Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(33)

Hence the security—the rumors had some heft to them, then. Apparently, the criminal or criminals at work were just as chuffed to steal the opus of an already deceased aspector as they were to kill a living magical worker. Bacchus peered up toward the auction house’s rectangular windows. “Here?”

Rainer nodded. “They didn’t catch the person, so they’re being careful.”

Interesting. A policeman blew a whistle nearby; it was deafening.

“Move along!” shouted the frustrated officer from before. His eyes landed on Rainer and Bacchus. “Don’t you speak English? Move along.”

Bacchus’s eyebrows drew together. “I believe I’m in the correct line.”

The officer looked genuinely confused. Bacchus tried not to let irritation mark his features—this was just the way of things. He would never be fully accepted into high English society, not with the way he looked.

The sooner he left England, the better. With any luck, he’d get what he needed at this auction. Earn his mastership and book his passage home, the coveted ambulation spell written on his soul.

“This line is for the auction house,” the officer stated dumbly.

“I’m aware,” Bacchus replied.

The officer paused for a moment, then distracted himself with an older couple who had stopped to gawk at the fanfare. “Move along!”

The crowd shifted, and Bacchus finally reached the front of the line. Rainer spoke for him. “Bacchus Kelsey.”

The large man with the ledger eyed them for a moment before scrolling through the paperwork. He drew a line across the page with a pencil. Tipped his head toward his companion.

The second, shorter man said, “Turn out your pockets, please.”

Bacchus gritted his teeth—he didn’t recall those before him being asked to do this—but obliged. He didn’t carry a lot on him, and Rainer had his coin. An exorbitant amount of money saved for years for this very purpose. Money he would have gladly given the Assembly of the London Physical Atheneum were they not pompous hornswogglers.

His belongings were rifled through, and Bacchus kept his eyes on each gloved hand, ensuring nothing slipped into the wrong pocket. The officer then instructed Bacchus to lift his arms to be searched.

It was incredibly tempting to put the man in his place. To freeze him with a spell, or turn him green. To reprimand him for not respecting his betters, however much Bacchus hated the very notion. Once he had a title, such things would be easier to evade, but he’d been hesitant to take the master test. Until he did, there was always the chance the assembly members might change their mind and allow him to use the ambulation spell for his advancement rights. A slender chance, to be sure, but a chance, nonetheless. One he hoped he would not need to rely on. Master Bennett’s opus was to be one of the first items up for bid.

So Bacchus submitted silently, and security did its job quickly. His things were returned to him, along with a blue paddle marked 18, denoting him as an aspector. Only those with blue paddles were allowed to bid on magical items. Withholding a sigh, Bacchus proceeded inside.

He took a seat in the middle of the auction room, a large gray-walled space decorated with a few portraits and a tasteful amount of décor, while Rainer waited in the back with the other servants. Bacchus wanted to blend in, but he needed to be sure the auctioneer noticed him. Turning the paddle in his hands, he watched the podium until the auctioneer, his mustache long and graying, stepped up to it.

The first item was a painting of a teapot that went for a surprising amount of money. The second was Master Bennett’s journals, five in total, well worn and engraved. One would think the personal musings of a father would be kept in the family, but if there was any chance Master Bennett had shared a spell or two in those pages, they would be worth a great deal. Unsurprisingly, the bound books went for double the cost of the painting.

Bacchus stiffened when the next item came out. Before it was even announced, he knew this was the opus he sought. A thick tome, bound in polished, red-hued leather with half a dozen burgundy ribbons streaming from its spine. The pages, clamped shut, had rough edges that sparkled when the book was placed on its easel. This was the opus of a true master, and a wealthy one at that.

“The opus of the late Lord Master Cassius Bennett, physical aspector, deceased 1894. Opening bid will start at five hundred eighty pounds.”

A price that could make a man weep. But this was a master opus.

Bacchus’s hand tightened around his paddle as he forced himself to wait. A man in gray near the front lifted his. Five hundred eighty pounds. Six hundred. Six hundred twenty-five. “Six fifty? Do I hear six fifty?”

Bacchus’s paddle surged into the air.

His bid was noted with the tip of the auctioneer’s pen. “Six seventy-five? A truly magnificent opus. No? Six seventy.”

The man in gray raised his paddle.

Bacchus raised his.

A woman in the back raised hers.

Sweat pricked Bacchus’s hairline and spine. The bidding continued apace, but he practiced forbearance, waiting for a lull.

“One thousand and twenty?”

He raised his paddle.

So did the man in gray.

His palms began to sweat. With a start of five eighty, he’d felt confident the bidding would stay under his cap. Neither the painting nor the journals had taken long to find a buyer. This competition had begun to drag, however, the number climbing ever higher.