Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  He glowered. Elsie shrugged and took a bite of food. The bread was exquisite. She chewed, swallowed, and let herself relax.

  “Well,” she continued, “fair is fair. But how long must I toil to earn your favor? Or rather, your silence?”

  “Until the work is done.”

  Elsie frowned. “Leave it to a man to be unspecific.”

  Another lip quirk. At least the boor appreciated humor. “The estate and its holdings are extensive; I have yet to walk all of it.”

  “And its holdings?” Elsie repeated, leaning against the wall as her knees weakened. “Good sir, you will work me to death. I have another occupation.” Two, considering how often the Cowls had been contacting her of late. “One I am putting at risk for this.”

  “I needn’t remind you that you made the initial risk yourself.”

  Elsie sniffed and attacked her sandwich. She ate half of it in silence, and while the lack of conversation bothered her, Mr. Kelsey seemed utterly unfazed by it. Ridiculous man. When she could bear the quiet no longer, she blurted, “So where are you from? Turkey?”

  His eyes narrowed. “That is your first assumption? Turkey?”

  “I am no duchess, Mr. Kelsey. I am not well traveled, though I highly doubt you’re French.”

  He popped the last of his meal into his mouth and brushed off his hands. Returned to the wall. Ran his palm over it. There was a crack there, and without a word he bespelled the stones on either side of it, growing them until their own girth filled it.

  It was only a little impressive.

  “I’m from Barbados, if you must know.” He tilted his head toward what remained of her food. “Don’t dawdle.”

  Elsie gave him a pointed look and took her time finishing her meal. Mr. Kelsey, in the meantime, caught up to her with his fortifying spells. Despite the meal, he looked a little fatigued. Tired around his eyes.

  They continued their work with the second half of the wall, disenchanting and re-enchanting it until they reached the woods. The itching spread nearly to Elsie’s shoulders, but she scratched only when she was sure Mr. Kelsey was not looking. Her knees and lower back ached when the work was finished, and she very much yearned for a bath.

  “That’s enough for today.” Mr. Kelsey looked back over his work. His shoulders slumped, and he looked older. She wondered if overuse of magic was the cause, but Mr. Kelsey seemed to feel more tired than she did itchy. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is the Sabbath.”

  He looked down at her. His glare certainly hadn’t lost any energy. “You don’t strike me as a God-fearing woman.”

  Folding her arms, she retorted, “I fear him on Sundays.”

  Mr. Kelsey actually laughed. Softly, barely loud enough to hear, but it was a chuckle, nonetheless. Much to Elsie’s dismay, she found it to be a very pleasant and masculine sound. “As most do.”

  Elsie loosened her arms. “Monday is as good a time as any. My employer is away working on some grand scheme of stonework for our squire. Best I use the time as I am able.”

  “His name?”

  Elsie glared.

  “I could find out for myself.”

  “Do that.” Elsie offered him a mocking curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Kelsey. It’s been lovely.”

  “If you’re willing to wait,” he said, turning as she passed him, “I’ll have the footmen bring around a carriage.”

  “Thank you, but no.” She paused a little too close to him, then caught herself and stepped back. Her thoughts spun, flashing from the close fit of his shirt to something else . . . something curious . . . but she squashed them. “It would be best if I did not arrive in Brookley in a duke’s carriage.”

  “Brookley,” he repeated with an obnoxious smirk.

  She pinched her lips together. Next time she’d merely refuse to speak and bear the silence just as she bore this infuriating itching. The lace on her cuffs aggravated it. “I’ll escort myself, thank you.”

  She turned and did just that. And once she reached the road, she finally let her turning thoughts surface. She’d sensed something strange about Mr. Kelsey those last few minutes.

  A spell. She smelled it. A less experienced spellbreaker might have thought it Mr. Kelsey’s musk of choice, but Elsie knew better. Knew the scent of fresh-cut wood and citrus was a natural smell—and not unpleasant—but the earthy smell beneath it, not unlike mushrooms, indicated a spell. A temporal spell, planted somewhere on Mr. Kelsey’s person.

