Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Elsie set her quarry: Duchess Matilda Morris, disgraced spiritual aspector, crop ruiner, face liar. The Cowls certainly wouldn’t like her.

  Duchess Morris walked by a much smaller, plumper woman with gray-streaked curls bushing out from a hat. They seemed to be speaking about something astonishing.

  Nobility gossip. How delightful. Though if the duchess had a companion, Elsie’s plan might not work.

  Elsie stepped into the street, checking the way for horses before hurrying along. She thought she heard Bacchus snap something about being careful. But there was no need to give chase; the two women took the stairs right into the next shop—a millinery.

  Slowing her step, Elsie followed, catching the door right before it closed. She feigned intense interest in the window display just inside the entrance.

  “I still think it might be bad driving. But I’m beginning to worry. It’s not a long trip.” Duchess Morris glanced over a few hats with her lip curled in disgust.

  “Alma is an aspector, she’ll be fine.” The woman with the ruddy cheeks picked up a spool of ribbon and laid it across the back of her hand, noting the color against her skin. There was something in her voice familiar to Elsie. She dared a closer glance.

  It was Master Lily Merton, from the dinner at Seven Oaks. Elsie turned away quickly, not wishing to be recognized. Or did she? Could she get closer to Duchess Morris if she struck up a conversation with Master Merton first? Would Master Merton know enough about spellbreaking to notice what Elsie was doing?

  Doubt crept up her spine. But if it would put Bacchus Kelsey in better spirits, he might let her go sooner. No more lying and slinking around without pay. No more being under his thumb. Elsie did not enjoy being a debtor.

  And it might be nice to see him a little more chipper, besides.

  “And what will she do if some highway robber accosts her? Bless him? I’m the one who convinced her to take a holiday. What an awful start.” Duchess Morris wrung her hands together. “She should have arrived by now. Her sister’s telegram was practically manic. Ugh, this place is no better than the last.”

  Elsie watched from the corner of her eye. Does the squire know this Alma, too? she wondered, half-serious.

  The owner of the shop stood right there, his brow wrinkling at the woman’s insult. Duchess Morris waved a dismissive hand and started back for the door. “I’ll send Marie for it. This is a waste of time.”

  Master Merton returned the ribbon and nodded her thanks at the disgruntled milliner, but another trinket caught her eye. She wandered off, leaving Duchess Morris waiting by the door. Master Merton and the shop owner were distracted. No witnesses.

  Elsie steadied herself with a deep breath. She just had to get the timing right. She waited until Duchess Morris grew impatient and headed for the exit, then Elsie turned suddenly—

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, barreling right into Duchess Morris. They fell over together, crashing into a table of wares that barely kept them from toppling to the floor. A smattering of tiny temporal runes smelled so strongly they made Elsie gag, and a physical rune she wasn’t familiar with glimmered at her, already fraying at the edges. Perfect. It was cheaply made and would come apart on its own soon, anyway, so no one could point a finger at Elsie for its disappearance. In a feigned effort to get up, Elsie swiped her hand across the woman’s face, catching the physical rune with her thumb. It came apart so easily even another spellbreaker might not have noticed.

  “Get off me, you clumsy hag!” Duchess Morris growled in frustration. She pushed Elsie away just as Elsie pulled the threads of a second rune apart. Only two—she hadn’t time for more, and there had to be at least a half dozen on the duchess’s face alone.

  “Oh my!” The millinery owner grabbed Elsie and pulled her upright.

  “Miss Camden?” Master Merton asked, wide-eyed.

  Seeing Elsie was uninjured, the shop owner quickly sought to aid the woman of higher worth. “My lady, are you all right?”

  Master Merton’s face pinched. Hushed, she said, “You’d best make yourself scarce,” and then pushed her attention to the duchess. “Oh, Matilda! What a bother!” She took Duchess Morris’s arm and helped right her. “What an unlucky thing.”

