This was the beast the Cowls fought against, though thus far the secretive group had not deemed him important enough for action.
How she wished they would. If the Cowls were Robin Hood, this man was Prince John.
Forcing a relaxed demeanor, Elsie walked up to meet him instead of letting him come to her. She didn’t want him to notice the seams of the door. Mr. Turner was a wealthy man, and therefore the squire might actually care that Elsie had been snooping about his property.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she curtsied. “I apologize if I’m disturbing anyone. I work for a stonemason; I was just admiring the brickwork.” It was only half a lie.
The man raised a fine eyebrow. “The brickwork? Surely you jest.” He eyed her, but not with any recognition. Rather, he seemed confused by her clothing—particularly her skirts, as if it confused him that a woman could work outside of service. Elsie certainly wasn’t dressed as a maid.
Elsie couldn’t make herself blush, but she glanced away as though embarrassed.
Squire Hughes said, “Don’t loiter. Your employer would be angry to see you wasting time.”
She was tempted to snap back, to insist her employer had given his blessing for her to be here, but that wouldn’t strictly be true. While Ogden was undeniably generous with her time, he hadn’t a clue what she spent it on. If she left now, she could get back to Brookley by dinner and he’d be none the wiser.
She curtsied again. “I beg your pardon.”
The squire didn’t so much as nod, so Elsie excused herself wordlessly, walking a little too fast to be casual. Once she turned the corner, she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders.
No, she didn’t feel bad about breaking the law. Not one mite.
The sun was setting when Elsie made it back to Brookley; she’d paid a hansom cab to take her as far as Lambeth and had walked the rest of the way. She shredded the letter from the Cowls in her pocket. The oven would be hot about this time, and she could cast the bits into the coals without any trouble.
Sometimes she wished she had a confidant, but she counted herself lucky all the same. The Cowls had rescued her from the workhouse and lifted her from a destiny of poverty. The least she could do was protect their secrecy.
Brookley was just south and a little east of London, wedged almost equidistant between Croydon and Orpington. It was an old town well kept by those who lived there. The main road spiraled through the center like a river of cobblestone, a thoroughfare that led south to Clunwood and farmland before continuing on to Edenbridge. It was small and quaint, yet had everything a reasonable person could need—a bank, a post office, a dressmaker, a church. Granted, if one wanted a millinery, they’d have to head into either London or Kent, but seeing as Elsie was set on hatwear, that didn’t bother her particularly much.
One of the best things about Brookley was that the stonemasonry shop sat on its northern side, down a small road curving off the main one, so it was a fairly private affair to walk to and from the direction of London.
Elsie kicked dirt from her shoes before letting herself in through the back door of the house attached to the studio. There were a few shirts hanging on a clothing line overhead. The smell of mutton wafted through the air. In the kitchen, Emmeline, the maid, stirred a pot on the stove. Elsie had been in that position for several years after escaping the squire’s household, until Ogden had promoted her to his assistant and brought in a new employee.
After hanging up her hat and setting her chatelaine bag on a table, Elsie waved to Emmeline before venturing down the hallway, around the corner, and into the studio, which was by far the largest room in the house. The counter by the door served as a storefront, and the rest of the space was filled with tarps, uncarved and half-carved stone, easels, canvases, blankets, and an array of shelves holding a collection of tools and utensils in every shape a person could imagine, as well as a great deal of white paint; a man who could change the color of anything with a simple touch needn’t spend money on pigments. Cuthbert Ogden hunched on a stool just shy of the center of the room, surrounded by two lamps and three candles, delicately placing snow on the tiles of a manor he’d painted on a canvas half as tall as he was. There was something comforting about seeing him working like that, something familiar, something safe. Elsie needed those kinds of somethings in her life.
“You’ll need glasses if you keep squinting by candlelight.” She picked up a nearly extinguished candle and set it closer to his work.
“I am young and hale yet.” His low voice seemed to creep along the floorboards.
