Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  He nodded. “Very well.” There was an intonation in the words that warmed her, like he was thanking her yet again for his newfound vivacity. “As for the duke, time will tell.”

  Of course, Bacchus was going to leave eventually, no matter how long he stayed. From what he’d told her on the way to Ipswich, he had no interest in furthering himself with the London Physical Atheneum. His real life was in Barbados, where he didn’t have to fake an accent or complain about frigid weather. She knew that—had reminded herself of it often—and yet she was glad he’d come to see her. Perhaps he would stop by again before sailing the River Thames. Perhaps.

  The small talk ran low, and Elsie heard the front door open downstairs. Ogden must have heard it as well, for he stood, tugged down his shirt, and offered a hand to their guest. “I thank you for looking out for us, Master Kelsey. It’s unnecessarily kind of you.”

  He nodded. “I hope your eye heals quickly.”

  They ventured downstairs, Elsie wringing her hands together, and had just turned toward the studio when Emmeline, flustered, came barreling down the hall. “M-Mr. Ogden, Nash is here for you.”

  “Tell him now is not a good time.”

  The blond-haired man appeared in the hallway behind her, dressed casually in a linen shirt with no cravat or waistcoat. “Sir, if I might—”

  “Not now, Nash.” Ogden didn’t shout it, but he might as well have. The venom in his voice gave Elsie pause, and even Bacchus looked askance at him.

  The deliveryman looked offended—even enraged—for half a second, but he didn’t say anything as he turned and strode away, exiting through the studio door. Elsie thought he’d slam it, but he didn’t.

  Emmeline sighed in relief.

  “My apologies.” Ogden rubbed his forehead, then again adjusted his shirt. “I suppose last night has caused more stress than I care to let on. Nothing some work won’t fix.”

  He nodded politely to Elsie and Bacchus before following Nash’s footsteps into the studio.

  “I . . . Why don’t we exit through the back door, hmm?” Elsie offered, exchanging a look with Emmeline she hoped said, Make sure Ogden is all right.

  She led the way, and Bacchus followed silently behind her, though he might as well have been a wolf breathing down her neck, the way he loomed. At the back door, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Emmeline hadn’t strayed, she whispered, “You’ve no luck figuring out who did it?” She was very close to him—close enough to detect a spell, if he still had one. The faintest scent of cut wood and oranges danced around her, no longer seasoned by that earthy note of the temporal rune, and she again thought about the feel of his chest beneath her hand. She cleared her throat and willed her skin not to flush.

  It took Bacchus a moment to answer—she hadn’t been very specific, so she didn’t blame him. “No. I will look into it, but I fear it will be a fruitless endeavor. It happened long ago, and I cannot even connect which continent it happened on.” He sighed and slipped his hands into his coat pockets.

  “How very strange.”

  “Are you honestly well, Elsie?” His eyes seemed too knowing for some reason, like they could burrow beneath her skin. She dashed her traitorous thoughts away, fearing he’d pluck them right from her head. “You are unharmed? You have no concerns?”

  She thought of Ogden’s flaring temper, so unusual for him. “I’m certainly concerned,” she admitted. “But what is there to be done? The man, thief, whatever he may be, is gone, and none of us got a good look at him. The constable can’t search for a person with no description. And the truthseeker didn’t seem interested.”

  “They alerted the High Court?”

  The front door opened and closed, meaning Nash was on his way again. “Ogden is an aspector. It’s procedure, apparently, with everything happening.” She offered a weak smile. She still couldn’t believe the attack was related to the ones previously in the papers—Ogden was a feeble spellmaker. Yet the incident had still left a mark on her nerves. “No need to worry. I’ve avoided shackles once again.”

  “Good.” He averted his eyes in thought. “I wonder if it is only one person. There’s such a breadth to the crimes, and no real evidence to speak of. If we start connecting every crime in the aspector world, we’ll never solve anything. The academy, for example.”

  That gave her pause. “What academy?”

