Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  But who else would have written to her?

  Her breath caught as hope flared in her chest. She pet the dog on the head. “No treat on me today, Ruff. Off you go.”

  The dog turned around and trotted back toward the post office.

  Forgetting the broom, Elsie ran inside. She set Ogden’s letter on the kitchen table and took the stairs two at a time, diving into the privacy of her room.

  She ripped the letter open and read the bottom of it first:

  Sincerely,

  Bacchus Kelsey

  Thank you for the telegram. I just received it.

  Her heart fluttered. He’d found the rune. Or at least, he’d gotten home safely.

  Just read it, she chided herself.

  Miss Camden,

  I hope this letter finds you in the privacy for which it is intended. I was successful in finding the rune in question. You were correct—it’s of the physical nature. It is the mark of a siphoning spell, one that I was not aware existed. It appears to be complex and rare.

  I believe it is the cause of my symptoms. I continue to feel well. I owe that to you.

  Her skin warmed. Despite herself, she smiled.

  I have been in contact with Master Ruth Hill of the London Physical Atheneum. She has offered me the choice between a gem spell and a substance spell to complete my mastership. Once I choose, the rest of my repertoire will need to be earned on my own.

  I thank you again for your help during this trial. I pray you are well.

  Sincerely,

  Bacchus Kelsey

  Thank you for the telegram. I just received it.

  He didn’t mention her abrupt departure. Kind of him.

  So why was she crying?

  Lowering the letter, Elsie dabbed at her eyes with her sleeves. She hadn’t yawned, and there was no dust in the air. Had she picked up a head cold while traveling? But she didn’t feel stuffy. Or achy. That is, not achy in the manner of a head cold. No, this ache was centered in her chest.

  She reread the letter. Sniffed. It was a goodbye, in a sense. She no longer had a debt to repay. He no longer needed her services. And he was testing to be a master aspector. Once that happened, he’d be titled, putting his rank far above her own. Which hardly mattered, anyway. He’d likely return to Barbados once he had what he’d come for. There’d be an entire ocean between them.

  It’s better this way, she told herself, dabbing another tear. She managed to keep the crying light, the way heroines always cried so prettily in novel readers. But it left a hard lump in her throat, one that dug in with claws. But it was better this way. Whenever Bacchus thought of spellbreaking, or perhaps of polio, he would think of her. And he would think of her kindly, of the way she’d helped him, or perhaps her humor. She would forever live in his memory as a likeable acquaintance.

  It was better that he leave, because that meant he would never get close enough to her to discover that utterly unlikeable something that drove everyone else away.

  The Camdens aren’t coming back.

  She thought of Juniper Down and the workhouse. Of Alfred, hand in hand with another woman. It was miraculous that Ogden had yet to kick her out.

  She folded the letter and slipped it between the books on her shelf. A stray tear dropped off her jaw and onto her hand, but she wiped it off with her skirt. Yes, it was better this way.

  The lump dug in, hard.

  Really, Elsie, she thought, since she could not speak. What were you expecting, romance? From a man who thinks you’re a criminal? Who could be a baron next month, for all you know?

  She thought of the depth of his laugh. The way his skin felt beneath her fingers.

  No. Stories like that were meant for novel readers, not real life.

  It really was better this way. The loss of her family, her siblings, Alfred . . . It still hurt, and it had been years. How much worse would the sting be to have a man like Bacchus in her life, only to be discarded by him, too?

  She drew in a sharp breath, which eased the lump. Drove it down deeper, where it was a little easier to ignore. She had too much to do today to sit up here wallowing in self-pity.

  “Elsie?” Emmeline called up the stairs.

  She rubbed her arm across her eyes. Cleared her throat. “I’ll be right there!” The volume helped keep her voice even. She needn’t give Emmeline a reason to reject her as well, though the maid seemed to like everyone, Nash aside. Hurrying to her small table, she dumped out what little water was left in her pitcher into her washing bowl and dotted it on her eyes and cheeks, cooling them. Then she stood erect and forced herself to take a big gulp of air. Repinned part of her hair.

