Spellmaker, page 23
part #2 of Spellbreaker Series
“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.
CHAPTER 20
Some ginger tea and a lot of rest set Ogden to rights again.
After returning to Brookley, Elsie barely left his side. When she did, Emmeline took over, keeping an eye on him, listening to his breathing, checking for fever. Elsie couldn’t imagine how much spellbreaking she’d have to do to exert herself to the point Ogden had. The worst she’d ever experienced was fiercely itchy wrists. Bacchus had told her he’d never suffered anything more than a headache. How much had Ogden struggled on that veranda, casting spells to distract five different guards? And thank goodness for Irene. If she hadn’t distracted the rogue couple, they might have been caught anyway.
Still, when Ogden declared he was going back to Rochester, it made Elsie uneasy.
“Perhaps wait until after the wedding,” she pressed as they ate lunch in the dining room, Emmeline up and about and mothering them per usual. “To make sure.”
“I’m fine.” Ogden tore into a piece of buttered bread. At least his appetite had returned. He’d barely eaten since coming home from the estate sale yesterday. “I need to do it now, before the estate sale ends, in case someone there knows something.”
“If a spellbreaker is present,” Bacchus said, “they might detect you.”
Ogden frowned, picked up his knife, and cut into his pie. “Then I will endeavor to not get caught.”
“What was it that you said the other day, about being the rational one?” Bacchus asked. Elsie wasn’t sure what he meant, but Ogden ignored him.
Elsie worried her lip, but there would be no stopping him, she knew. He was proving himself to be a positively stubborn man. Yet, in a way, he had earned the right to be stubborn.
“One of us should come with you,” she tried.
Ogden rebuffed the statement with a wave of his hand, eating too quickly to give a proper reply. When he finished, he pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth, and stood. “One thing before I go.” He gestured to Elsie to follow, then started for the stairs.
She passed a curious look to Bacchus before following Ogden to the second floor, to his bedroom. He motioned for Elsie to step in, shut the door behind them, then went to the trunks under his bed. He must have rifled through them earlier, because what he was searching for sat at the very top.
A wooden ring box.
“Ogden?” Elsie asked.
“It occurred to me last night that Master Kelsey has not been outfitted with the appropriate matrimonial jewelry.” He held the box in his palm, as though weighing it, before turning to Elsie. “I want you to have this.”
Hesitant, she took the box and gingerly opened it. Inside was a thin gold ring delicately carved to look like a winding snake. The symbol of eternity.
Her lips parted. “O-Ogden—”
“It was my father’s ring.” He shrugged. “I highly doubt I’ll be able to use it myself.”
Closing the box, Elsie shook her head. “I can’t take this.”
“You can.” He closed the gap between them and placed his hand on top of hers, keeping the ring box pressed between her fingers. He looked her in the eyes. “Elsie, you are the closest thing to a daughter I have.”
Tears sprang to her eyes.
“I know you may think otherwise, especially given Merton’s involvement in our lives. But I cherish you, and nothing would make me happier than to pass down this heirloom to my rightful family.”
Elsie pressed her lips together. Sniffed. Wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Nodded.
Ogden smiled and embraced her, his arms encircling her shoulders. Warm and strong, just as a father’s hug should be.
“My father was a sturdy man,” he murmured. “So that ring might even fit that man you have down there.”
Elsie laughed. “He can adjust it either way.” When Ogden pulled back, she added, “I wouldn’t mind being Elsie Ogden. At least for a few days.”
She thought she saw a glimmer of wetness in Ogden’s eyes as well. “I would like that very much.”
Ogden set off shortly after that. Emmeline packed him a dinner, and Elsie packed him a valise, just in case. Bacchus offered him an enchanted pencil, but he’d declined, saying he’d be moving about too much for it to be of any use.
“They have telegrams in Rochester.” It was the last thing he said before donning his hat and leaving the stonemasonry shop.
There wasn’t much to do with Ogden gone, and since the upcoming wedding was so simple, there wasn’t much left to plan. Elsie took to wiping down the counters in the studio and sweeping and mopping. She even took a putty knife to some paint drips on the floor. She had just finished when a dog barked outside. Opening the front door, she saw a post dog panting with a satchel hanging off its side, containing three letters. She took the envelopes and patted the dog’s head. Poor thing was probably sweltering in this July weather.
