Spellmaker

CHAPTER 13

“You really don’t remember?”

They all sat at the dining room table, Ogden at its head, Reginald—Reggie—in the chair across from Elsie. Bacchus sat beside her. Emmeline took up the other end of the table, silent and fascinated. Decorum meant one of them ought to be serving tea, but who could focus on tea at a time such as this?

Elsie was soaring and hoped to never come back down. She shook her head in wonder. “I knew I had a mother and a father, and I remembered a brother. I knew I remembered a brother!”

Reggie smiled. “That you did. There were four of us in all. Maybe you remember John. He was older than me. Found him, too, about six years ago.”

Elsie’s heart flipped. “You did? Where—”

Reggie stayed her question with a hand. “Don’t get too excited, Elsie.” His face fell. “I’m real sorry, but he’s not . . . not around anymore. Died of measles a few winters back.”

Elsie felt heavy in her chair. Beneath the table, Bacchus’s hand found her knee. The weight of the simple touch anchored her.

“I see. Where is he buried?”

Reggie was manhandling his cap again. It was a wonder it still held its shape. “Little town north of London a ways called Green Knoll. I could take you there if you’d like.”

“I would. I would like that. But . . . you said there were four of us?”

Reggie snapped his fingers. “A sister, younger than you. Her name was Alice, I’m sure of it. But I haven’t been able to find her. Don’t know if our parents kept her or left her somewhere, too. Could be anywhere.”

A sister. Elsie had a sister out there somewhere. A sister who probably didn’t remember her last name was Camden, which would make her that much harder to locate. Pressing her palms against the table, Elsie said, “I just don’t understand why they would do that. Why they would abandon their own children.”

“As I said, we were poor,” Reggie offered softly, while the others listened in silence. “Real poor. I remember being hungry a lot. We traveled quite a bit, our pa always looking for work, though I don’t remember what he did. We lived off the hospitality of strangers. Which is where they got the idea, I guess.”

Elsie nodded, solemn. “Did you go to the workhouse, then?”

Reggie looked abashed. “Uh . . . no, I didn’t. See, they left me with a family that couldn’t take me on. But there was an older couple in the same village, the Turnkeys, who weren’t able to have a child of their own. They took me in. Made me work for every stitch I wore, but they gave me a place to stay.”

Elsie nodded. “That sounds nice.”

“I suppose it’s better than a workhouse. But it looks to have worked out for you.” He glanced around the room, then to Ogden, Emmeline, and finally Bacchus. To the last, he said, “You probably get this a lot, but where are you from?”

“Barbados,” Bacchus answered patiently.

Reggie whistled. “That’s far. I would have guessed Turkey.”

“Reggie, that is, Mr. Camden”—Emmeline sounded suddenly eager—“what is it you do? Are you a farmer?”

Reggie laughed. “Could say I used to be, but nah, I repair letterpresses. Sell the parts, too. Just up in London.” He pointed north as though they didn’t know where the sprawling city was located.

“Sounds like good work,” Ogden chimed in.

Reggie nodded. “I like it well enough. Don’t own my own shop like you do, but the bloke I work with is a good man and fair.”

Wondering if there was more family she had yet to meet, Elsie asked, “Are you married?”

To her surprise, Reggie colored slightly and glanced to Emmeline. “Ah, no. Not yet. Can’t say I haven’t worked on it.”

Emmeline blurted, “Elsie is a spellbreaker!”

It was still strange to her, having that information public.

Her brother—her brother!—looked at her with wide eyes. “Are you really?”

“In training,” she said, and Bacchus squeezed her knee. It would have been utterly inappropriate were they not engaged, and Elsie had to continually remind herself she was engaged.

For what had to be the thousandth time, she found herself thinking of what Bacchus had said in the carriage before kissing her. They merely sped up the process. Had he planned to court her in earnest, then, and not sail for Barbados right away? Elsie wasn’t sure how else to interpret such a confession, so she clung to the hopeful answer.

