Spellmaker, page 7
part #2 of Spellbreaker Series
“Elsie,” he said, nodding as another servant opened the gates for them. “When you are an outsider, you do what you have to do to fit in, or people will ostracize you. Sometimes without even realizing it. If Master Merton wanted to succeed in spiritual magic here in London, she would have had to assimilate so thoroughly that others would forget she was ever different. It is a necessity, for people like us.”
That gave Elsie pause. She studied Bacchus, the darkness of his skin, the length of his hair, his height and breadth. He’d held on to his English accent, not slipping into his natural one, like he had before. His father was English, but his mother was Algarve, and he’d been raised in Barbados. He dressed like an Englishman, spoke like an Englishman, but he didn’t look like one. Elsie had forgotten he was different.
No wonder Alexandra Wright had been staring.
“Have I offended you?” She found herself holding her breath, waiting for his response.
“No.” He slipped the reins into his left hand and reached over with his right, covering her fingers with his palm. “No, you haven’t.” She wondered if his Bajan tones came through naturally or if he let them in to reassure her. “But it is easy to miss the pain of being different when you fit in so well with the standard.”
She nodded. Dared to lift her other hand and place it atop his. “I suppose you’re right.” She thought of Ogden, of his confessions. He was different, too, and hid it remarkably well. “I wonder what sort of pains Master Merton has borne in her lifetime. And why they’ve made her behave the way she has.”
Because if Lily Merton wanted peace, as Duchess Morris claimed, why was she killing so many people? Why the grab for power?
And what did the American have to do with any of it?
Elsie felt closer to finding answers. The only problem was that she seemed to acquire more questions at every turn.
It was oddly difficult to get back into a daily routine after being imprisoned.
Elsie managed it anyway, ordering materials for Ogden, who had blessedly gotten two more commissions. One was from the hateful squire, who had decided to commission a bust of himself, as if the people who visited his home didn’t know perfectly well what he looked like. The other was from out of town. Ogden needed the distraction just as much as Elsie did. When he wasn’t slinking around London, prying into strangers’ minds, he was quiet, unlike himself, sketching and murmuring under his breath.
Elsie was more than happy to spend her morning trekking to the squire’s estate, for while she didn’t like the man—it really was a pity he wasn’t the murderer—she quite enjoyed his steward, Mr. Parker. Polite and to the point, he passed along the measurements and other information she needed with admirable efficiency. Elsie wondered if Ogden would notice if she altered the sculpture before it set—giving the squire an unseemly mole or a crooked tooth. Then again, if she got Ogden put out of his job, she’d be put out of hers, too.
Fortunately, she’d have a husband to support her if that happened.
She tripped on nothing as she trekked back through town, catching herself and managing not to drop the satchel with her employer’s papers in it. Husband. It all seemed like a very odd dream, didn’t it? The worst part was that they still hadn’t discussed their plans. How would Bacchus balance Barbados and England? Or perhaps he wouldn’t balance them at all. For all she knew, he intended to let her live in a townhouse in London, while he fled to Barbados and grabbed a mistress or two. That would be a fair compromise, wouldn’t it?
If only the thought didn’t form such a deep pit in her stomach. It would have been rather nice to be engaged after a pleasant courtship. To be sure of wanting.
“Oh, Miss Camden!”
Elsie winced at the sound of the familiar voice behind her, and kept walking as though she hadn’t heard. Increased her pace.
“Miss Camden!”
Gritting her teeth, then relaxing her jaw, Elsie turned around, shielding her eyes from the sun despite her bonnet already doing it for her. “Oh, Misses Wright. How are you today?”
Rose and Alexandra Wright scrambled to her, kicking up dust as they went. “We are absolutely beside ourselves with glee,” the latter said, bouncing on her toes.
Elsie adjusted her satchel. “Whatever for?”
“Whatever for?” Rose Wright repeated, a hand pressed to her breast. “Why, your engagement!”
