Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

Bacchus chuckled. “I suppose that depends on what leisure you have planned for us. I did receive your letter about the estate; I’d be obliged to help you where I can.”

  The duke nodded. “I greatly appreciate it. As for the atheneum, I’ve been trying to throw my weight to get you an earlier meeting. I think it’s working. With luck, I’ll hear back in the morning.”

  Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Bacchus nodded his thanks before looking out the window as the carriage jerked forward. As an aspector registered with the London Physical Atheneum, he was entitled to a meeting. But as with everything, there were politics involved, and his appointment had been set for the end of summer. The four-month wait was preposterous, especially given that he’d petitioned for the meeting in February. While the duke was not a spellmaker of any sort, he was an influential aristocrat with money to his name, and thus could hopefully bend the politics in Bacchus’s favor. Either way, he feared his meeting would not go smoothly.

  He watched the docks pass by, rubbing the light beard encircling his mouth. While such a thing was fashionable here, his long hair certainly wasn’t. But long hair ultimately required less upkeep than short. He supposed he’d consider cutting it if it would make a better impression on the Assembly of the London Physical Atheneum.

  He knew the spell he wanted. He’d known it for years now, and aspired to claim it far more vigorously than he did any title. The ambulation spell would allow him to move an object—any object—without touching it. The trick was convincing the self-righteous hermits in the atheneum to let him have it. Although hundreds of spells existed for each alignment, the atheneums guarded the powerful ones as carefully as a miser did his money, selling them only to those deemed worthy and reliable. And even if a spell was made available to an aspector, there still remained the challenge of absorbing it—a costly procedure that did not always work.

  Bacchus rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he was more tired than he cared to admit. It would do him well to get a full night’s rest at the Duke of Kent’s estate before tackling his mission in the morning. He needed to think clearly and tread carefully if he didn’t want to mix himself up in these aspectors’ games.

  CHAPTER 3

  After Elsie finished logging Ogden’s receipts the next morning, she wrote and folded a letter, put on her nicest hat, and strode into town with a basket on her arm and Emmeline’s shopping list in hand. She headed first toward the church, which was at the other end of Brookley’s high street. The farmers from the nearby town of Clunwood often set up there to sell their goods, and Elsie was in the mood for a walk. The clouds had parted to reveal a brilliant morning sun, while a subtle breeze kept the air from getting too warm.

  Elsie took on a pace neither brisk nor leisurely, and allowed herself to wander from one side of the road to the other, glancing into windows as she went, both shops and homes. Elizabeth Davies, she noticed, had her fine china out on the breakfast table. What was the occasion? The glazier was working on something rather large that did not look like a window. Was it an elaborate bowl, or some sort of chandelier? Elsie couldn’t tell, and preferred to speculate over asking. It was better for everyone that she go unnoticed, besides.

  A familiar gasp sounded just to Elsie’s left as she turned away from the glass shop. A smile pinched her cheeks. None other than Rose and Alexandra Wright were passing by, their hats extravagant and their satin skirts brushing the ground. They were the banker’s daughters and terrible gossips. Even now, they had their heads pushed together, mumbling to each other. They really should be ashamed of themselves.

  Stepping around a wagon, Elsie trotted up behind them, straining to listen.

  “He was a baron?” Rose asked, fingertips to her bottom lip.

  “Not just any,” chirped Alexandra, “but the very one who visited here not two summers ago.”

  Rose gasped. “The squire’s guest?”

  “And,” Alexandra’s voice lowered, “it happened right in his own bed.”

  Rose shook her head. “But it might not be murder. You can never be sure with their type.”

  Elsie nearly stumbled as she kicked her own heel. Murder? And a baron! It was as if her novel reader had come to life, although crime was much easier to stomach in fiction. Her mind quickly unraveled the rest of the sisters’ words.

  Never be sure with their type.