First Bacchus, and now Reggie . . . maybe she had been wrong. Maybe it was simply misfortune—and imbeciles—that had carved her life into what it was today. Perhaps she wasn’t as terrible as she thought.

Perhaps.

Reggie whistled again, and it made Elsie smile. “Ain’t that something, Elsie. You can do a lot being a spellbreaker. They make good coin. And yer a spellmaker.” He looked to Bacchus as he said it. Then, sheepish again, followed up with, “After I saw Elsie’s name in the paper, I looked you up, too. Master physical aspector. Bang up the elephant, you two have it made.”

Elsie flushed. “I suppose we do. And you’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?”

Her brother grinned. “Took the whole day off, and I’m not one to say no to a free meal.” He glanced at Emmeline again. “If you don’t mind me sticking around.”

“Of course not!” Remembering herself, Elsie waited for Ogden’s nod of approval and exhaled when she got it. This was his house, after all. “And, Bacchus, you’ll stay as well.” She bravely set her hand atop his.

Bacchus nodded. “After, I would like to return to London to see after Master Hill.”

“Of course.” Reality, nearly forgotten, crashed down on her. They still had to find Merton, to stop her from whatever she was attempting to do.

But for now, she could ignore those pressing matters and focus on her brother, if only for one day. She had a brother! She still couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “Now, tell me about where you grew up. About this couple who took you in.”

Reggie leaned back in the chair, getting comfortable. “Well, we lived right by a stream that had the name of St. Patrick, but we all called it Pattie’s Water, which maybe was a bit sacrilegious . . .”

Elsie and Reggie got on so swimmingly, like true siblings, she didn’t want him to leave. Ever. But they were adults, and they both had jobs and lives, and so leave he did, with the promise they’d see each other again soon. All in all, it was one of the most pleasant days of Elsie’s life.

The following day, however, was far less cheery.

A clash of thunder echoed within the dressmaker’s shop, reverberating through the walls as it clamored its way into the earth. Elsie flinched at the sound, and the seamstress nearly stuck her with a pin.

Emmeline stood at the window, admiring a white dove pin, occasionally peering into the murky gray beyond the fat and fast raindrops pelting the glass. It had been raining all day, since before Elsie woke. Raining with a vengeance. But it did provide her with rare privacy for her pursuit of bridal necessities. Brookley was quiet all around, and therefore there was no one at the dressmaker’s to witness her being measured, or to ask her questions about Bacchus, or to gossip about her personal life.

She had intended to get married in one of the dresses she already owned, just as any frugal woman would. Perhaps splurge on some extra lace and ribbon to elevate her church gown. Bacchus had inquired about it yesterday after lunch, and she’d told him as much.

While I think that’s perfectly suitable, he’d said carefully, if we’d been engaged as long as the magistrate thinks, there would be plenty of time to order a dress. It might be better to have one.

He’d then handed Elsie a banknote. It was now in the dressmaker’s possession, but the guilt of it weighed on her, nonetheless.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The seamstress had her measurements on file and was fitting some muslin around her waist. A wedding gown. A simple wedding gown, given the time constraints. Elsie truly had thought she’d never wear one, after Alfred. She’d had everything planned with him. The gown, the flowers, the guest list, the honeymoon. She’d thought it all out, giggled about the details with Emmeline late at night. Sketched an assortment of hats in one of Ogden’s books. So when Alfred had cast her aside like an old flour sack, she’d felt completely and resolutely foolish. She’d hated everything about weddings. Everything white. Everything romantic.

She brushed her thumb over the ring on her finger and sighed.

It can’t happen twice, Elsie, she chided herself.

Yet part of her was sure this unexpected betrothal with Bacchus still wouldn’t pan out. That the church would burn down, or Merton would interfere, or he’d simply change his mind.

If that happened . . . She touched her bodice, reassuring herself the paper was still tucked within it.

Think about happy things. Her brother would be at her wedding. Her brother! And despite her worries, she smiled at her reflection.