  But whatever could it be?

  CHAPTER 7

  Ogden announced they would be going to church in London. Specifically, Camberwell, to a church they’d attended once before. That was a strange thing about Ogden—he wasn’t a very religious person, and yet he insisted on the household attending church every Sunday. Only the church they attended changed more often than the season.

  The Brookley chapel was a pleasant walk from the masonry shop, but Elsie didn’t mind the travel into London, even if the Wright sisters would surely gossip about the Ogden household’s “path to hell” again. After all, Squire Hughes went to the Brookley chapel whenever he was not in London, and he had a very obvious and annoying way of twisting the vicar around his fat finger. If the squire had his way, he’d rewrite the whole Bible. Still, it was a pity she would not be able to observe Mr. Parker from afar.

  It was a gray day. Thick, brooding clouds stretched pale across the sky, making the air cool enough for a shawl. The three of them shared a carriage together—Elsie, Ogden, and Emmeline. Elsie peered out the window, searching the bustling streets and tight-fitted homes. A horseless carriage, propelled by aspected wheels, passed by them, and a few minutes later they passed a mill, far from any water source, that used the same spell to turn its turbine. Such spells were common in the city, but seen only on occasion in Brookley. Rumor said people were starting to use energy from such things to power lights in glass bulbs that had nothing to do with magic, but Elsie would believe it when she saw it.

  The church was an old but lovely building, kept in good repair. Ogden led them toward the front of the chapel. This church employed a spiritual aspector, as many did. Although they were schooled in theology, they were not part of the clergy. Rather, they were icons to the faithful. Many of the devout viewed them as a means for miracles. Some believed the spell for invoking inner peace actually summoned the Holy Spirit, although Elsie suspected it was nothing more than a feel-good spell for the soul. Spiritual aspectors could also invoke truth and make it impossible for a person to lie, which could be useful in religion. It was certainly useful in law enforcement.

  Not every church employed a spiritual aspector, but it helped their numbers to guarantee some sort of blessing at the end of a sermon. Simple ones, like good fortune, peace, or discernment—ones that couldn’t go sour or be misinterpreted. If someone wanted a blessing greater than that, well, he would have to pay for it just as he would for any other spell.

  Elsie swallowed, and adjusted the collar of her dress, her corset feeling a little too tight. If Mr. Kelsey turned her in, would they send a spiritual aspector to force her to spill every secret she’d kept from infancy up?

  “Oh, pretty,” Emmeline said beside her, and Elsie followed her gaze to what, at first glance, appeared to be an angel. But a closer look revealed the translucent image was simply a man. A rather normal-looking one despite the fact that he was translucent. An astral projection spell—a master-level spiritual spell, if Elsie remembered right.

  Leaning toward Ogden, she asked, “Who is that?”

  “I believe . . . yes, I think that’s Master Allen. He’s of the Physical Atheneum. Another aspector must be doing the projection for him.”

  Master Allen’s ghost nodded to the vicar and sat in an invisible chair as the vicar approached the podium.

  “If he lives in London,” Elsie went on, “then why does he need to be projected? And why here?” Though with how fuzzy his image was, he must be on the other side of the city. Close as she was, if Elsie were to
project herself to the front of the room, it would be crisp enough for it to appear she had an identical twin.

  Ogden shrugged. “I don’t know. Curious.”

  Curious indeed. Elsie watched the master aspector for several moments after the sermon began, studying his faded features. A man present yet not. A man with nebulous motivations.

  It made Elsie think of the Cowls.

  They had not been in contact since the night she was caught. Part of her worried they would make no more use of her, either because she’d failed or perhaps because she’d identified Mr. Parker. And yet, spellbreakers were valuable. Maybe they needed her. She hoped they did.

  Something else troubled her. Mr. Kelsey had been adamant the heat spell was merely a security measure. The cook Elsie had spoken to hadn’t seemed unhappy, although perhaps she’d been excited for an opportunity to win the favor of an overbearing employer.

  Had Robin Hood ever made a mistake?

