Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Ogden frowned. “I hope they are merely stories sensationalized by journalists to sell more papers. Let’s pray the viscount is the last we hear of.”

  Elsie nodded before hurrying downstairs to do as asked, her thoughts flitting between murders, opuses, and Kent.

  When the door to the studio opened, Elsie jumped and dropped the paintbrushes she’d been organizing. She half expected a large, shadowy man to be standing there. He would say, I meant dawn today, and then step aside, revealing the police force assembled behind him, ready to drag her to the nearest atheneum for punishment.

  To her relief, it was merely a lad no older than fourteen. Small in stature, dressed in gray servants’ clothing. Completely harmless.

  She craned to check the road behind him just in case, but it seemed God did not mean for her to meet her reckoning today.

  Letting out a long breath, Elsie scooped up the paintbrushes and headed over to the counter, where the boy waited. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Elsie Camden?” He scratched the side of his freckled nose.

  She set the brush down. “I’m she. What can I do for you?”

  His eyes darted around the studio, though it seemed to be more from curiosity than nervousness. Remembering himself, he shot his gaze back to her. “Oh. Uh, Mr. Parker sent me. From Squire Hughes’s estate. Said . . .” He paused, trying to remember. “Needs your assistance with an addition, and Mr. Ogden ’asn’t got the paperwork.”

  Mr. Parker. Her pulse quickened at the name. Why send for her when he could simply wait until tomorrow and have Ogden bring the paperwork himself? Why was a man who had so pointedly not been in her life—almost as though he’d been trying to conceal himself—now suddenly popping up again and again?

  Could she be right about his connection to the Cowls? And if so, did this mean they were finally preparing to bring her into the fold? She’d been waiting so long . . .

  The boy was watching her, so she pushed out a confirmative “Ah.” The metallic paint would not be needed yet after all. If the squire meant to add more work to Ogden’s plate, he wouldn’t have time for it. Not today. Leave it to a nobleman to assume he was the only one worth serving. “Wait for me one moment, will you?”

  The boy nodded, and Elsie retrieved the ledger used to record Ogden’s open orders, trying not to let excitement shake her hands. The ledger chronicled names, dates, the type of work, estimates, and final prices. Squire Hughes had a page all to himself. Ogden, being a wise man, wanted the extra requests recorded now so they’d be charged properly when the time came. Elsie would even make Mr. Parker sign the page. She wouldn’t put it past Squire Rat to shortchange them.

  Maybe she could get Mr. Parker to print his name as well. See if it matched the handwriting in the letters she received. Although she always promptly destroyed them, they were all written in the same hand. She felt certain she’d recognize it.

  After retrieving her hat, she tucked the ledger under her arm and gestured for the lad to lead the way. He did so without word, and walked too slow for Elsie’s liking. She wanted to arrive straightaway. She needed to know.

  It was a bit too cloudy today, but the sun peeked out just often enough to keep the air warm. The Wright sisters hunched together outside the saddler. They were gossiping, no doubt, which made Elsie both roll her eyes and wish to get closer to see what garnered their interest. Levi Morgan, her closest neighbor, passed by with a bundle under his arm, tipping his hat to her. Elsie nodded in turn.

  They crossed the street and passed the dressmaker, the courthouse, and the constable’s home. Continued down the road until it narrowed and grew dusty, past a stream, and through a smattering of woods, all the way to the squire’s home. Elsie was quite out of breath when she arrived. Her guide was gracious enough to lead her to Mr. Parker’s study before continuing on his way. The door was ajar, and Mr. Parker sat at his desk, a dainty pair of spectacles resting at the end of his nose, making him look quite old. He scrawled something on a piece of paper. Elsie let herself in. She wasn’t quiet about it, and when the steward glanced up and saw her, he immediately slammed his left hand down, covering what he had written.

  Elsie, of course, took immediate interest in the writing, but Mr. Parker’s wide hand successfully covered all of it. Surely he’d smeared the ink! What was so private that he felt the need to hide it? And so obviously?

