been able to find an Elsie Camden until I saw the announcement last week, you see.”
Elsie’s hand moved up to her mouth. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
“Lad,” Ogden started gently, “what did you say your name was?”
“Reggie,” he answered, now wringing the hem of his coat. “That is, Reginald. Reginald Camden.”
And just like that, Elsie knew why his eyes looked familiar. Because she’d seen them every day in her mirror.
They were her eyes.
Tears blurred her vision. In a weak whisper, she said, “D-Do you know where they left her?”
Reggie shook his head. “I don’t. Somewhere near Reading. A small town. We lost her first, although I’m not sure why. I didn’t know they planned it for all of us. Ma and Pa . . . they never explained it to me. I didn’t understand until I was older.”
A sore lump pressed into Elsie’s throat. How could he know that? How could he know that, unless . . .
“You’re my brother,” she breathed, and a sob escaped her lips.
The man smiled, his own eyes watering. “Yeah, Elsie. I’m pretty sure I am.”
CHAPTER 13
“You really don’t remember?”
They all sat at the dining room table, Ogden at its head, Reginald—Reggie—in the chair across from Elsie. Bacchus sat beside her. Emmeline took up the other end of the table, silent and fascinated. Decorum meant one of them ought to be serving tea, but who could focus on tea at a time such as this?
Elsie was soaring and hoped to never come back down. She shook her head in wonder. “I knew I had a mother and a father, and I remembered a brother. I knew I remembered a brother!”
Reggie smiled. “That you did. There were four of us in all. Maybe you remember John. He was older than me. Found him, too, about six years ago.”
Elsie’s heart flipped. “You did? Where—”
Reggie stayed her question with a hand. “Don’t get too excited, Elsie.” His face fell. “I’m real sorry, but he’s not . . . not around anymore. Died of measles a few winters back.”
Elsie felt heavy in her chair. Beneath the table, Bacchus’s hand found her knee. The weight of the simple touch anchored her.
“I see. Where is he buried?”
Reggie was manhandling his cap again. It was a wonder it still held its shape. “Little town north of London a ways called Green Knoll. I could take you there if you’d like.”
“I would. I would like that. But . . . you said there were four of us?”
Reggie snapped his fingers. “A sister, younger than you. Her name was Alice, I’m sure of it. But I haven’t been able to find her. Don’t know if our parents kept her or left her somewhere, too. Could be anywhere.”
A sister. Elsie had a sister out there somewhere. A sister who probably didn’t remember her last name was Camden, which would make her that much harder to locate. Pressing her palms against the table, Elsie said, “I just don’t understand why they would do that. Why they would abandon their own children.”
“As I said, we were poor,” Reggie offered softly, while the others listened in silence. “Real poor. I remember being hungry a lot. We traveled quite a bit, our pa always looking for work, though I don’t remember what he did. We lived off the hospitality of strangers. Which is where they got the idea, I guess.”
Elsie nodded, solemn. “Did you go to the workhouse, then?”
Reggie looked abashed. “Uh . . . no, I didn’t. See, they left me with a family that couldn’t take me on. But there was an older couple in the same village, the Turnkeys, who weren’t able to have a child of their own. They took me in. Made me work for every stitch I wore, but they gave me a place to stay.”
Elsie nodded. “That sounds nice.”
“I suppose it’s better than a workhouse. But it looks to have worked out for you.” He glanced around the room, then to Ogden, Emmeline, and finally Bacchus. To the last, he said, “You probably get this a lot, but where are you from?”
“Barbados,” Bacchus answered patiently.
Reggie whistled. “That’s far. I would have guessed Turkey.”
“Reggie, that is, Mr. Camden”—Emmeline sounded suddenly eager—“what is it you do? Are you a farmer?”
Reggie laughed. “Could say I used to be, but nah, I repair letterpresses. Sell the parts, too. Just up in London.” He pointed north as though they didn’t know where the sprawling city was located.
“Sounds like good work,” Ogden chimed in.
Reggie nodded. “I like it well enough. Don’t own my own shop like you do, but the bloke I work with is a good man and fair.”
Wondering if there was more family she had yet to meet, Elsie asked, “Are you married?”
To her surprise, Reggie colored slightly and glanced to Emmeline. “Ah, no. Not yet. Can’t say I haven’t worked on it.”
Emmeline blurted, “Elsie is a spellbreaker!”
It was still strange to her, having that information public.
Her brother—her brother!—looked at her with wide eyes. “Are you really?”
“In training,” she said, and Bacchus squeezed her knee. It would have been utterly inappropriate were they not engaged, and Elsie had to continually remind herself she was engaged.
For what had to be the thousandth time, she found herself thinking of what Bacchus had said in the carriage before kissing her. They merely sped up the process. Had he planned to court her in earnest, then, and not sail for Barbados right away? Elsie wasn’t sure how else to interpret such a confession, so she clung to the hopeful answer.
First Bacchus, and now Reggie . . . maybe she had been wrong. Maybe it was simply misfortune—and imbeciles—that had carved her life into what it was today. Perhaps she wasn’t as terrible as she thought.
Perhaps.
Reggie whistled again, and it made Elsie smile. “Ain’t that something, Elsie. You can do a lot being a spellbreaker. They make good coin. And yer a spellmaker.” He looked to Bacchus as he said it. Then, sheepish again, followed up with, “After I saw Elsie’s name in the paper, I looked you up, too. Master physical aspector. Bang up the elephant, you two have it made.”
Elsie flushed. “I suppose we do. And you’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?”
Her brother grinned. “Took the whole day off, and I’m not one to say no to a free meal.” He glanced at Emmeline again. “If you don’t mind me sticking around.”
“Of course not!” Remembering herself, Elsie waited for Ogden’s nod of approval and exhaled when she got it. This was his house, after all. “And, Bacchus, you’ll stay as well.” She bravely set her hand atop his.
Bacchus nodded. “After, I would like to return to London to see after Master Hill.”
“Of course.” Reality, nearly forgotten, crashed down on her. They still had to find Merton, to stop her from whatever she was attempting to do.
But for now, she could ignore those pressing matters and focus on her brother, if only for one day. She had a brother! She still couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “Now, tell me about where you grew up. About this couple who took you in.”
Reggie leaned back in the chair, getting comfortable. “Well, we lived right by a stream that had the name of St. Patrick, but we all called it Pattie’s Water, which maybe was a bit sacrilegious . . .”
Elsie and Reggie got on so swimmingly, like true siblings, she didn’t want him to leave. Ever. But they were adults, and they both had jobs and lives, and so leave he did, with the promise they’d see each other again soon. All in all, it was one of the most pleasant days of Elsie’s life.
The following day, however, was far less cheery.
A clash of thunder echoed within the dressmaker’s shop, reverberating through the walls as it clamored its way into the earth. Elsie flinched at the sound, and the seamstress nearly stuck her with a pin.
Emmeline stood at the window, admiring a white dove pin, occasionally peering into the murky gray beyond the fat and fast raindrops pelting the glass. It had been raining all day, since before Elsie woke. Raining with a vengeance. But it did provide her with rare privacy for her pursuit of bridal necessities. Brookley was quiet all around, and therefore there was no one at the dressmaker’s to witness her being measured, or to ask her questions about Bacchus, or to gossip about her personal life.
She had intended to get married in one of the dresses she already owned, just as any frugal woman would. Perhaps splurge on some extra lace and ribbon to elevate her church gown. Bacchus had inquired about it yesterday after lunch, and she’d told him as much.
While I think that’s perfectly suitable, he’d said carefully, if we’d been engaged as long as the magistrate thinks, there would be plenty of time to order a dress. It might be better to have one.