  If Emmeline noticed anything amiss, she didn’t mention it.

  Elsie woke to a thumping chest. The tendrils of the strangest dream curled beneath her skull. She’d been trapped in a room full of kitchen supplies, all the exits blocked by stacks upon stacks of bowls. In her desperation to escape, she’d knocked over the largest stack—

  Something clamored down the hallway.

  Not a dream.

  Leaping from bed, Elsie called, “Are you all right?” not knowing if it was Emmeline or Ogden. Practiced hands struck a match and lit a candle. “Emmeline, is that—”

  “Help!” Ogden bellowed.

  Something heavy hit the floor.

  Gasping, Elsie ran for the door, nearly putting out the candle in her haste. “Who’s there?” she cried, nearly screamed. Ogden’s door was ajar at the end of the hallway. Something else fell over. A scuffle, broken glass—

  Elsie swung into the room just as a shadow passed through the window. Her candle struggled to hold its light. Her heart leapt into her throat.

  A moan sounded from the wall.

  “Ogden!” she cried, rushing to his side. One of his eyes was starting to swell shut. She lifted the candle, searching for blood, but found none other than in the split on his brow.

  “What’s happening?” Emmeline appeared in the doorway, her eyes huge.

  Setting the candle down so forcefully she nearly sent it out of its holder, Elsie shouted, “Go wake the neighbors, and send Mr. Morgan for the constable! Hurry! He’s getting away!”

  Emmeline froze for a full second before grabbing the skirt of her nightdress and barreling down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 18

  “The men are searching now.” Constable Wilson examined the window. The perpetrator had escaped that way, despite it being two stories above ground. He’d shattered a pane in his desperation to open it. “Seems you got off lucky.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Elsie snapped, wrapping her shawl more tightly around herself. They had all taken up posts in Ogden’s bedroom, lit with candles and lamps. Ogden sat on the trunk at the foot of his bed, pressing a cold slice of meat to his eye, while the constable paced back and forth across the room, occasionally taking notes. Elsie lingered near the window, wanting to see everything the constable noticed or wrote. Emmeline fidgeted by the doorway.

  “You’ve found nothing stolen yet—”

  “We’ve only checked his cabinet!” Elsie interjected. His drops had not been touched.

  “—and a black eye is better than what it could have been.” Constable Wilson looked pointedly at her.

  Elsie pinched her lips together. He did have a point. It could have been much worse. Thank God it was not.

  The constable squinted out the window. “Good, the lights are on.”

  “Lights are coming on all over the town,” Elsie said.

  He pointed his pen across the way. “I was referring to the post office. Mr. Morgan is sending a telegram to the High Court of Justice.”

  Elsie’s stomach sank. “The High Court? Whatever for?”

  “Mr. Ogden is an aspector.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though Elsie hadn’t known. “Her Majesty has sent out missives that the court is to be alerted of all life attempts and robberies involving aspectors.”

  Life attempts. Had Elsie and Emmeline not woken, had Ogden not stirred an
d managed to fight back, would he be dead now? Would they be talking to a coroner instead of a constable? Would the London Physical Atheneum, to which Ogden was registered, be descending upon them like termites to take away his meager opus?

  Shivers ran down her spine. “Do you truly believe there’s a connection to the other crimes?”

  “I mean to follow orders, Miss Camden.”

  Elsie shook her head. “You know him, Wilson. He wouldn’t be a target.” She glanced at Ogden, but he didn’t look offended.

  The constable nodded. “Indeed. You are only novice level, correct, Mr. Ogden?”

  He nodded. “Not for lack of trying.”

  “What will happen?” Elsie asked, voice tight.

  “I imagine they’ll send a team immediately, both to hunt the perpetrator and to interrogate you.”

  From the doorway, Emmeline squeaked, “Truthseekers?”