  It was as she lifted her gaze from the steward’s hand that she saw a stick of wax to one side of it. Her pulse quickened. It was a vivid orange wax.

  Just like the wax the Cowls used to seal their letters.

  Her lips parted, but no sound escaped them. Of course more than one person, or people, could have orange wax on hand. Elsie knew that. But the orange wax in addition to the covering of the letter . . . Was Mr. Parker trying to hide his handwriting?

  She feared he’d hear her heart thundering in her chest. If it’s him, then he’s not ready to reveal himself. It took the bulk of her willpower not to launch herself at the desk and forcibly remove that note so she could read it, or simply blurt out, Are you the one who’s been directing me all this time?

  It made sense. His age, the wax, his interest in and knowledge of her, the ease with which she’d landed that initial job in the squire’s home. It made sense, and yet Elsie could do nothing about it until he moved first.

  All of these thoughts swept through her mind in a matter of seconds, leaving her fingers cold and head dumbfounded.

  Mr. Parker snapped her to attention. “Miss Camden, thank you for coming on such short notice. Squire Hughes wished to add some stonework to an outer wall, and I understand Mr. Ogden has a process for that.”

  Elsie met the steward’s blue-eyed gaze. Swallowed. “Um, yes, of course.” She pulled out the ledger, trying to keep her hand from shaking. Act normal. It’s just speculation. But the wax, the secrecy . . . and Mr. Parker had specifically mentioned Viscount Byron to her on her last visit. Because he knew something? Because he knew her?

  It is my business to know, he’d said.

  Clearing her throat, Elsie opened to the squire’s page in the ledger. “If I might borrow a pen and ink.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Mr. Parker slid whatever he’d been working on under the desk and pushed the pen and ink vial toward her. He gestured to a chair.

  Elsie pulled it over and sat. She was so flustered, so excited, so confused, that she couldn’t stop the question from bubbling up her throat. “What was that you were working on? That is, I hope I didn’t intrude. I wouldn’t want you to have to rewrite it.”

  Was she talking too fast? Slow down, Elsie. Or he’ll know you suspect.

  Was it wrong for him to think she knew? But there must be a reason the Cowls kept their identities from her. Like they were waiting for something. Like she had to prove herself. They’d provided her with so much already; they’d saved her from the workhouse and from being discovered as an illegal spellbreaker, which she surely would have been severely punished for despite her age. They’d arranged for her to find a good job—what should have been a good job, at least. She’d always wondered if it had angered them when she left it for Ogden’s employ, but she’d still been a child. Certainly they couldn’t hold it against her!

  They used to send follow-up letters, telling her of the good she’d done, the results of her clandestine activities, but they’d stopped the practice years ago. Likely because double the letters meant double the chance of getting caught, and besides, she’d grown from a child to a woman. Still, she yearned for their praise, and they gave it in the best way possible.

  They kept her on. They gave her more complicated and more important work, more frequently. Something was about to bend. Elsie could feel it, and then she’d finally have the answers to the mystery she’d been living for half her life.

  “Just a list.” Mr. Parker sounded cheery, but the tone wasn’t genuine. It piqued her interest all the more.

  Focus.

  She dipped the proffered pen. “
If you could detail the addition Squire Hughes is requesting.”

  He did so, and Elsie wrote it down, her penmanship not what it should be. The pen quivered in her anxious hand. She hoped Mr. Parker didn’t notice.

  She calculated the costs and wrote them in the first column of numbers, then, at the bottom of the page, drew an X and a straight line after it. Beneath it, she wrote, Mr. Gabriel Parker. Turning the ledger toward him, she said, “If you might review and sign, Mr. Ogden can get started right away.”

  Adjusting his glasses, the steward did just that. Meticulous—a good quality for a steward. Elsie took a moment to study him, his white hair, the writing calluses on his hand. The smeared ink on his left palm. He had ruined the letter. No list would have inspired him to do such a thing. Could he really be one of them?

  Could Mr. Parker be working for the squire to watch him? To bring down his household from within?