“Hale, yes,” Elsie said, and her employer glanced over to her, his turquoise eyes sparkling in the light. His dark brows crooked in a mock disapproving manner.
“Fifty-four is not old,” he quipped.
“Fifty-five is.”
Ogden paused, nearly touching his paintbrush to his lips in thought. “I’m not fifty-five, am I?”
“You turned fifty-five in February.”
“I turned fifty-four.”
Elsie sighed and tried to hide the smile on her lips. “Mr. Ogden. You were born in 1840, the same day the queen married Prince Albert. You brag about it to everyone.”
Ogden’s lip quirked. “I’m sure they married in 1841.”
“Now you’re just being difficult.” She stepped up behind him, avoiding a lamp, and surveyed the painting. Ogden had managed to make a gray winter sky look cheery. A heavy wreath with red ribbon on the front door denoted Christmas. Snow at the top of the house, the chimney, the bottom two corners. Ogden had a strange thing about adding details at the edges of the canvas first before moving in toward the center.
“Does it snow often in Manchester?”
Ogden shook his head. “No, but it was the client’s request.”
“Christmas is seven months away yet. Seven and a half.”
“But I will need to put this away and look at it again in a few weeks.” Ogden’s eyes stayed on the painting, squinting and scrutinizing. “And then have you take it to the framer’s. That will take up another month, and then if they request corrections . . . you know how it goes. How was your evening?”
Elsie shrugged. “Uneventful. A long walk and some window browsing.”
Ogden stuck his pinky finger in the white paint on the palette in his off-hand. Elsie felt the spell as it sparked out of him, and the white brightened until it nearly glowed. He was a physical aspector, but not a very strong one. Strength in aspecting varied from person to person, although it seemed to be bestowed at random, not by genetics. The spells Ogden knew were all novice level. Spells that made only slight changes to the physical world around him—like changing the color of paint. Ogden didn’t seem to mind, though. Enough for an artist to get by. He’d told her that himself on more than one occasion.
Elsie watched him dip his brush and touch its fine tip to the eaves of the manor and the leaves of a tree on the grounds. It looked like real snow. With artistic talent such as his, Ogden didn’t need powerful magic.
He worked for a few more minutes before putting the brush down. “Would you help me clean up?”
Elsie picked up one of the candles, shielding its flame with her cupped hand.
“I’m expecting Nash,” he added.
“Is he staying for dinner?” Elsie asked.
Ogden shook his head. “Have Emmeline set a plate aside for me, would you?”
Nodding, Elsie carried the candle to a nearby table, then gathered the lamps and stuck them on the counter. She blew out the remaining candles—no point in wasting them. Ogden rinsed his brush and carefully carried the easel holding his latest work to the corner; Elsie rolled up the stained tarp underfoot. Even as she did so, she knew it was pointless. First thing tomorrow Ogden would be in the same spot, doing the same work, but she strived to make herself useful. Had strived for it these last nine years, ever since she’d advanced from being a scullery maid for a pompous jackanapes.
Elsie brushed off her hands and took the still-li
t candle down the hall with her. Movement on the stairs made her gasp and set her heart racing.
“Emmeline!” Her whisper was nearly a hiss. “Why are you skulking about in the shadows?”
The maid, four years younger than Elsie at seventeen, darted her dark eyes over the railing. “Is he here yet?”
“Who?”
She licked her lips. “Nash.”
The name was barely audible.
Elsie rolled her eyes. “Not yet, and don’t worry, he’s not staying for dinner. Ogden said to leave his plate for him.”
Emmeline nodded, but fear tightened her face. She was always uneasy around Ogden’s messenger boy. Why, Elsie didn’t know. He was a tall man, yes, but so slight a strong wind might snap his torso like a twig. That, and he was an abundantly pleasant fellow; he always had a grin on his face and a bounce to his step. He wasn’t crude or cruel—indeed, although he rarely spoke to Elsie and Emmeline, he was unfailingly kind when he did so.
Emmeline shifted, and the stair creaked underfoot. “Would you set the table with me?”