  Elsie clawed at her shawl as cold dread wound through her bones. Truthseeker was a fancy title for the spiritual aspectors who worked for the High Court of Justice, the highest court in England, which dealt with magic-related crimes the atheneums couldn’t handle on their own. The title had its origins in the fact that spiritual aspectors had tricks up their sleeves that lent greatly to investigation, the greatest being their ability to pull truth from even the most stubborn man’s throat.

  Or woman’s.

  One truth spell, and a spiritual aspector could pull every one of Elsie’s secrets into the light.

  “We’re the victims,” she protested, already knowing it would do no good.

  “You have nothing to worry about. But I will need you to return to your rooms until they arrive.”

  Elsie’s fingers went cold. “Do you really think this is necessary?”

  At least the man had enough feeling to give her a sympathetic look. “It’s protocol.”

  Setting her jaw, Elsie pushed past him to Ogden and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re all right?”

  “Just this.” He shifted to indicate his eye, then winced.

  Turning, Elsie said, “You’ll call the doctor, too?”

  Constable Wilson answered, “As soon as I have a man to spare.” He indicated the door.

  Elsie dragged her feet on her way back to her bedroom.

  Lightning danced beneath Elsie’s skin. They won’t ask about your abilities, she told herself as she paced the length of her room. Why would they? We’re the victims.

  She heard a cacophony of shod horse hooves and wheels. Peeked out her window, but she couldn’t see the arriving carriage, only hear the exhaustion of the animals pulling it. Sweat slicked her palms. There were so many questions they could ask. So many, and Elsie wouldn’t be able to resist answering, unless she broke the spell before speaking. Would a truthseeker notice?

  “Calm down,” she whispered. She drew in deep breaths, squared her shoulders. She had no reason to be fearful. If they noticed she was discomfited, they’d ask more questions. More questions meant more truths.

  And she didn’t think she’d be able to barter free labor to keep a truthseeker quiet.

  A pang stung her heart.

  Footsteps came up the stairs. Elsie ran to her bedroom door and pressed her ear to it, listening. A few pleasantries were exchanged—she recognized the constable’s voice but not any words—and then a door shut. They were starting with Ogden.

  More footsteps neared her door. Elsie leapt back from it, and a moment later, a knock sounded.

  She opened it and looked at the constable.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Camden.” He again looked sympathetic. “It will be just a few moments now.”

  Elsie stuck up her nose. “I don’t suppose I have time to get dressed.”

  Fortunately, the man didn’t point out that she could have done so while waiting for the court carriage to arrive. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Very well. And thank you for your help.”

  He nodded. She closed the door. Opened it again, a few inches. Moved her chair over to the window and sat, looking down at the light-stippled shadows below. Half the town appeared to be awake. She thought she could make out the Wright sisters.

  Were she a less refined woman, she would have shouted, Go home! out her window. But she didn’t.

  She was too scared to unlock it.

  She was still sitting there, wringing her hands, when the truthseeker knocked on her door ten minutes later. The man was about Ogden’s age, perhaps a little older, though fatigue might have aged his features. He was balding in a very unfortunate manner, losing the crest of his hair while the sides still clung on. He didn’t have an unkind face, but she suspected his nose had been broken before. She prayed it was from an accident and not violence.

  She glanced at his hands. What kind of criminals did he enchant? Did he have . . . other methods of seeking truth?

  She swallowed.

  “No need to be nervous, Miss Pratt. It’s merely procedure.” He shut the door behind him. It struck Elsie as somewhat funny that she was alone in the room with a man and it wasn’t considered improper, but the absurdity of the situation didn’t cheer her up.

  “I’m Miss Camden.” She hated how timid she sounded.

  “My apologies.” He stepped close to her, and despite her best efforts, Elsie tensed. What would he ask her? What are your secrets? What are you hiding? Is there any reason you should be incarcerated? “And my condolences. We’ll get this taken care of quickly.”