  Then there was his talk of the viscount, and the Wright sisters’ gossip about the baron who had once stayed in this house. Could the squire be responsible for the deaths of the aspectors?

  He was no spellmaker, but one didn’t have to be to use an opus spell. Even the pageboy could unleash a master spell if it came from a master’s opus.

  Elsie’s thoughts spun so fast they were making her dizzy. She desperately needed to get away and think.

  Mr. Parker signed. Elsie glanced at his signature as he returned the ledger, but of course the scrawl wouldn’t match his natural penmanship.

  She desperately wanted to see what the steward was hiding under the desk. But alas, she could not force him to show her, and if she were to evince more than a natural interest, she risked revealing herself.

  Standing, Elsie thanked Mr. Parker. He did not stand to walk her to the door—but of course he was busy, and he had that letter—so she saw herself out. Her nerves were so raw that she walked back to the stonemasonry shop at an even faster pace than she’d set earlier. She was distracted the remainder of the day, trying to piece together what she knew of Mr. Parker with what she knew of the Cowls. Wishing she had kept the letters to compare them to how he spoke.

  It wasn’t until night settled and Elsie turned in for bed that she recalled a much more pressing situation.

  Come dawn, she had to report to Seven Oaks, and the man who knew her most protected secret.

  Why was it that every time Elsie returned to the Duke of Kent’s estate, it seemed to have grown larger in her absence? When she stood before it now, it appeared as foreboding as a castle.

  It had not been difficult to get away; Ogden was busy again at the squire’s estate—something that tempted Elsie’s thoughts to return to the mysterious Mr. Parker—and Emmeline was so focused on her chores she often didn’t notice when Elsie left the house. After completing her deliveries and taking stock of supplies in the masonry shop, Elsie had brought the financial ledgers with her and finished them in the carriage, albeit with shaky penmanship. She would do her work for Mr. Kelsey and return swiftly, staying up late to sharpen the sculptor tools Ogden would need for his work at the squire’s house. She’d still get enough sleep to function, and none would be the wiser. Perhaps she’d be so useful Mr. Kelsey would excuse her after her first day.

  That certainly sounded fictional, even to her.

  If Mr. Parker knew of her predicament, would he swoop in and save her?

  Of course, she didn’t know he was a Cowl. She couldn’t tell him anything. Not yet.

  She entered the grounds as she had the first time—through the front gate. The duke was neither a king nor an aspector; he didn’t post guards, though he did have a number of footmen about. She didn’t see any people at all as she trudged around to the servants’ door, which was for the better. Whatever Mr. Kelsey had planned for her, she couldn’t let anyone else, even a scullery maid, know what she was.

  She knocked, noticing with dismay that her hard work had already been undone. The enchantment had been returned to the doorknob, though it was currently inactive. A few seconds passed before a girl—the one with the washbasin from before?—peeked out, only to instantly close the door in Elsie’s face. Gritting her teeth together, Elsie waited a full minute, then another, before lifting her hand to knock again.

  The door swung open fast enough to create its own wind. A large man filled its frame. “You’re late.”

  Elsie gawked a moment. It was one thing to have an altercation with a shadow. It was another to see the shadow in bright morning sunlight.

  He was over six feet tall, broad and well dressed. His skin was deeply tanned, a light sepia, and a dark half beard encircled his mouth. His wavy walnut hair was worn long and pulled up at the back of his head in a folded tail. A few pieces of the dark mass were sun bleached, as though the overall color could not decide if it wanted to be dark or light.

  His eyes were a rather remarkable shade of green.

  Elsie caught herself quickly and squared her shoulders. “I am an educated woman, monsieur. I have certain morning grooming rituals that cannot be overlooked, especially if I’m to appear at the home of a duke.” If she didn’t stand her ground, the spellmaker would walk all over her.

  She thought she caught Mr. Kelsey rolling his eyes, but he stepped out of the door frame, forcing Elsie to step back. He shut the door behind him. Elsie glanced longingly at the glimmering spell she’d disenchanted twice already.

  Surely the Cowls knew she’d tried.