The dog trotted away, off to the next house, and Elsie stepped inside. The first letter was from Ogden’s mortgager, reminding him of the month’s upcoming payment. The second and third were addressed to Bacchus.
“Oh,” she said, turning the first letter about. It bore the seal of Seven Oaks. The second missive she didn’t recognize.
Setting the bill atop the counter, Elsie hurried upstairs, finding Bacchus drafting a letter of his own in the sitting room. He did that a lot—writing missives to establish himself in London, or sending instructions back home to Barbados. It was all very official sounding.
“You know you’re well and settled in Brookley when you get more mail than we do.” She offered a smile as she crossed the room, handing the mail to him.
Bacchus set down his pen and accepted it. He opened the unfamiliar letter first and read silently. A sigh escaped him.
Elsie took a seat beside him. “What is it?”
“Good news, we’re not homeless.” He handed the letter to her. “Our offer on that townhome in London was approved.”
Mice scurried about in Elsie’s stomach. “Oh.” It was official, then. They would be living somewhere else, together. It was a stark reminder that all of this was actually happening. Hopefully happening. Admittedly, she was sad to say goodbye to the stonemasonry shop. She couldn’t keep her job if she lived so deep in the capital, though without an occupation, she could fully dive into her pretend training as a spellbreaker and earn the official title that much faster. Still, she would miss not seeing Ogden and Emmeline every day. At least she would be closer to Reggie.
And much closer to Bacchus.
Ignoring the warmth climbing up her neck, she said, “The other is from Seven Oaks.”
Bacchus, his expression slack, turned the letter over and ran the pad of his thumb over its seal. “So it is.” He handed it to her.
“It’s addressed to you.”
“I know you’re curious.” He offered her a weak half smile.
Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Elsie broke the seal and opened the letter. It was brief, the penmanship fine. She glanced at the bottom. “It’s from the duchess.” Then she read slowly.
“Oh.”
Bacchus quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”
She read to the end of the letter, then set it on her lap. “The duke feels terrible about what happened.”
He leaned his chin on his fist. “So she’s said.”
“He took off the siphoning spell.”
Bacchus straightened in his seat. “What?”
She held out the letter to him, but he didn’t take it. “It says he canceled the new one. The one he got after I broke your end. She says they’re going to take what life will give them.”
Now Bacchus did take the letter, and looked it over. “I’m . . . surprised” was all he said.
Elsie drew a hand down the length of his back. “How are you doing?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
A scream pierced the air, and something shattered.
Elsie shot to her feet. “Emmeline!” She ran for the door, Bacchus close behind her. She nearly toppled down the stairs for how swiftly she took them.
She swung around into the kitchen, seeing first the broken pieces of a serving tray littering the floor, then Emmeline pressed up against the wall, wide eyes staring at the far corner. At a person. No, an astral projection. But the one casting it was so far away it was little more than a wisp of a ghost. No discernable facial features, smeared colors of brown, gray, black, and peach.
Elsie’s stomach hit the floor, and her throat constricted. She managed to croak, “M-Merton?”
“I’m not familiar with him,” a gravelly male voice replied, as though he were speaking through a wall. But more importantly, he spoke with an American accent.
A chill passed over Elsie’s everything.
He’d come.
Master Quinn Raven.
“It worked,” Elsie whispered.
The image shifted. “You’ll have to speak up.”
She stepped closer, and Bacchus’s hand found her shoulder, stopping her. Turning to him, she said, “A projection of him can hardly hurt us.”
Bacchus’s mouth thinned to a line, but he nodded, and Elsie crossed the room, ceramic shards cracking under her shoes.
“My name is Elsie Camden. I’m the one you met in Juniper Down.”
“Yes, I know,” he barked, still garbled, but there was nothing to be done about that. “You said you didn’t pen them, but now they’re everywhere. Explain yourself.”
“I didn’t pen the originals. That was Master Lily Merton.”
Raven didn’t answer right away. “Isn’t she the one who just died?”
“She faked her death. We checked the opus.”