  Had the man been an aspector? When an aspector of any type or talent died, he did not become a corpse to be buried like everyone else. Magic changed aspectors. When they perished, their bodies morphed into opuses. Spellbooks of all the enchantments they had learned in life. Granted, spellbook wasn’t an adequate term. The form they took varied depending on who the aspector had been as a person. Though Ogden was a weak aspector with very few spells under his skin, he, too, would transmute into an opus when he passed. Elsie had always imagined he’d become an elaborate, if small, stone tablet.

  The stonemason had no spouse and no children—for reasons Elsie suspected but never said aloud—so she wondered if he would bequeath his opus to her or Emmeline. Usually a spellmaker’s opus became the property of his or her atheneum, a safety precaution lest dangerous spells fall into unscrupulous hands, but she couldn’t imagine the London Physical Atheneum caring about a small, novice spellbook.

  That was the special thing about opuses—anyone could cast a spell from an opus. Ogden had told her about it. The person could just rip out a page and say, “Excitant,” and the spell would cast itself (if the opus was not composed of pages, they could run a hand over the spell instead). They could be used in such a manner only once, for the page or engraved spell would vanish afterward, but it made opuses priceless.

  And yet, Elsie didn’t think she could ever bring herself to cast Ogden’s opus spells. She’d likely just treasure it and keep it close, reminding her of the good years they had spent together. By all means, Ogden was the closest thing to a father she had.

  Focus! she chided herself, daring to step close enough that she almost trampled the women’s skirt trains.

  “Then he vanished splendidly.” Alexandra’s voice took on a mocking tone. “Murdered, I tell you. And his opus stolen. Even the newspaper speculates it. Perhaps he was kidnapped, but who could lug a grown man down so many floors without leaving a witness? The opus could have been carted off with no one the wiser.”

  A man hurried across the street, one hand on his hat to keep it from flying off. “Misses Wright! I have a question regarding your father—”

  The two women paused, and Elsie quickly sidestepped to avoid running into them. She walked as far as the carpenter’s home before glancing over her shoulder, but the conversing trio didn’t pay her any mind.

  She certainly hoped the baron would turn up someplace unexpected. To think of someone being killed in his own home, his own bed . . . Elsie shuddered at the thought. Even members of the upper class didn’t deserve such a fate. And yet she knew she would check Ogden’s newspaper the moment she got home, to glean any additional details.

  Still mulling over the story, Elsie found a smattering of farmers, their wives, and their children selling produce on the side of the road. Checking Emmeline’s list, she purchased two cabbages, a bundle of carrots, and an onion. She quite loathed onions, which was why she bought only one. Emmeline would have to make it stretch, which meant less onion in their meals. It was ultimately better for the household.

  Stepping out of the way of two men on horseback, Elsie turned back, glancing once more into Elizabeth Davies’s home. They were seated at the table now, but no strangers dined with them. It wasn’t a visitor that had her pulling out the china, then. Curious.

  The post office sat just past the row of terraced housing, its location indicated by the tidy storefront attached to Mr. Green’s home, one of the larger buildings in town. He certainly did well for himself, delivering post and telegrams day in and day out.

  Elsie stepped in just as a fellow stepped out. She nodded to him when he held the door. One of Mr. Green’s employees, Martha
Morgan, manned the front desk today, and she smiled as Elsie approached, and one of the post dogs—animals trained by spiritual aspectors to deliver letters and packages—wagged its tail behind the desk. The thumping almost hid the light buzz of the spells at work beneath its fur.

  “Just a penny stamp.” Elsie set her letter on the desk before her. She smoothed her lace-gloved fingers over the paper. It had been six months since she’d last sent a letter to Juniper Down, and five months since she’d received a response from Agatha Hall. She always wrote to Agatha rather than her husband. Agatha was more kindhearted and quicker to reply. Elsie’s letter was brief, containing many of the same words as her previous missives.

  Dear Mrs. Hall,

  I hope all is well with the children and your health. I am, of course, inquiring again to learn if anyone has come looking for me, or if anyone bearing the name Camden has passed through? I do greatly appreciate your report. You have my utmost thanks.