  Mr. Kelsey strode toward the back of the estate without word. Elsie followed him, nearly having to jog to keep up with his stride.

  “There are some slapdash spells on the estate I’d like voided.” Mr. Kelsey looked straight ahead. “Previous hires of the duchess. Some are old, some are a smattering of intermediate spells that would be better replaced by a single advanced one.” He glanced toward her, studying her for the space of a breath. “I take it you are untrained.”

  “I am more than capable of breaking slapdashery, Mr. Kelsey. I trust that you have kept your end of the bargain?”

  He nodded, and a trickle of relief cooled Elsie’s vitals. “The family is away, and most of the staff has been given the day off. The rest know better than to snoop. And if any of them do, they’ll assume I hired you from a reputable source.”

  Elsie frowned. At least he’d ensured her safety.

  He led her to the east side of the estate, to the large stone wall that surrounded the main grounds. The wall was speckled with fortification spells—one every twenty feet!—and Elsie unraveled them one by one. She got rather quick at it, and Mr. Kelsey followed behind her, replacing the spells with spells of his own—knots larger and more intricate than those falling to pieces under Elsie’s hands. Brighter, too. He didn’t say any magical words—aspectors didn’t need to, once they had absorbed a spell. The words became part of them, part of their opus. He simply put his hands on the wall and placed his runes. Runes only a spellbreaker would be able to see. And see them she did, each neat and shiny and symmetrical, though they vanished from sight the farther she moved from them. At most, she could spy three at a time, if she focused, and only because she knew where to look.

  He’d said advanced spells, which suggested he was an advanced physical aspector, not yet a master. He looked a few years shy of thirty. He must have been raised to the magic, but he wasn’t a nobleman. Not a local one, anyway. Perhaps he’d gotten a sponsorship, but gauging by the way he dressed, his sponsor would have to be very generous. A foreign landowner, most likely. She doubted he was a merchant, what with his gloomy demeanor.

  By the time she got to the front gate, her wrists began to itch fiercely. Scratching did little to abate the discomfort, and Elsie paused and pulled up her sleeves, expecting to see an ugly rash. But her skin was unblemished, minus the pinkness caused by her own fingernails.

  “Have you done work like this before?” Mr. Kelsey asked, sounding disinterested.

  “I’ve disenchanted walls, yes.” She sounded offended.

  But the man shook his
head. “I mean the repetition.”

  Elsie eyed him.

  He gestured to her wrists. “Overextending of magic takes a toll. Itching, soreness, fatigue . . . it varies from aspector to aspector.”

  Elsie tugged down her sleeve. “I’m aware.”

  She was not.

  She worked for another half hour—trying hard not to scratch—before a servant appeared with a small basket of food. Mr. Kelsey accepted with a nod, and the man retreated back to the house.

  He offered her a wrapped sandwich.

  Elsie hesitated.

  Mr. Kelsey sighed. “I’ll not starve you. There’s more than enough to go around in this place.”

  If only to give her fiery wrists a break, Elsie accepted the food. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Kelsey grunted an acknowledgment and unwrapped his own quick meal. They were on the green without any immediate shade, and the closest bench was a short walk away, so Elsie ate her food where she stood.

  “You don’t live here,” she stated, “normally, I mean.”

  She’d addressed him informally, and the look he gave her said he’d noticed. “Given the nature of our relationship,” she added, “I hardly think it necessary to address you ‘properly.’ And if you’re only an advanced aspector, you do not have a title, and therefore you are not my better.”

  His lip actually quirked at that. “Perhaps, but I am legal, and you are not.”

  Elsie blanched.

  He went on. “I’m staying with the duke’s family while I earn my mastership. My father was a friend of the family.”

  “Oh.” Then he certainly would be her better, not that she’d satisfy him by saying as much. “So he has you doing menial chores about the grounds?”

  He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Regardless of what you’ve chosen to believe, Miss Camden, the duke is a good man. I work willingly, out of gratitude.”

  “As I work unwillingly to keep my head on my shoulders.”