Returning from the window, Emmeline practically sang, “You’ll need some white shoes and ribbon, kid gloves, and silk stockings. Oh! And a silk handkerchief.”

“It’s just a small ceremony,” Elsie insisted, and the dressmaker waved to indicate she was done. Elsie carefully stepped out of the muslin and off the stool she’d been perched on.

“I’ll start on this right away.” The dressmaker set the skirt on a chair. “Without the embellishments, I should be able to get it ready in time.”

Feeling childish, Elsie said, “I suppose we could do some embroidery . . . or lace on the sleeves.” She peered toward the dove pin in the window.

The woman smiled. “I thought so. Come back in a few days and we’ll see where we are.”

Emmeline clapped. “So good, Elsie! You’ll make such a lovely bride.”

She’d said so before, back when she’d thought Elsie would marry Alfred, but it wouldn’t do to point it out. Instead, Elsie grabbed their umbrella. “Shall we brave the winds and spare our shoes, or make a run for it and suffer the mud?”

Thunder groaned again.

Emmeline swallowed. “I say we run like we’re mad.”

They gripped the umbrella together and pushed open the door. The wind nearly wrenched the umbrella from their hands as they made a half-blind dash for the stonemasonry, soaking their stockings with mud. Emmeline squealed, which made Elsie laugh, and they were barely capable of breathing by the time they reached home. At least the empty streets meant no witnesses to their tomfoolery.

Elsie wiped rain from her eyes, pulled off her gloves, and unpinned her hat, which was wet despite the umbrella. “At least we got some good exercise.”

“I expect so.”

Both Elsie and Emmeline jumped at the new voice. None other than Miss Irene Prescott stood in the door leading to the kitchen.

“M-Miss Prescott!” Elsie paused, shoes making a muddy puddle on the floor. “I didn’t think you’d be coming! What with the storm and all.”

Indeed, she’d hoped for a reprieve.

“I am always punctual,” she said with good humor. “That’s why I employ my own vehicle. And I’ve been waiting only a few minutes. Come along, I’ve brought something exciting today.”

I doubt it. Elsie exchanged an uncertain glance with Emmeline. Should she change? But the woman had already been waiting . . .

“I’ll make tea,” Emmeline said, doing her best to clean off her shoes.

Sighing, Elsie slid hers off, cut through the kitchen, and entered the dining room in her wet, stockinged feet. Miss Prescott sat at the table with a shriveled plant, a rabbit’s foot, and a cage—

Elsie started, hand flying to her breast. “My goodness, where did you get that?”

A long-tailed rat sat in the cage, turning about, checking and rechecking the wires for a way out.

Miss Prescott grinned. “We’re going to study a few spiritual spells today! Rational we’ll really have to do at the atheneum, but I managed to get my hands on these bespelled items.”

Elsie sat down, hearing a pitch coming from all three items. She’d seen the first spell recently—the sad-looking flower was cursed, just as the Duke of Kent’s farmland had been. The rabbit’s foot carried a charm of luck, and the rat would have some sort of communication spell on it, just like the post dogs did.

Setting her chin in her hands, Elsie halfheartedly said, “Do tell.”

And Miss Prescott did, in her usual long-winded way. Elsie didn’t know how a person could find so much to say about spellbreaking, but Miss Prescott always managed it. Perhaps, were Elsie truly a novice, she would need the explanations. Maybe they would have helped in her younger years. Everything she knew had been self-taught, guided by bits of advice written on silvery paper and stamped with a raven’s foot. Had those early messages come directly from Ogden’s mind, or from Merton’s?

Ogden walked through just then, using a cloth to wipe paint off his fingers. Elsie straightened in her chair—it was good to see him working again. He’d been so beside himself since the docks.

Ogden dropped an opened telegram envelope on the table. It was crinkled, as though it had been rained on and left to dry. “From Kelsey. Says Master Hill is recuperating and expected to recover.”