  Sincerely,

  Elsie Camden

  Elsie had lost count of the number of letters she had sent west to Juniper Down. She had written more frequently in her younger years, after Ogden hired her and taught her how to read and write. Another reason to be grateful to him. Had she remained in the squire’s employ, she might never have learned to decipher the Cowls’ missives. They’d started to send them a few months before her thirteenth birthday.

  Martha handed her the penny stamp, and Elsie carefully placed it on her letter. Memories flooded into her as she looked at Agatha Hall’s name spelled out in her own hand across the envelope. The Halls had offered Elsie’s family shelter that cold winter night. Elsie couldn’t remember where they’d been going, let alone where they’d started, and neither could the Halls. Come morning, her parents and siblings—the Halls confirmed she’d had three siblings, two brothers and a sister—had vanished without a trace. Much like the baron from the Wright sisters’ story. The whole town had banded together to search for them, to no avail.

  Of course, the Halls didn’t know Elsie. And they had little money and five children of their own, so after all hope was lost, they’d sent six-year-old Elsie to the workhouse. And she’d stayed there until she was eleven, when it burned down.

  That night, her rescuer had hastened her to a simple one-room cabin miles away, hooded the whole time, and left her there with food and blankets and the instruction to stay put and not feel guilty for her part in the fire, but Elsie had stewed about it, especially as the days passed with no word. Four days, to be precise. But she’d been bolstered by hope, good food, and the giddy feeling that someone actually wanted her. Finally, she’d woken up on the fifth day to find a map, a train ticket, and an address pinned to the inside of the front door. She’d followed the directions without complaint, and found herself on Squire Hughes’s doorstep.

  Although no one there was expecting her, it turned out they were in need of a new scullery maid, something the Cowls must have known. She’d hated the work almost as much as she hated the squire, so a year later, when Cuthbert Ogden announced he was hiring help, she’d run to him straightaway and begged him to take her on, even promising to work for only food and board.

  Fortunately, Ogden had still given her a wage.

  Elsie had never told any of them, even Ogden, about the cabin or the fire. She hadn’t wanted to give them a reason to cast her aside.

  “Miss?”

  Elsie blinked, wrenched back to the moment, and smiled. “Yes, if you would post it.”

  She offered the letter, and Martha added it to a small stack. “Nothing for Mr. Ogden today,” she added.

  “Just as well. Thank you.”

  Perhaps Agatha Hall would finally have news of the family Elsie hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Perhaps desire, guilt, or curiosity had finally driven one of her relations to ask, Whatever happened to Elsie?

  Shifting her basket to her other arm, Elsie excused herself silently and stepped back into the sunshine, taking a moment to soak it in until another postal customer forced her to move so he could access the door.

  When Elsie got home, Emmeline was scrubbing the floor near the back door, lost somewhere in her thoughts, for she didn’t even look up and beg Elsie to remove her shoes. Elsie did it, anyway, precariously balancing her basket of produce while aiming for dry spots so as not to dampen her stockings.

  “Is Ogden in?” she asked upon reaching the stairs.

  Emmeline shook her head. “He went out right on your tail. Mr. Parker himself came by for him, wanted his eye on the new stonework for the wall, or something like that.”

  Mr. Parker, who worked for the abominable Squire Hughes. Elsie sniffed in disdain. But the squire paid well, which meant Ogden could afford to keep both her and Emmeline on staff.

  Elsie would need to man the studio, then. It was usually a boring task, as unlike the post office, a stonemason’s shop was not one people frequented. But her novel reader would keep her company. If she reread it with a scrutinizing eye, she might discover a clue she’d missed the first time.

  Hurrying up the steps and down the hallway, Elsie ducked into her room and tossed her hat onto her bed. Her novel reader was tucked away on the small shelf in the corner. As she pulled it free, however, a gray note fell to the floor.

  She recognized it instantly, even with the seal facedown.

  Although she itched to open it, she crossed the room first to shut and lock the door. That done, she knelt to pick up the folded paper. Turned it over. The symbol of a bird’s footprint overlaying a crescent moon looked back up at her in vivid orange wax.