It wouldn’t have been in the papers already. Not that Elsie had to ask, for Alexandra Wright pushed in, “We spoke to Emmeline after you left yesterday! Quite a fine carriage, if I say so myself.”
“Of course you did,” Elsie said.
“A very fine carriage,” her sister agreed. “And quite a man.”
“A foreigner,” Alexandra piped in, as though Elsie didn’t know.
“Yes,” said Rose, “tell me, is he Turkish?”
Elsie resisted the urge to tell these women that they had no right to any of her personal information, especially since they couldn’t care less about her well-being when she wasn’t at the center of gossip. “He’s from Barbados.”
“Barbados!” Rose repeated, and her sister said, “Where is that?”
“Near Turkey,” Elsie lied.
Alexandra turned to Rose. “Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it? You were right, again.”
“Is he an officer?” Rose asked.
Elsie glanced around, wishing someone would come interrupt them. “An officer? In the army?”
“No, in the police force,” Alexandra said.
“We saw them at the stonemasonry shop last week,” Rose added.
Elsie blanched. “S-Something like that.”
“But,” Alexandra said, more to her sister than to Elsie, “an officer wouldn’t have such a fine carriage, would he?”
Elsie cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Oh yes!” Rose cried. “A working woman. I forget sometimes. Won’t that be nice, to have your support taken care of?”
Elsie frowned. “Indeed.”
“Do invite us for tea,” Alexandra pushed in. “It would be so wonderful to catch up.”
Pasting on a smile, Elsie said, “I shall have to do that.”
The sisters giggled in delight and waved their goodbyes, and Elsie hurried away from them. She’d rather be spoon-fed the dry leaves than waste tea on those two ninnies. She sighed.
It will all sort itself out, don’t worry.
If only she believed that.
She started for the shortcut to her house, behind the post office, when she saw a woman standing outside a curricle, holding a piece of paper to her face, spying around near the bank. She looked to be in her early thirties, with pale-brown hair pinned up from her face and a smart hat on top. The sun glinted off a delicate pair of silver spectacles on her nose. Elsie didn’t recognize her. She wouldn’t be from Clunwood, Brookley’s neighbor to the south. She was dressed too genteelly, and there was no driver in the carriage behind her, which suggested it might belong to her.
Checking the road for passersby, Elsie quickly crossed and approached her.
“Pardon me,” she tried, “but are you lost?”
A look of relief washed over the woman’s features. “Indeed I am, thank you. I’ve already asked for directions twice, and I swear the gentlemen told me differing things.”
Elsie smiled. “Men will do that. Where are you headed?”
The woman showed her the paper in her hand, upon which was scrawled a familiar address. “To the stonemasonry shop. There is a stonemason, isn’t there? Otherwise I’ll have to head back to London and start all over again.”
She chuckled. “There is, in fact. I’m on my way there now.”
“Bless you.” She tucked her paper away and followed Elsie down the road. “I hear he’s an aspector.”
Bells of alarm rang in Elsie’s ears, until she remembered the ruse about Ogden’s aspecting. “He is, a physical one. Only a novice, but the spells he does know aid his handiwork, which is quite excellent.”
“Glad to hear it. Oh, look at that.” She pointed at the narrow road leading off the high street. “I think I walked right past that and didn’t notice.”
They passed the cobbler and continued down the road. The clouds were parted today, letting the heat of the sun press down fully. Elsie was relieved to step out of it, and held the door open for the stranger.
Emmeline looked up from the other end of the studio, broom in hand. She noticed the woman. “Oh, hello.”
“Hello!” she called, and stepped around the desk and into the studio, offering a hand to Emmeline. “My name is Irene Prescott. You must be Elsie Camden?”
Emmeline shook her head. “You just walked in with her, ma’am.”
Miss Prescott turned around. “Oh my, I should have introduced myself.”
Elsie’s wrists itched as though she’d broken four dozen spells. “I should have done that myself.” What do you want? “How might I help you?”
Miss Prescott crossed the room once more, extending a hand to Elsie, which she hesitantly shook. “Did you not get my letter?”
“Post is late,” Emmeline said.