  Quietly clearing her throat, Elsie forced herself to stare at the vicar and absorb his words, though his low voice quickly lulled her to drowsiness. Emmeline began to sway after a half hour, but Ogden was alert, his attention shifting back and forth between the man of God and the spiritual aspector who stood beside the podium. When the preaching concluded, the spiritual aspector waved his arms over the congregation. The slight tinkle of bells reached Elsie’s ears, and suddenly she felt very calm, as though an anvil had been lifted from her lap and a fur stole coiled around her shoulders. She might not have recognized the sensation as a spell had she not heard it first. A general blessing of peace was a novice-level spell, but to be able to cast it upon an entire congregation was actually a master-level spell. A spell that could be chained to pass from person to person, almost like a disease.

  It tingled on the skin around her shoulders, and pretending she had an itch, Elsie swiftly removed it. She liked calmness, of course, but she’d rather feel it genuinely than have some wealthy stranger stick it to her like a briar.

  She bowed her head with everyone else as a final prayer was offered. Elsie’s lips moved with one of her own—that the squire would keep Ogden thoroughly busy for the next week.

  Hopefully the old church would magnify her heaven-directed plea.

  “The new earl is selling his father’s collection to pay off debts, supposedly.” Rainer rubbed his hands together as he spoke. “It includes a master opus from his great-grandfather.”

  Bacchus traced his beard with his thumb and forefinger. He stood in one of the balconied windows in the gallery, one that had a nice view of the duke’s gardens. The sun was behind him, making the shadowed alcove too cold for his liking. “It’s very unlikely the atheneum would allow the auction of such a valuable opus. You shouldn’t heed rumors.”

  Rainer parted his hands as though offering an apology. “You’re right—the London Physical Atheneum wants it, but the earl took them to court, and the High Court of Justice itself ruled in his favor. Somewhat. He’s allowed to sell a copy, although whomever buys it will need to have their paperwork in order. They’ll probably also be asked to sign an agreement not to share the spells. Lord Bennett was a physical aspector. From what I could gather, it’s very likely he knew the spell you’re looking for.”

  Bacchus straightened, hope spreading its wings. He’d asked both of his men to help him figure out a way around the assembly. Could it be this easy? He didn’t need the opus itself—a copy would give him exactly what he required. “Excellent, Rainer.” He grinned. “Get me a seat at that auction, and you can have the rest of the day to do whatever you please.”

  Rainer shrugged. “There is little that interests me here.”

  “How about a couple of pounds to spend at the tables?”

  Rainer cocked an interested eyebrow.

  A woman cleared her voice behind them.

  Bacchus turned to see his other servant, John, standing beside Miss Elsie Camden. Despite John’s larger stature, he seemed almost cowed by the woman. She stood upright with her chin held high like she was a duke’s daughter, and though her clothing was not as fine as that, it was well fitted and hardly inexpensive. Her stonemason paid her well—that part of her story was true, at least. Rainer had already confirmed it.

  Elsie looked at him as though amused. The expression was cocky and oddly attractive. For an Englishwoman, anyway.

  “Thank you, John. You’re dismissed.” Bacchus nodded to Rainer, and the two of them departed. The walls were taupe, decorated with portraits of the duke’s family and red velvet curtains.

  Elsie watched the two men go before speaking, and when she opened her mouth, she also planted her hands on her hips. “Do they know about me?”

  Bacchus shook his head and passed through the gallery, forcing Elsie to follow or miss his answer. “None do, as promised. As far as anyone knows, you’re a consultant.”

  She considered that a moment. “I do have remarkable taste.”

  She was oddly confident, for the employee of a stonemason. Bacchus normally liked confidence in women, but in this case, it made him suspicious. She still hadn’t told him precisely why she’d been on the grounds that night—he didn’t believe the story about the servants. He’d stayed at Seven Oaks several times throughout his life, and the staff were always treated well. “We’ll be working in the ballroom.”

  Her step slowed. “And where is the family?” The confidence fizzled as easily as it had come.