Elsie let out a long breath through her nose. “Really, Emmeline.”
“Why does he always come at night?” she asked, defensive.
“Because he has other clients? Because that’s when Ogden is ready for him? And he doesn’t always.”
“Often,” the maid countered. “Often at night. There’s a look to him, Els. I don’t like it.”
Oh, Elsie knew it well. Emmeline had always been wary of Abel Nash, from her first day in Ogden’s household. It was an odd reaction to a man who was reasonably attractive and had a rather cheery disposition.
Elsie had teased her about it, once, asking if the true reason for her interest in the blond errand boy was a hidden affection, but Emmeline had responded so coldly that Elsie dared not mention it again. Ogden was more likely to court the man than Emmeline was.
Elsie’s shoulders drooped. “Yes, I’ll help you.”
Emmeline looked so relieved she might have fainted. “Thank you. I’ll serve you breakfast first tomorrow.”
Elsie snorted. “We’ll see how Ogden likes that.” Climbing a few steps, she took the girl’s arm in hers and walked her to the kitchen, noting how Emmeline gave the hall to the studio a nervous glance. The action made her feel like something of an older sister. The thought niggled something painful in her gut, however, and she pushed the notion away.
The two set the table and ate together. Emmeline listened intently as Elsie regurgitated the story of the baron from her novel reader, and together they speculated what his fate might be. Ogden still hadn’t come in for his plate when they finished, but that wasn’t unlike him. Like most artists, he could be a little absent at times.
Grabbing a candleholder, Elsie ventured toward the stairs, but voices in the studio caught her attention. Nash was quiet even in motion—she’d never heard the front door open.
She peeked in. Nash looked fragile next to Ogden, who had the broad, stout, muscular build of a stonemason—work he still did on occasion, when commissions from his paintings and sculptures grew sparse. Nash was taller, his hair dandelion yellow, his face young and narrow. He was in his midtwenties, dressed simply. Pale. Completely unthreatening.
Elsie couldn’t overhear their discussion, not that it mattered. Nothing interesting ever passed her employer’s lips, and she’d spied on them enough to know they were strictly business partners and nothing else. No, Elsie had to depend on Emmeline and the local merchants for good gossip. Not that she ever spread it herself. But the vicar didn’t preach against listening to gossip.
And yet, as Elsie turned away to venture to bed, Abel Nash looked over Ogden’s shoulder, his light eyes finding her for only a moment before refocusing on the man before him. In that brief moment, Elsie felt a chill course down her spine.
CHAPTER 2
After three weeks aboard a merchant ship, Bacchus’s head ached for land almost as much as his legs did. He swore he could feel his sanity slipping. He’d made the trip more times than he could count in his twenty-seven years, and yet he never had accustomed himself to it. The Atlantic always felt so much broader than he remembered it. On a voyage that long, he craved solid ground. And oranges. These merchant ships abounded in good food, but all of it was for profit, not for crewmen or passengers.
As Bacchus looked up at accumulating rain clouds and listened to the English lilt of the sailors hurrying to dock, his home in Barbados felt very far away. He’d spent just as many years in England with his father as he had on the island, but he’d never truly felt he belonged anywhere but the Caribbean. He’d visited his mother’s homeland, the Algarve, only twice. His poor grasp of Portuguese had always made him feel like he stood on the outside looking in. He had no desire to return.
He nodded to John and Rainer, servants from his household, who scrambled to collect his suitcases. He’d tried to pack light, but he didn’t know how long his stay would be. He could be in England for a mere week, or he could be here for months. It all depended on how accommodating the Physical Atheneum would be.
He had a feeling accommodation wasn’t the atheneum’s strong suit.
Grabbing a bag himself and urging strength into his limbs, Bacchus marched for the gangplank leading to the dock. A few of the sailors stepped aside to let him pass. He was not yet a titled man, certainly not here in England, but he was a well-dressed landowner and an aspector ready to test for master status, which in this uptight society would shove him somewhere above a clergyman and below a baron. Unfortunately, the test was not the only hurdle he faced in English society. As soon as he stepped ashore, he felt eyes on his face, his hair, his hands. Even the finest clothes couldn’t hide his foreign heritage. Despite having an English father, he didn’t look English, and his skin was all the darker from a lifetime in the sun.