  So soon? she wondered. The notes had been more frequent lately, and more intimate. Left on her bed, under her covers, now on her bookshelf. What if she hadn’t decided to reread the latest installment of The Curse of the Ruby today? Perhaps this mission wasn’t urgent. Perhaps they were watching her more closely than she’d thought.

  Elsie turned toward the window, which was two stories up. How absurd it would be for someone, especially a cloaked someone, to hover on the precipice, watching her and learning her habits. She could almost laugh at the notion.

  And yet the letter had been waiting.

  She used her fingernail to break the seal. A few shillings fell into her lap.

  Power taints all. Someone at the Duke of Kent’s estate has enchanted the servants’ door, forbidding them outside after sundown. It is a spell of heat. Be prepared. Take a carriage, but be discreet. At the wine shop in Kent, ask for Mrs. Shaw’s basket.

  That was it. No name, no date. She’d have to find a wine shop near the duke’s estate—the note didn’t include an address. What would she do if there was more than one?

  Her stomach squirmed. In truth, the wine shop was the least of her troubles. This was the riskiest task she’d ever been given. Hopefully this duke was not a spellmaker as well—they tended to ward their property with all sorts of nasty things, a precaution passed down from the revolts two centuries past. And she’d have to trespass onto his property, not merely brush her fingers across an exterior wall. Swallowing, she reassured herself that the Cowls would not ask her to do anything she wasn’t capable of doing. Perhaps Mrs. Shaw’s basket would lend some aid.

  Elsie tried to imagine what it would feel like if Ogden bespelled the stonemasonry shop to keep her and Emmeline locked indoors. The note had said it was a fire spell . . . Did it burn the servants when they attempted to escape? What was it about wealth that made the upper class treat other human beings like they were livestock to keep penned?

  She pressed her lips together. Kent wasn’t far. If she took a carriage, she could be there and back before nightfall. The squire would be a fool not to hire Ogden, which meant her boss would likely be busy for the next few days.

  It was settled, then. Elsie would rush through her work and ensure everything was in order before leaving. Emmeline could listen for the door and see to any late-day customers.

  Replacing her novel reader on the shelf, Elsie tore the silvery note in half, then in
half again. Despite the warm weather, she lit the fireplace in her room and tossed the pieces onto the flames, making sure they disintegrated to ash before she ventured downstairs.

  There was a wine shop a good walk’s distance from Seven Oaks, the Duke of Kent’s estate. It had a very fine storefront, so Elsie straightened her shoulders and her hat before going in. A rotund man greeted her, and as directed, she requested Mrs. Shaw’s basket.

  She hadn’t a clue who Mrs. Shaw was, nor whether or not she existed.

  The man stepped into a small back room and brought out a sturdy basket with two bottles of an expensive Madeira, as well as a few cheese wedges and a layout of grapes that smelled strongly of earth. The grapes were just fine, they’d simply been enchanted with a temporal spell to keep them fresh. The scent was off-putting, which was why Elsie didn’t often eat temporally enchanted food. The Christmas turkeys Ogden brought home usually had a similar rune on them, but she’d always subtly removed it before enjoying the meal.

  The food was already paid for, so Elsie thanked the man, hung the heavy basket on her arm, and departed.

  Although no note had been tucked into the basket, Elsie understood the tactic. The spell in question was on a servant’s door, so Elsie would need to approach it as a salesman—and given the finery in this basket, she probably had something the housekeeper would want. She wondered how much the food cost and what she should do with what she didn’t sell. Would the Cowls want it returned somehow? They’d left no directions in her note, but it didn’t feel right, keeping it, when someone else could enjoy it so much more than she could.

  She paused by a few select merchants on her way, purchasing a used book with her own money and trading one wedge of cheese for a buckle clasp and shoeshine. Best to have an array of goods. If not to tempt the duke’s servants, then to better disguise herself as a peddler.

  She glanced over her dress. She tried to keep up with fashion, but being too fashionable might make her suspect. When she finally reached the enormous estate, her arm aching from her load, she forced herself to pluck the adornment off her hat—she’d pocket it and fix it later—and did her best to wrinkle her skirt. Clean and trustworthy, but not well-to-do. That should be enough.