“Ah, well.” Releasing Elsie, Miss Prescott continued, “The board sent me. I’m to register you and start your training as a spellbreaker.”
Elsie gaped, caught herself, and closed her mouth with a click of her teeth. “O-Oh, I see.”
Opening her parcel, Miss Prescott pulled out a sheaf of papers and set them on a cabinet. Turning to Emmeline, she said, “My dear, do you have a pen on hand?”
Emmeline nodded and set the broom aside, hurrying to the cubbies beneath the desk to retrieve a pen and ink.
“I’ll just need you to fill this out.” Miss Prescott slid the papers to Elsie. A quick flip through the pages revealed they were filled with personal questions, about her age, appearance, height, et cetera, as well as her family history. Well, she couldn’t tell the board what she didn’t know.
Licking her lips, Elsie took the pen, reminding herself she needn’t be nervous; this was all part of the plan. Register, train for a while, be free. It might be nice, using her abilities openly. She’d make more money, certainly. Wouldn’t be as much of a burden on Bacchus.
Bacchus.
Elsie found herself writing his name on one of the lines and hurriedly scribbled it out, replacing it with her age.
Miss Prescott smiled. “I often forget my own years.”
Elsie nodded and moved on to the next page.
“Your family history will help us track magical lines,” Miss Prescott pressed.
“I’m an orphan,” Elsie said, unsure if it was true. She began filling out the second page.
Miss Prescott at least was polite enough to sound embarrassed. “Terribly sorry.”
She finished the paperwork and signed her name at the end. Miss Prescott signed hers as well, then organized the papers into a neat stack. “Could have called you in, but I know this is all new, so I thought I’d make the trip out here.”
Elsie straightened, rubbing at a spot of ink on her hand. “Thank you. That’s kind.”
“Though we’ll have to travel a bit for your training,” she continued. “To the atheneums, of course, so we can gather the spells you’ll need to practice breaking. On occasion we’ll have a spellmaker come to us, but they’re a busy lot.”
“I do work, Miss Prescott.”
She clucked sympathetically. “I understand that, though unfortunately this takes precedence. Magic, even simple spellbreaking, can be dangerous if unchecked.”
Simple spellbreaking. Elsie almost snorted. In her opinion, dismantling spells was far more complex than laying them. Spellmakers didn’t even know what their runes looked like. Couldn’t see them, smell them, nothing. But Miss Prescott was correct—the abilities could be dangerous if left untrained. Elsie’s ignorance of spellbreaking had indirectly led to her workhouse burning down when she was ten.
Her thoughts slid to Master Merton.
“Of course,” she said, trying to stay present. “It’s just that, well, I’m getting married within the month.” Her stomach clenched. They hadn’t actually set a date. Had she just pushed Bacchus into a tighter cage?
“Oh! Congratulations. Well, we can work around that.”
Emmeline added, “He’s a spellmaker, too. A master physical aspector.”
Now Miss Prescott’s eyes went wide. “Is he really?”
“Recently promoted.” It sounded more believable that she’d win the heart of an advanced aspector over a master aspector. The class difference wasn’t as stark. Though now that she would be a registered spellbreaker, her own status would improve. A spellbreaker would never merit a title, but the role carried prestige, nonetheless. Spellbreakers were necessary. But being a spellmaker . . . that term alone meant one had money.
“Well, perhaps we’ll be able to use his services.” She put the papers in her bag. “I’ll be contacting you shortly. I saw a post office, so I presume a telegram is fine?”
Elsie nodded.
Miss Prescott extended her hand once more, and Elsie shook it. “Lovely again to make your acquaintance, Miss Camden. And don’t worry—in a few years, you’ll be ready to take on the world.”
Elsie smiled, trying not to make her grip too tight. A few years?
God help her, this would be the longest ruse she’d ever pulled.
God help her.
CHAPTER 7
Late that night, after Emmeline went to bed, Elsie rapped on Ogden’s door.
She waited a long moment before he opened it, his hair mussed. “Sorry to wake you,” she said, “but I have an idea.”