  “The aspection academy that filters into the atheneums.” When she didn’t react, he continued, “A wing of it burned down, killing a professor and two apprentices.” He frowned. “Their opuses weren’t recovered, but that’s to be expected in a fire. And yet even that is being attributed to this bandit.”

  She tried to ignore the gooseflesh rising on her back and arms. “That’s . . . terrible.”

  Rubbing his beard, Bacchus hummed his agreement.

  Elsie wondered if the squire had been to the academy on one of his trips to London. He’d need a reason to visit, having not a magical hair on his body. Perhaps Bacchus was right, and it wasn’t one great murdering criminal, but several wayward souls trying to cause a storm. Or perhaps the uprisings of the seventeenth century were upon them once more, the magicless and downtrodden attacking aristocrats, stealing their opuses so they could have some semblance of power for themselves. “Ogden may be right about journalists,” she offered. “And about him being a target for his opus. He barely knows more spells than my shoe, really.”

  His lip quirked at that. If only he would smile at her, fully, one more time. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask, nor to be witty enough to merit it.

  “Give my best to the duke, Bacchus.” She touched his sleeve, then instantly regretted it when her cheeks warmed. “Take care of yourself, and . . . let me know if I can help.”

  It was a foolish offer. If their acquaintance deepened, he might discover what Ogden and Emmeline still had not. He might catch sight of her wrongness.

  He nodded. “You as well. I . . . might place a few wards on my way out.”

  “I would like that, thank you.”

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment before Elsie opened the door. “I don’t mean to insult you by sending you out the back—”

  “I’d rather not interrupt Mr. Ogden’s business.” He offered her a nod, the hair gathered at the nape of his neck bouncing slightly, and departed. Just like that. Elsie forced herself not to watch him go. She needn’t stand in the doorway like some lovesick pup.

  I’m not lovesick, she snapped at herself, closing the door a little too hard. Bacchus was merely an adventure. A fancy. Proof that she read too much fiction.

  Perhaps she should switch to scientific journals for a while. She couldn’t think of a better medicine for her twisted insides at the moment besides warm milk.

  The studio door opened and closed. Best she help the next customer.

  But when Elsie stepped into the studio, it was empty, save for Ogden hacking at a lump of clay in the corner.

  “Did Emmeline leave?” she asked.

  “I believe she’s in the dining room.” Ogden’s focus stayed on the clay.

  Elsie glanced to the door. “Didn’t someone just come in?”

  Looking up, he shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Odd. Perhaps her mind had merely sought out an excuse to change the pattern of her thoughts.

  “Elsie”—Ogden turned his stylus in his hand—“is that man courting you?”

  Her cheeks burned. “Goodness, no. I barely know him.”

  He nodded halfheartedly. “It would be good for you, after . . .” He didn’t dare say Alfred, not when that wound was so newly opened. “Though I’d hate to see you heartbroken again, my dear. And heartbreak is inevitable across the class divide.”

  He might as well have taken that carving tool and stabbed it through her breast.

  “I’m well aware.” She forced the words to be light. “But like I said, I barely know him. And he’s off to Barbados soon, besides.”

  “Is that where he’s from? I d
idn’t know if it was rude to ask.”

  Elsie rolled her eyes.

  Ogden paused. “Hand me that order, would you?” He gestured weakly toward the counter. Fortunately, Elsie knew what he meant. She strode over to retrieve the latest work order—

  A gray envelope poked out from beneath it.

  Her breath caught. How?

  Perhaps she hadn’t imagined the opening and closing of the door, after all. Had they just delivered this? But how could it have escaped Ogden’s attention?

  Grabbing the envelope, Elsie bolted around the counter and out the front door, ignoring Ogden’s alarmed cry that followed her. She ran out onto the street, turning, looking everywhere there was to look.

  She’d been too slow. No strangers lingered around the house, no one in hiding. Not that she could see.

  Pinching her lips together, she stole away to the shade at the back of the house and brought the crescent-moon-and-bird-foot seal to her face. Broke it. Read the name of her next target.

  The London Physical Atheneum.