Elsie unfolded the note and checked for herself. He must have meant the message for everyone, or he was away from his enchanted pencil. “That’s good news.”

“Oh dear, Master Hill.” Miss Prescott set down the rabbit’s foot. “What a relief that she pulled through.”

“Indeed,” Ogden agreed. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

He slipped away as Emmeline came in with a tea tray.

And then Elsie . . . sensed something.

She paused, catching her breath. A physical spell . . . and yet she didn’t see the glimmer of the rune anywhere. She couldn’t explain how she felt it, exactly, but it had happened before, with the siphoning runes on Bacchus and the duke. It was as if . . . something within her had sniffed it out. But this one was farther away, like something caught on the wind.

Ogden was capable of physical spells, of course, but none that were this strong.

“Miss Camden?” Miss Prescott asked.

Elsie shook herself. “Thank you, Emmeline. I’ll pour it.”

Emmeline nodded and stepped into the kitchen.

Picking up a teacup, Elsie turned it over, half expecting to spy a rune glimmering against its bottom. But there was nothing. Nothing on the tea tray, or the table. Just an inkling that she couldn’t place.

“One moment.” Elsie stood. “I think I heard the door.”

“I’ll help myself.” Miss Prescott reached for the teapot.

Elsie slipped away, down the hall and into the studio. A canvas was set up in the corner, base paints streaking across it, drying. No spells on them.

Thunder rolled. A ways off, a horse whinnied.

Uncomfortable, Elsie returned to the kitchen, unsure whether the sensation was actually getting stronger or her own mind was magnifying it. She barely heard Miss Prescott ask after her welfare.

Hadn’t Bacchus said a physical aspector had attacked Ruth Hill?

Without excusing herself, Elsie hurried up the stairs, grabbing the handrail to propel her steps faster. She noted with surprise that her feet were silent on the last three steps. They made no sound at all. Nothing did.

Her heart surged into her throat. She shouted Ogden’s name, but her voice was sucked away by a spell. Running, Elsie burst into his room just as his bed slid across the floor of its own volition, pinning him to the opposite wall.

And there, just inside the window, stood a gray-clad figure, dressed to match the storm but dry as a wood fire, his hand outstretched.

Elsie screamed soundlessly.

This wasn’t a staged attack arranged with Nash. This was real.

And what person could Merton want dead more than the master rational aspector who knew her secrets?

Grabbing the closest thing to her—a tin pitcher—Elsie threw it across the room as hard as she could. The instant she released it, she saw a glimmer in the air a few feet in front of her, about nose height: the sound-dampening spell. At the moment it benefited her as much as it did the assailant, for the man had neither heard nor seen her. The pitcher flew true, colliding with the side of his skull.

Clutching his head, the assailant whirled around, his face, save for his eyes, covered. Beyond him, Elsie could see Ogden was yelling something at her, but she could no more hear him than she could anything else.

She bolted forward and grabbed the spell, pulling apart its fibers—

“—do it!” Ogden bellowed as the spell came apart. An invisible fist slammed into Elsie and threw her back. Had she not been even with the doorway, she would have struck the wall, but her feet touched down where the hall started and she merely stumbled down onto her backside, bruising her tailbone.

“Ogden!” Elsie screamed. “Do something!”

“There’s a barrier!” he shouted back, then groaned.

Leaping to her feet, Elsie rushed inside. The bed was pushing hard against Ogden’s thighs, pinning him to the wall. The intruder came toward him with a knife.

Elsie’s progress slowed like she was walking through pudding. The spell hung between her and the aspector. She wormed toward the rune, movements painfully sluggish, and finally reached it and yanked it apart, tumbling forward as gravity reoriented itself.

The assailant raised his knife. Elsie had no weapon, no spells, save the one tucked securely in her corset.

But she would not let any harm come to Ogden. So she ran at the gray-clad man and jumped on his back, wrapping both arms around his neck.