  The sternness in Master Merton’s tone startled Elsie. Finding herself, she bowed her head. “My apologies! I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Obviously.” Duchess Morris righted herself and adjusted her skirt. Her brows pulled together, yet they left no creases or wrinkles on her forehead—a spell must have concealed that. But her nose, her true nose, jutted from her face like the edge of a cleaver, pointed and sure of itself. Fine lines appeared on the corner of her mouth below it—but only one corner. The other was as smooth as a babe’s bottom.

  Elsie bit the inside of her cheek and offered a curtsy. The milliner stared.

  Master Merton, not yet seeming to notice the change in Duchess Morris’s face, turned to Elsie and jerked her head toward the door. She was right, of course. Better that someone of Elsie’s social class not stick around for the punishment of a duchess.

  But Duchess Morris shifted, blocking Elsie’s way to the door, and grabbed Master Merton’s wrist. “Really, Lily.” Elsie readied a defense, but the exasperated duchess ignored her, instead dragging Master Merton to the exit. Elsie lingered behind to put distance between them, picking up the items she’d knocked off the table and offering another apology to the milliner. Once she deemed it safe, she, too, stepped back out onto the street.

  Bacchus strode up to her, watching the backs of the two fleeing women. “You are a natural, Miss Camden.” That earlier gloom had dissipated from his manner. The excursion had been successful in two ways, then.

  “But of course.” She adjusted her hatpin. “If you’ll kindly see me home, Mr. Kelsey, I have a growing list of chores that needs my attention.”

  He almost smiled.

  CHAPTER 12

  At home, with her hat and chatelaine bag put away and an apron tied around her waist, Elsie finished arranging the tea service in the kitchen before carrying it upstairs. Shifting it to one arm, she knocked lightly and waited for Ogden to invite her into the sitting room.

  He lounged on his settee, arm across the drooping back, looking tired but otherwise well. Across from him sat Abel Nash, wearing the same clothes he’d worn the last time Elsie had seen him. He glanced at her briefly and grinned before turning back to Ogden.

  Elsie gingerly set the tray on the end table nearest Ogden. Began filling his cup.

  Then she saw it, and froze.

  There, under an unopened letter on the edge of the settee, was the next novel reader. The continuation of The Curse of the Ruby.

  She squealed and clanked the teapot against the teacup, spilling a few drops.

  Both men glanced at her.

  She cleared her throat. “The usual?”

  Ogden raised an eyebrow. “When did you start asking?”

  Elsie hurriedly dropped a half spoonful of sugar into the cup, followed by far too much cream. Ogden was plenty fit, however, so it didn’t seem to be doing him any harm. She set the prepared cup aside and grabbed the empty one, eyes darting to the novel reader. She could make out most of the words on its cover: Unveil the truth . . . in a time where darkness . . . and he must make his choice.

  Oh my.

  “Elsie.”

  She quickly filled the second cup. “My apologies. The tea is ready. Unless you stopped liking it plain, Mr. Nash?”

  He shook his head, his too-long blond hair dusting his eyelashes. “Never could dislike anything you made, Miss Camden. My thanks.” It was a wonder he made Emmeline uncomfortable, charming as he was.

  She served Ogden first, then Nash.

  “Oh, take it, Elsie.” Ogden tried to sound exasperated but did a poor job of it. “The letter is yours, too.”

  “Is it? I mean, oh! The post. Why, thank you, Mr. Ogden.” She snatched the novel reader and the letter atop it with both hands. Beneath it she spied a folded newspa
per, the word poacher catching her attention.

  Continued from page 2 . . . insists that the escaped poachers will be caught and brought to justice. “It isn’t merely about a pheasant,” Bamber said. “It’s about common decency and respect.”

  Elsie’s lips parted. Escaped poachers! It must have been from the carriage! She’d been successful, and now the boys would go free—

  “Elsie?” Ogden asked.

  Lifting her head, she asked, “Will that be all?”

  Ogden waved her off with a limp hand, and Elsie gladly left the men to their business.

  The window of her room was closed, making the room noticeably stuffy, but she didn’t bother opening it. She had a tendency to vocalize her reactions to stories, and passersby on the street had no need to hear that.