Behind her, Bacchus said, “Do you know her?”
“Vaguely.” He offered nothing else.
“Merton is the one who wrote those articles, goading you,” Elsie went on. She needed to relay as much information as she could, as quickly as possible, given Raven’s obvious lack of patience. They needed him as an ally. This moment meant everything. “She bespelled my employer for nine years to control him, and he controlled me. She’s been murdering aspectors for their opuses. And searching for you, apparently.”
Raven spat something that sounded like a curse, but it was too garbled to determine which one he’d chosen. “First she tried to buy me; then she tried to goad me, threaten my acquaintances.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was strained. “So many of them are books now. Never thought she’d go for Alma.” He cleared his throat. “I had to put an end to it.”
That’s why he had finally come, then. Why he had tracked down Elsie. Turner and the others, they were people he knew. Merton had forced him out of hiding in the cruelest way possible. “Why does she want you so badly?” Elsie tried.
He snorted, or so Elsie thought he did. “Why does anyone want me? They want what I know! Years of research, thrown in the fire. You whisper it to one person and the entire community dogs you. They stopped when I ‘died.’ All but one.”
“Please,” Bacchus said. “We’re trying to find her. To stop the madness.”
“But we don’t understand why,” Elsie added. “The opuses . . . She must have been trying to lure you out, and strengthen herself in the process. But to what end?”
“And why should I trust you?” Raven’s voice was like chipping mortar. “You’re goading me just as she has. You’ll use me, too.”
“I’m a spellbreaker!” Elsie snapped. “You know that. I showed you!”
“But the others.”
Elsie glanced over her shoulder. Bacchus nodded. Emmeline just stared at Raven openmouthed, like he truly was a ghost. “We’ve no spiritual aspectors here,” she said. “I’m with Master Bacchus Kelsey of the Physical Atheneum and our maid. My employer is Cuthbert Ogden, also of the Physical Atheneum.” He clearly didn’t trust them, and it wasn’t likely to win them any favor that Ogden was an unregistered rational aspector.
“How do you know that matters if—”
“It’s a spell, isn’t it?” Elsie interrupted. “That’s what she wants from you.”
Raven hesitated. “Do you want me to be impressed?”
“I want you to be my ally.” Her anger was rising. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s suffered?”
He was silent a moment.
Elsie pushed, “Don’t you want it to end, too?”
He let out a loud sigh. “You are a pestering woman.”
Bacchus said, “Come here in person if you don’t believe us. Cast a truthseeking spell.”
“I’m not so foolish.” He paused. “I know Miss Camden was truthful in Juniper Down.”
Emmeline chirped, “Then y-you’ll help us?”
The projection groaned. Shifted slightly to the right, slightly to the left. Either the magic was wavering or Raven was struggling to stand still. “It’s a contagion spell.”
Elsie furrowed her brow. “What?”
“A contagion spell. I discovered it.”
Bacchus shook his head. “Spells cannot be discovered. They have been set in stone since their creation.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool, boy,” Raven snapped. “Spells are like any form of knowledge—they can be forgotten. Who knows how much magic died with our ancestors, swallowed by history? I found evidence of it twenty years ago.” He paused, then added, “If you’re churchgoers, I expect you’re familiar with the mass-blessing spell.”
Indeed, Elsie was familiar with mass blessings. Often spiritual aspectors assigned to a church cast them at the end of a sermon to help the congregation feel good about their decision to worship. Often it was a blessing of peace, a facsimile of the feeling bestowed by the Holy Spirit. While a blessing of peace by itself was a novice-level spell, a master spiritual aspector had the ability to cast it in such a manner that it would affect a small crowd, letting the blessing carry through multiple persons the way the flu would.
“I found evidence that there was once a spell that acted similarly, but with health. Something that might cure a pandemic. A journal from the time of the Black Death. I devoted my life to researching it. To finding old works, retranslating them, putting the missing pieces together. And I found my answer. But it surprised me.
“The spell is not specifically a cure—rather, it’s a master contagion spell. Like a plague. A spell of exponential growth that doesn’t stop after thirty heads. Only the very strongest aspectors could hope to cast such a thing.”