  She nodded stiffly. Without further ado, the truthseeker placed his palm against her forehead. Did he feel how clammy it was? What if the spell didn’t take because of what she was? What if she was found out—

  She felt the spell as it formed, like grains of sand dusting her skin. It rang like her ears sometimes did as it knotted together, heavy on her skin.

  It dug into her soul.

  She cringed.

  “What is your name?” the truthseeker asked, pulling a pencil and pad of paper from a carryall.

  “Elsie Camden.”

  “Your age?”

  “One and twenty.” She tried to think something else, like twenty-three, but found her thoughts blanked when she did.

  She did not like this. Hurry up so you can take it off!

  “Tell me the events that happened tonight.”

  “I went to bed at ten—” Her tongue twisted, cutting off her words. “Perhaps later? Eleven?”

  That spilled out just fine. Apparently the truthseeker could catch lies she wasn’t even purposefully making. How was she supposed to remember precisely when she’d gone to bed?

  The aspector simply nodded.

  “And I slept until I heard a clamor. I thought it was part of a dream.” She hadn’t meant to say that last part. She’d felt . . . compelled to. “I lit a candle and chased after the sound, and I found Ogden on the floor. A shadow vanished through the window. I told Emmeline to get Mr. Morgan, our neighbor, for help.”

  The man nodded, focused on his notes, not on her. “And what did the culprit look like?”

  “A shadow,” she repeated. “I saw nothing more. Not even where he went.”

  “Or how he got down?”

  She shook her head. The man didn’t seem to notice, so she said, “I suppose he jumped. He shattered a windowpane.”

  “For what means does Cuthbert Ogden use his aspection?”

  The questioning had taken a jarring turn, and it took her a moment to answer. “For his art. He knows very little. He changes the color of things. Softens stones. He can change the opacity of an object. That’s all I’ve seen him do.”

  “He knows no other spells?”

  “He struggles to learn them. Just a few weeks ago, he floundered with an intermediate spell.”

  The man hummed to himself and scribbled on his pad. “Thank you, Miss Camden. I think that will be all.”

  Relief fountained up like it had been pumped by the queen herself.

  He moved into the hallway. Gestured with a hand. A young
man—he was barely eighteen, if that—strode into her room with mussed hair and an unhappy countenance. A lad grumpy from being woken in the middle of the night. Without any semblance of manners, he grabbed Elsie’s head and wiggled his fingers across it.

  The spell vanished.

  Elsie took in a deep breath. Stared at the man as he stalked back out of the room. A spellbreaker. She’d never met another one before, not that she was aware. Questions bloomed up her neck and gathered on her tongue. So much she wanted to ask him! Were their methods the same? When had he realized what he was? What sort of training had he received? What work did he do? How much was he paid?

  But the young man turned the corner, out of sight. Of course, Elsie couldn’t have risked asking the questions even if he had stayed.

  She waited for a long moment, listening to the voices coming from Emmeline’s room. Seeing no harm in it, she rose and tiptoed to Ogden’s room. He had a salve smeared on his eye, a small bandage across his brow. The doctor must have come.

  He offered her a weak smile. She sat with him until the constable returned and the truthseeker and his entourage descended the stairs to return to London.

  “A few more questions for you, Mr. Ogden,” Constable Wilson said.

  Ogden sighed. “I don’t know what more you can get out of me, but go on.”

  Elsie patted his shoulder and left, seeking to console Emmeline—and to find out if the truthseeker had asked them both the same questions. But when Elsie arrived at Emmeline’s room, she found it empty, a single candle burning on her bedside table.

  “Emmeline?” Elsie asked, crossing to the window. Shielding her eyes, she peered outside.

  The maid was on the road, talking to the Wright sisters.

  Elsie cursed and turned from the window, determined to silence rumor before it could take root.

  Master Ruth Hill had given Bacchus two options for his mastership, both of which were master versions of spells he already knew. The first was a hardening spell, something one could use to make wood strong or metal brittle. But the master version was known as the “gem spell” because it could be used to harden rock into precious stones. It was heavily regulated by the government and required registration to learn.