  Elsie leapt onto the bed on her stomach, her corset biting her hip as she adjusted to a more comfortable position. Let us see if the baron figures out—

  Oh, letter.

  She paused, taking note of the rough paper, sealed with a dot of uncolored candle wax pressed flat with a thumb. The magazine slipped from her fingers as she snatched up the paper. Turned it over. Read her name, written in flowing handwriting. She knew that handwriting—it belonged to the postmaster who served Juniper Down. Where she’d last seen her family.

  This letter was from Agatha Hall.

  Jerking upright, Elsie snapped the wax and opened the short letter. Her hope instantly cracked—it would be another missive telling her no Camdens had passed through, and no one had heard word of them. But the familiar mantra wasn’t in these words.

  Elsie,

  I know you’re hopeful. I know you’re dedicated. But the Camdens aren’t coming back. It’s time to give up, lass. Nothing will change, and you’re costing us postage we can’t afford. I was happy to help you then. Now it’s time to leave things be and move on with your life.

  Sincerely,

  Henry Hall

  Agatha’s husband.

  Elsie stared at the letter, not quite comprehending its meaning. She read it again, slowly. Nothing will change. Those words stood out starkly against the cheap paper. Nothing will change. Nothing will change.

  The Camdens aren’t coming back.

  They wanted her to stop writing. Stop asking. Stop wasting their shillings. She crumpled the letter in her hand. Strode to the unlit fireplace and tossed it in. So what? Had she really expected anything else after all these years? She had friends, here in the stonemasonry shop, and she had the Cowls. Their work mattered. The part she played made a difference.

  It was enough, wasn’t it?

  Elsie found herself staring out the window for an inordinate amount of time. She struggled to come back to herself, but her thoughts were . . . not there. She was a blank canvas. But that was all right. Better than the dripping paint she’d been the night before.

  She needed to busy herself, that was all. It wasn’t as if she lacked for things to do! She had to catch up on her missed work.

  So she strode downstairs to the studio, leaving the novel reader forgotten on her bed.

  It was only an hour’s ride to Seven Oaks in Kent, but that morning it felt like Elsie rode clear to Liverpool. She’d left at the crack of dawn, right after Ogden had departed for the squire’s home. He’d sounded hopeful about finishing the project soon, which meant Elsie had to sort out just how to balance this mess.

  She had made the trip early because she needed a trinket to present to Emmeline tomorrow, for her eighteenth birthday. This was the only time she had to find one. Fortunately, Emmeline was easy to please. Unfortunately, much of Elsie’s funds were being squandered on cab fare.

  The driver let her off at the market street, and she thanked him silently with a wave, having already paid his fee. She rubbed her lower back as she walked. The town was awake but only just; not yet crowded, no voices hawking wares. But there were people out and about, setting up and settling in. A few men nodded to her as she passed, and she returned the gesture twice before pinning her hat a little lower. With her luck, the Cowls would send her on another mission to Kent, and someone on the street would recognize her.

  She found a little Romany cart down a side street. From them, she purchased a pin studded with polished quartz. Emmeline could wear it to church. Normally Elsie would be pleased with such a find, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel any pride today. Stowing the pin in her bag, she started toward Seven Oaks.

  “Miss Camden?”

  She turned at the sound of the familiar voice just as Mr. Bacchus Kelsey came strolling up beside her. His darker coloring and blue frock coat made him blend perfectly with the street lit with fresh dawn, like an artist had painted him there. An artist with a very good hand. His eyes looked spectacularly green, like endless rolling hills just before twilight set in.

  Pinching herself to remain present, she nodded to him. “Good day, Mr. Kelsey.” He is only kind because you’re helping him. Because he’s forcing you to help him. Bah!

  “You’re early.” He fell in step beside her. He held two old-looking books in his hands, but Elsie didn’t try to read the titles. Not today. With Emmeline taken care of, her mind turned elsewhere, sitting on some forgotten easel, waiting for the artist to remember her.