  “The duke is in his study and has better things to do than follow us around.” He noted Miss Camden nearly trotting to keep up with him and slowed his stride, slightly. “The duchess has taken her daughters into town.”

  “And her sons?” she pressed.

  “There are none.”

  “Only daughters?” Her tone shifted to mocking. “How sad.”

  Bacchus did not reply.

  After a moment, she said, “Why do you speak falsely? Your accent, I mean.”

  This caught him off guard, and he slowed even more. “Pardon?”

  That amused look returned to her face. She reminded him of a sugar merchant’s wife, the way her expression so easily slipped from earnest to conniving. “When you were speaking with your servant—you spoke differently than you are with me.”

  Had he? He hadn’t noticed. He turned the corner, the doors to the ballroom in sight. “I grow tired of repeating myself. Many men seem incapable of understanding English if it is not spoken to them the way they’ve always heard it. That said, I am just as much English as I am Bajan or Algarve.” He sounded slightly defensive.

  “Algarve?” She paused. “Well, I thought it sounded quite intriguing.”

  He slowed again, studying her from the corner of his eye. Oddly, the comment sounded genuine. “Then you are a rarity, Miss Camden.”

  “I could understand you just fine.”

  He paused at the doors. She would not win him over with flattery. “And how long were you standing there before you announced yourself?”

  She merely smiled. He ignored her bait and pushed open the doors to the extravagant ballroom. The floors were well polished and showed only minimal wear of dancers’ feet. Two rows of white columns followed the long walls, and the short walls featured intricately carved panels, painted with floral patterns, separated by red drapery. Three unlit chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and a set of glass doors led out toward the gardens.

  “The duchess requested that I change the scheme of this room to burgundy.” He sighed inwardly at the request; party décor was not his forte. But an aspector of any alignment had to occasionally take work he or she wasn’t fond of, so this was good practice. He pulled her instructions from his waistcoat pocket once more to review them. “I can overlay the existing spells”—it was quicker and tidier to use magic to paint the walls instead of actual paint—“but the job will have more integrity if the slate is clean, so to speak.”

  He turned. Miss Camden gawked at the splendor around her, taking it in slowly, craning her head back to see the angelic mur
al on the ceiling overhead. Bacchus understood her wonder—he’d felt very much the same when he’d first beheld the rich house as a boy. His holding in Barbados was nothing to scoff at, but the island was small, and the plantation house was not nearly as elaborate as the ancestral homes owned by England’s elite.

  He’d once hated all of it. Now he tolerated it fairly well.

  “The spells?” he asked.

  Miss Camden shook herself and strode toward the unlit fireplace on the far side of the room. She ran her hand over the mantel, then across a carved panel to a red drape. She paused. “Oh, yes. I see it.” She undid the spell quickly, and the curtain changed to an unfortunate teal. “Hmm.” She leaned closer, wiggling her fingers, and it changed again to blue.

  Stepping back, she examined her work. “If one is to change fabric with spells, why not start with black or white? Something neutral?”

  Bacchus rubbed his eyes. “I beg you not to discuss the décor choices with me, for it is a conversation I am loath to participate in.” He lowered his hand and caught that amused smirk on her face once more. “Please continue, before the duchess returns.”

  Her expression blanched. She nodded curtly and moved on to the next drape, dismissing its overlaid spells until it, too, returned to blue. Bacchus, meanwhile, used novice spells to shift the color of the first curtain to burgundy. Color-changing spells were some of the first he’d learned as an adolescent. Hopefully it was the shade the duchess had in mind, for he might go mad from the tediousness of it if she asked him to do it again.

  After the curtains came the columns and walls, until everything was burgundy and cream instead of red and white. A tight headache bloomed in the center of Bacchus’s forehead, and his customary exhaustion began to suck at his limbs, despite the early hour. He could think of a few people, his late father included, who would have had a fine laugh hearing about how he’d spent his day.

  Somewhere in the house, a door opened and closed, the sound of it echoing through the halls. Miss Camden froze, her alarm apparent enough that Bacchus felt pity for her, earlier trespassing aside.