Ogden sighed. “You didn’t wake me. I don’t sleep like I used to.” He glanced down the hallway to Emmeline’s room. “Let’s go downstairs.”
Shielding her candle, Elsie led the way to the kitchen. She understood Ogden’s predicament—she was pulling later nights and earlier mornings as well, kept awake by tumultuous thoughts with no end, wondering what happens if and what happens now. Yet she still felt sorry for him. His will was freely his own after ten years, and he seemed only to be suffering for it.
She lit two more candles in the kitchen before settling down, pulling a shawl tight over her robe. Ogden sat across from her, rubbing the thick stubble on his cheeks.
“I keep playing it over and over. Juniper Down, I mean.” She kept an ear attuned to the stairs, listening for any creaks in the wood that would signal Emmeline was up and about, but the house remained quiet. “The American said he knew my name from newspapers and magazines. Articles I’d published. But I’ve never published a word in my life.”
Ogden nodded. “I remember.”
Leaning closer, she asked, “Is there a way to look up newspaper articles by author?”
Ogden straightened.
“He said they were in Europe and the States. Some of them had to be published in England, surely.”
To her relief, Ogden nodded. “Yes, in Colindale. There’s a repository there with newspapers dating back decades. If they’ve been well archived, we should be able to look up your name.”
Excitement pricked her like needles. Perhaps they could unfurl another part of this mystery. “That’s not far from here.” North London, if she was right.
He nodded. “We can go in the morning.”
She bit her lip. “I can go. You have the squire’s deadline—”
“I’ll go with you,” he reaffirmed. “If the squire complains, I’ll just make him think he extended.”
Elsie paused. “You can do that?”
Ogden simply looked at her.
“All right.” She stood, careful not to let her chair scrape on the floor. “It will be a good place to start. First thing in the morning.” She turned from the table, paused, and turned back. “Ogden?”
He snuffed one of the three candles. “Hm?”
She debated with herself a moment, but it was better to risk offense than to keep on wondering and fearing. This was one worry she could kill here and now. “I need you to promise me you will never make me think differently than I do. Not without my asking.” It was a bold statement to make to one’s employer, but in all truthfulness, Cuthbert Ogden was much more than that now.
His lip quirked. “I don’t think I could, without you noticing.”
“But you could make me not notice, couldn’t you? Like before.”
He pressed his lips together and leaned his chin on his hands. “Perhaps. But you’ve grown in strength, Elsie. Your skills are . . . impressive.”
“Still,” she pressed, trying not to preen with the compliment. “I need you to promise me.”
“I promise you.” A sliver of volume leaked into his voice. “I promise you, Elsie, over my parents’ graves, and my own. I’ll never influence you with magic.”
The hidden opus spell tucked beneath her sash grew heavy. She thought about the horrible things Merton had manipulated her into doing, and about Bacchus, whose understanding and patience surely had limits—limits she was pushing. But she had no idea how much of her life such a spell would erase . . .
“Unless I ask you to,” she added in a soft voice.
He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you ask me to.”
Content, Elsie retrieved her candle and made her way back upstairs, leaving Ogden to ponder alone in the light of only one.
The British Museum’s repository for newspapers was an unremarkable and unassuming building, lacking in any refined architecture or color, but Elsie was hardly interested in its exterior. Ogden held the door for her, and she slipped inside, almost immediately being greeted by rows and rows of books, drawers, and shelves. At least they were notably organized.
After a moment, Ogden pointed. “This way.”
Elsie followed him. “Did you spy into a curator’s mind for that?”
Ogden gave her a flat look and pointed to a sign indicating newspapers and their dates. Feeling foolish, Elsie followed.
Only problem was, she didn’t know precisely what dates she needed. How long had it taken the American to sniff her out? Still, if the articles weren’t indexed by name, it would be a nearly impossible task to sort through even a year’s worth of newspapers. Especially since she doubted the curators would permit her to simply take whole stacks of newspapers home to rifle through.