  CHAPTER 19

  Elsie did not like doing her job at night. It made her feel like a criminal. Which she wasn’t. At least, not at the heart of the matter. What God-fearing person, for example, would call Robin Hood a criminal?

  It really was a matter of perspective.

  She shivered, though it wasn’t terribly cold in London. Wasn’t even raining. With excuses of being lost and feverish, or perhaps looking for her cat, in her back pocket, Elsie approached the massive Physical Atheneum.

  It had guards, yes, but not many of them walked the grounds. Like many wealthy places, the atheneum relied on magic to guard its doors. Magic did not require an hourly wage, nor did it fall asleep on the job. That, and the atheneum was never empty. There was always someone out and about, studying or prepping or snoozing at his desk. Still, the Cowls had given her instructions for how to proceed, and she followed them with exactness. She would very much not like a repeat of the doorknob incident in Kent. If she was caught here, she doubted her captor would be as lenient as Master Bacchus Kelsey.

  She needed to be swift, regardless, for she did not want to risk connecting him to this in any way, even if it was for the good of the people. The atheneum certainly wouldn’t see it that way. In truth, Bacchus might not, either.

  Tonight’s task involved a great deal of walking, but Elsie came at the atheneum from behind—the northwest side. She found the lounging garden mentioned in her letter, a long path covered in pale stone, studded with benches and potted bushes trimmed to look like spheres. She approached carefully, favoring the long shadows cast by the half moon, searching for the first spell.

  She spotted it right before she stepped in it—a night-activated spell that caused the ground to surge up around anything that put pressure on it. She undid it easily, having unraveled the very same enchantment at the duke’s estate. She found the next one less than two feet away. Crouching, her skirt bunched between her knees, Elsie crept along that way, ignoring how the runes made her itch.

  She was not surprised at the Cowls’ reasoning for sending her here. Magic was a tool that could help all of society. Or hurt it, as was the case with the curse in the duke’s fields. But magic helped plants grow, tamed animals, eased transportation. It kept bodies working, children healthy. And so anyone who hoarded it for pride and profit hurt those who lacked access to it. Even Bacchus had been denied a spell he’d needed, and he was one of them.

  Elsie wondered how many useful spells were hidden in the library of the great fortress before her, withering away, unused and forgotten, helping no one. Once her work was finished, others more daring than she would sneak in, copy the spells, and distribute them. Perhaps if spellmakers were not so bloody gluttonous, they wouldn’t be robbed or murdered in their beds. This way, there would be more for all . . . if the lower classes could obtain the necessary drops to absorb magic as well. But sharing the wealth of the spellmakers would be another task for another day.

  The “suction” spells—Elsie hadn’t a better name for them—ended when the stone did. She proceeded even slower than before, pausing once when she thought she heard something nearby . . . but silence settled, minus her rapid-fire heartbeat. There was another spell here, somewhere, although she saw nothing on the ground—

  There. For a moment she thought it was a spiritual spell, for she heard it, faintly, like a mosquito close to the ear. But as she neared two identical statues standing across the path from each other, she spied glimmering physical runes on each of them.

  The barely audible sound made sense. She’d undone an enchantment like this once before, a few years ago. The two sister spells formed an invisible barrier that if broken, let out a horrible noise. It was an alarm, likely activated by darkness as the suction spells were.

  If she set off this alarm, she didn’t think she’d be able to run far enough to hide before someone found her. Reaching one hand out carefully, ensuring her fingers never passed the inside of the rune, she loosened one end. Then the opposite end. A small loop in the center, then the bottom, until the spell let out a weak croak and vanished. She needn’t worry about the sister rune—without anything to connect to, it would be harmless.

  Still, Elsie held her breath when she passed between the statues, sighing in relief when nothing happened. Her chest felt too warm beneath her corset, but when she searched for other alarm spells, she found none. Nerves, then.

  Approaching the building, Elsie glanced up at the nearest window, which started about a foot above her head. If the Cowls were correct, there was one spell left—one that forbade passage through all ground-floor windows from the outside. Once she eliminated that, the Cowls could sneak into the library, copy the spells they needed, and flee. If she lingered long enough, would she see one of them?