The man danced back, trying to fling her off. His spell must have been one of concentration, for the moment Elsie leapt on him, Ogden shoved the bed back and jumped up and over it, bolting across the room to help her.

“Remember, there might be a compulsion spell on him!” Elsie shouted, letting go of the man when the knife point sailed for her arm. Ogden grabbed the intruder’s wrist and twisted it, but the other man formed a fist with his free hand and collided it with Ogden’s teeth, forcing him to release his hold. In the same movement, the curtains came alive over Elsie’s head. The aspector grabbed the edge of them and elongated them, stretching them beyond their woven limits, enchanting the fibers to grow.

That was when Elsie noticed the gun tucked into the man’s waist. A thorough way to murder someone, especially if they couldn’t hear his approach.

She leapt for it. The man twisted, flinging the former curtain toward Ogden. Elsie missed the firearm and fell into his legs instead. She grabbed his knees. They both toppled over. Elsie grappled for the gun, and this time she got her fingers around the handle and tossed it across the room. Then, snaking around the man’s legs, she felt for a spell. Tried to listen for the hum of the eighteen-point spiritual spell that had been Ogden’s parasite for so long. Did she detect it on his torso, or were her ears ringing?

The man threw back an elbow, hitting Elsie square in the breast before throwing her off. Quick to his feet, he spun away as Ogden ripped the curtain rod from the wall.

Wincing, Elsie barely had a moment to stand before the floor came up around her shoes, holding her in place. Then the attacker held out his hand, and Elsie recognized the shape and glimmer of the rune before the magic even started.

Wind.

Elsie lifted her hands just as the rune burst toward her in a hurricane-sized torrent, ripping paintings off the walls and books from the shelves.

It stopped the moment it met Elsie, her fingers tearing the magic apart.

And the aspector’s eyes . . . they weren’t surprised at all. They were . . . nothing. Like they weren’t his.

He was Merton’s puppet, for sure.

He sent out the gust again, even stronger than before. Oddly enough, the spell holding Elsie to the floor helped her keep her footing as she broke the rune, just as she had with Nash’s lightning. The aspector didn’t let up, but continued casting, again and again and again, a continuous loop of torrents. He threw pens and papers around the bedroom, but the projectiles only rustled Elsie’s hair and clothing as she untied each and every one. If anything, it got easier—the rune never changed.

A shot rang out, opening up a wide gash in the gray-clad man’s arm before embedding itself in the wall. Ogden. Ogden had reached the pistol.

The wind stopped instantly, and the man ran back for the window, liquefying it as he passed through, the glass no different from the pouring rain save for how it steamed against its frame.

Elsie bolted to the window, looking into the town. She couldn’t see him—

But she did spy someone in her peripheral vision, and when she turned toward the doorway, Miss Irene Prescott stood there, eyes wide, her mouth a perfect O.

Elsie froze. How long had she been standing there?

Behind Miss Prescott, Emmeline ran for the stairs.

“Em, stop!” Elsie shouted. “Don’t call the police!”

The maid paused, unsure. They couldn’t call the police, not again. Certainly Ogden would be able to clear the way, but the more people involved, the trickier it became. They couldn’t risk any more suspicion on either of them.

“I couldn’t get in,” Ogden murmured, picking himself off the floor. “He had a barrier on his mind, another’s rational spell. I couldn’t read his thoughts, learn who he was, nothing.”

“Ogden,” Elsie hissed, and he turned to see their witnesses.

Miss Prescott licked her lips. “You’re not a novice, are you?”

Elsie opened her mouth, closed it. Rain pattered the window ledge, cooling the melted glass into twisted, reaching fingers.

“I can explain. That is . . .” She glanced to Ogden. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Miss Prescott shook her head, but seemingly more in wonder than disdain. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Please, Miss Camden. You must show me.”

Ogden tapped his head. Elsie felt a rational rune moving toward her, and because it was from Ogden, she didn’t stop it. Inside her mind, his voice said,