  “I don’t believe we set a time,” she countered, watching the cobblestones pass underfoot.

  He thought a moment. “I don’t believe we did.”

  She nodded. It wasn’t a long walk to the duke’s estate, though she wouldn’t have minded a long walk. They were good for the body and the mind. A walk after a rainstorm, especially, but it hadn’t rained yesterday or last night.

  “Are you well?”

  She glanced up at him, and the cylinder of her thoughts spun a moment before firing. “I believe we’ve only been chatting for a few seconds, Mr. Kelsey. I doubt you’ve had enough time to gauge my health. But yes, I am well.”

  “Hmm.” It was a sound of disbelief.

  The market street bent near the end, almost like a river, and they took the turn together. On another day Elsie might worry someone would eye them and wonder after her, a young woman strolling with a man, but no one paid her any mind, other than the occasional nod. They didn’t even notice Mr. Kelsey, but perhaps they were used to him by now.

  Once they cleared the market street and reached the road that stretched to the estate, Mr. Kelsey asked, “Are you in trouble with your employer?”

  Which one? she almost asked, but instead said, “No.”

  “He’s treating you well?”

  She blinked a couple of times, feeling the need to wake up. “Mr. Ogden treats me very well. Like a daughter.” Daughter.

  The word sat like a lead ball in her chest.

  “I believe you are lying to me.”

  She glared at him. “Mr. Ogden—”

  He raised his free hand. “About your state of mind, not your employer.”

  Elsie raised her chin. “You never asked about my state of mind, Mr. Kelsey. One generally perceives the question of wellness in relation to the body.”

  “Now you are being more yourself.”

  She folded her arms. “Am I?”

  “Yes. You’re being difficult.” He said it with a sliver of humor.

  Her arms dropped back to her sides as quickly as she had lifted them. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be.”

  “And now you’re apologizing, which truly alarms me.”

  She sighed. She could see the top of the duke’s estate through the trees.

  The lead ball in her chest was maddening.

  “Since you already think me a criminal,” she tried, focusing again on the road, “I don’t suppose it does any harm to tell you.” She’d like to tell someone about Mr. Hall’s letter, about the death knell of her foolish hopes, and she’d already worried Emmeline and Ogden enough over her drama with Alfred.

  Mr. Kelsey was silent. Listening.

  She straightened her back, as though that would add dignity to her situation. Sh
e had already begun to regret her offer of information, but it would do her good to let it out. And what was Bacchus Kelsey to her? He already knew her biggest secret.

  “I came to work with Mr. Ogden”—she left out her time with the squire—“from a workhouse.”

  Mr. Kelsey hesitated. “That . . . is not uncommon. Unless changes have been made to the system concerning the impoverished.”

  Elsie shrugged. “I was in a workhouse because I lost my family. Or they lost me. On purpose, I suppose.” She rolled her lips together. She never spoke about this to anyone, not in detail. Ogden knew some of the particulars, but she’d told him only because she had to prove she had as much experience as many of his older candidates. It was strange speaking about it now, like reciting poetry in German. “I mean, we stayed with a family in a small town west of here one night, and only I remained in the morning. And so I write to that family every now and then, to see if they’ve received any word of my parents or siblings. And yesterday they wrote me back telling me to stop wasting their postage.”

  When Mr. Kelsey didn’t respond, she took her eyes off the cobblestones and looked up at him. His gaze was unfocused, like he was thinking.

  “I suppose that’s why I’m such a vagabond,” she tried, but the humor fell flat. “And I would appreciate you keeping it to yourself. I have a good standing in Brookley, you know.”

  Mr. Kelsey shook his head. “No, I . . . I mean to express my sympathies. I am . . . not sure how to do it.”

  “I appreciate the attempt.”

  “If it is any consolation, I myself am a bastard.” When she gaped at the confession, he dismissed it with a wave. “My father did not treat me any differently for it, but he never married my mother. She was of a common background and hailed from the Algarve; my grandparents didn’t approve. But your story is not one I’ve heard before. And I’ve heard many.”