But Bacchus was accustomed to stares.
Fortunately, as a breeze reeking of fish blew through his thick hair, bound at the nape of his neck, he saw a familiar face among the onlookers, standing on the edge of the road across from low-lodging houses. It was a face as pale as the whites of Bacchus’s eyes, framed by hair even lighter. A hooked nose, a regal bearing despite his years. A waistcoat embroidered with gold thread.
Isaiah Scott, Duke of Kent.
Bacchus grinned and charged forward. This time, when the Englishmen scattered from his path, it was because his stride demanded it, as did his height and breadth. He may have been a copper coin against a sea of silver, but he was a large coin—a fact he often used to his advantage. He clasped hands with the duke. Bacchus’s father had become close with the family after attending university with the duke’s youngest brother, Matthew. He’d maintained the connection from afar after moving to Barbados to claim his inheritance. The first time Bacchus’s father had brought him to England, or at least the first time Bacchus remembered, had been to pay his respects to the Scotts after Matthew passed away in a hunting incident. Although Bacchus’s father had since passed on, Bacchus had stayed close with them. They felt like family.
“I didn’t think it possible, but you’ve grown.” The Duke of Kent had a glint in his eye.
Although the man had turned seventy last month, his grip was strong as ever.
“Only because we’re at sea level.” Bacchus’s tongue easily slipped into a British accent. “Once we ride up those green hills by your estate, we’ll see eye to eye.”
The duke chuckled. “You need a lesson in physics. Are you sure you picked the right alignment?”
Bacchus had studied physical aspecting—magic that affected the physical world—since he was an adolescent. His father, being a landowner on a prosperous sugarcane plantation, had been able to fund his studies. It hadn’t been hard for him to choose a specialization. The last thing he wanted was to give the English another reason to distrust him, so the rational arts were out. He didn’t need anyone suspecting he’d bewitched their thoughts. Spiritual magic dealt fundamentally with blessings and curses, which seemed a
poor investment for day-to-day life. And temporal magic had always come off as vain to him. A temporal aspector couldn’t change time, only time’s effects. And while aging plant sprouts and turning back the clock for livestock could prove beneficial back home, Bacchus knew he’d more often be hired to lighten wrinkles and strip the rust from antiques. He used to think poorly of those who spent their life’s savings on temporal spells, assuming they were driven by vanity.
Until the day he’d needed one for himself.
His men, John and Rainer, stepped up beside him, bug-eyed as they looked around. John, the older of the two, had been to Europe once before, on Bacchus’s last trip three years ago. Rainer was new and absorbed everything as though the cobbles and clouds were nails pounded into his bones.
He wouldn’t like it here.
“Come.” The duke placed a hand on Bacchus’s shoulder and led him down the narrow road to a carriage awaiting them. “You must be tired from such a long journey. Your room is ready, and I brought a cushion in case you can’t wait the hour it will take to arrive there.”
“Truly, I’d like nothing more than to run until my legs give out.” Which took less time than it once had. Hiding a grimace, Bacchus glanced down at his legs, then rubbed a spot on his chest. “That ship is a cage, and the ocean its bars.”
“So poetic,” the duke said. One of his servants opened the carriage door, and Bacchus stepped back to allow his friend—though he’d always been more of an uncle—to enter first. Bacchus followed after, feeling the carriage shift as he sat down.
“If it isn’t much trouble,” Bacchus said after the carriage door shut and his bags were loaded onto the back, “I’d like to contact the Physical Atheneum as soon as possible.”
The duke clasped his hands over his knees. “Is there a reason for the rush?”
“Not a rush, merely a desire to utilize the time given me. I’d rather not waste it.”
“Ah, so time with me is wasted?” The duke quirked his brow.
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