  And what explanation will you give Ogden if you’re not in your bed come morning?

  Given the assault he’d suffered, he was liable to contact the authorities at once. Which would require her to answer questions best left unasked. No, she needed to be quick.

  Retreating into the garden, Elsie tipped over a pot, dumping out its soil and flowers. She froze over the mass, hearing footsteps nearby. She listened closely to them until they faded and her calves burned from her prolonged squat. Heaving the pot up, she carried it back to the window and stood on it.

  The spell came alive beneath her fingers, beckoning her. Elsie worked with both hands, having to jump up twice to reach the top of the rune. She felt exposed, and sweat slicked the curve of her spine. When the spell broke apart, it took every ounce of discipline she had not to bolt away. She needed to replace the pot in case the Cowls’ man did not come until tomorrow night. She couldn’t give anyone a reason to be suspicious, else she’d have to do this all over again. And if her work was discovered, there would be patrolling guards.

  Feeling oddly stronger than she had moments before, she carried the pot back and shoved dirt into it, heedless of what it did to her dress. The unrooted flowers were a mess, but she stuck them into their beds, anyway. No one would notice unless they looked closely. She swept loose soil into manicured grass and crept, with painstaking slowness, out the exact way she had come.

  As far as she knew, no one followed her.

  Elsie stepped out of the way as Squire Hughes exited the post office. Not out of deference, but because she was sure the man would simply mow her over if she did not. He neither held the door for her nor made eye contact. He simply charged past, nose held high, and headed toward his horse, which Elsie noted was newly respelled.

  Biting the back of her tongue, Elsie slipped inside the post office. One of the post dogs whined in the back, and Martha Morgan shuffled around a few letters in the cubbies against the wall behind the desk.

  “Good afternoon, Martha,” Elsie said.

  Martha peeked over her shoulder. “Oh, Miss Camden! One moment, if you would.” She finished organizing the small stack of envelopes in her hand before giving Elsie her full att
ention. “How can I help you?”

  “I need to send a telegram to Brixton, addressed to Mr. Allen Baker.” She unfolded the note in her hands where she’d written Ogden’s instructions. “The piece will be ready tomorrow.” Elsie fished out the appropriate coin and laid it on the desk.

  Martha scrawled the message down. “I’ll send it straightaway.”

  “Thank you.” Elsie folded the paper and turned for the door.

  “Miss Camden.” The voice came from Mr. Green, the postmaster, as he strode in from the house connected to the post office. “Good timing. I’ve just received a telegram for you.”

  Martha smiled and lifted her eyebrows, as if to comment on the timing, before heading to the back room.

  “For Mr. Ogden?” Elsie clarified.

  “For you.” He handed her the envelope.

  Elsie did not like opening her private post in public, but curiosity got the better of her. Hoping it might be from Bacchus, she opened the brief message.

  Her heart skipped. Not Bacchus. Juniper Down.

  Elsie. We were wrong. Someone is looking for you. Come as soon as you can.

  The message was only that, and yet it was everything.

  She must have blanched, for Mr. Green asked, “Is everything all right?”

  Elsie nodded dumbly. “It’s . . . perfect. Thank you.”

  And then she ran from the post office as though on the wings of a storm.

  “Ogden!” Elsie screamed the moment she rushed into the house. “Mr. Ogden!” She turned around the corner and nearly ran into Emmeline. It was a short distance from the post office to the studio, but Elsie wheezed like she’d run miles. “Where is he?”

  “S-Studio.” Emmeline gawked. “What’s happened?”

  But Elsie couldn’t bear to delay. She hurried to the studio, Emmeline on her heels. Ogden was standing, his painter’s smock half-untied.

  Fear blanched his face. “What’s wrong?”

  Elsie practically leapt at him, grabbing his upper arms in her hands. “I got a message from Juniper Down! Someone is looking for me! Ogden, it must be my family!”