Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(15)

Closing the door and leaning against it, Elsie tore open the note.

It is urgent that you break the spell in Kent.

That was it.

She blinked and stared at the paper. Break the spell in Kent? But she had! Not even two days ago. Surely they knew the wine basket had been picked up. Did they think her a failure?

Gooseflesh erupted under Elsie’s fitted sleeves. She had never failed the Cowls. She was too afraid of what it might cost her. Not afraid of the Cowls themselves, but of being discarded. Of being deemed useless. Of losing her purpose. Of never learning the identity of those who secretly employed her. Surely every mission was a test, and once she proved herself . . .

There was no way to reply to the letter. No way to defend herself. No proof and no ability to provide it if she’d had any.

She tore up the letter and threw it into her fireplace, though her hands fumbled with the match. She had to return to Kent. She’d have to buy the Madeira herself—and it was certainly expensive! Would it look questionable were she to return to the servants’ door so soon? Would they want more, regardless of the price?

She chewed on her lip and paced the floor as tiny flames ate up the letter. It would be too suspicious, she decided, to repeat the ruse of being a saleswoman. She raked her mind for a better excuse. Looking for a job? The cook would recognize her, but that wouldn’t be so bad. A bigger stumbling block was the need for a letter of reference. She could forge one. But what happened if someone recognized it as a forgery? If there was one thing Elsie needed to avoid, it was the law. Unregistered aspectors, spellbreakers included, faced harsh and unsavory penalties. The most common was the noose.

Think, think. She could just walk right up, disenchant the thing, and walk away. She might not be noticed. But that was trespassing, wasn’t it? Was it permissible only if she had a basket of goods on her arm?

She’d have to go at night. She’d done missions for the Cowls at night before, but rarely. Yes, she’d go at night, and if she was caught . . .

She thought of Miss Wright, arm in arm with the mystery man. Elsie could claim a romantic tryst with one of the footmen. She was there to see him. If they asked for his name, she could deny the request, insist on protecting him. Or realize she’d come to the wrong estate. Or that her beau had lied about his employment. She could feign heartbreak and cry. Surely she’d be sent away without penalty if she cried!

Then again, this was a household that imprisoned their own staff, so perhaps not. But Elsie didn’t have any other ideas.

She’d sneak away just after dinner. Return before dawn. Maybe Ogden wouldn’t notice her absence—

A knock on the door startled a squeak from her throat. Glancing to the fireplace and seeing her pathetic flames had already died, she marched to the door and opened it with more force than was necessary.

Emmeline blinked at her in surprise. “Mr. Ogden is requesting you.”

Elsie whirled toward the window. The day was nearly over—had so much time passed already? Ogden must have just gotten home from the squire’s.

“Thank you, Em.” She snatched up the basket by the door and hurried downstairs, the maid calling “The studio!” behind her.

Ogden leaned against the countertop near the front entrance to the studio, hovering over a sketch pad. He still had his work trousers on, stained with plaster. “Ah, there you are,” he said as she approached.

“Thom Thomas stopped me in town.” She tried to relax her body so her nerves wouldn’t creep into her speech. She set the Christus in front of him and dug out the two shillings. “Asked for it to be repaired by next week.”

Ogden paused a moment before setting down his pencil and studying the statue. “Easily done.” He eyed her. “Are you quite all right?”

Elsie felt herself blush. “Just fine. The walk exhilarated me, is all.”

Ogden set the statue on a shelf below the counter. “Do you remember that little supply store in Westerham?”

Elsie rubbed her eyes, forcing her brain to switch from one channel to another. “Yes, the one with the cherry trees?”

Ogden grinned. “That’s the one. I’m in need of that metallic paint they have. I was hoping you’d venture down there to fetch some. It’s quicker than requesting delivery.” He shook his head, and for the first time Elsie noticed how tired he looked. “The squire is a persistent man, but I need that paint for another client. Now, Elsie, hold your tongue.”

He knew her so well. She swallowed the words The squire is a ratbag and nodded. Then straightened.

Westerham was south of Brookley, and Kent was southeast . . . Couldn’t she swing by the duke’s estate on her way back?

“I can go tonight, if you’d like.” She stretched her mouth into a cheerful smile. “I have a friend in”—think—“Knockholt. Since it’s a bit of a trip, perhaps I could dine with her tonight and come back in the morning?”

“You’re welcome to hire a cab,” he said. “But yes, that should be fine, so long as you’re back in the morning to assist customers. I won’t be here most of the day. Let Emmeline know. Did you get those chops?”

“I will and I did.”

Ogden gave her a paternal smile. “You’re a treasure, Elsie.” He turned back to his sketchbook.

And you have impeccable timing, she thought, assembling her darkest outfit in her head for tonight’s venture. She tagged it with a little prayer—she’d need all the extra help she could get.