Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(58)

He formed the syllables with his lips. Siphon. A siphoning spell? And on the following page, the rune was inversed. Squinting at the faded text beneath the images, he read on the first, Dare, and on the second, Accipere. Latin. To give and to receive.

A physical aspector had somehow placed a high-ranking master spell on his person and . . . siphoned his strength away from him? Given him symptoms two doctors had diagnosed as the early onset of polio? Had the aspector kept the stolen strength for himself? Bottled it up? Let it drain out with the sea?

Why?

He gripped the edges of the book until his fingernails left marks in the covers. His only consolation was knowing that whoever had benefitted from sapping his strength could no longer tap it. But where had it happened? Barbados? England? He’d been to New York and France as well, but he had absolutely no memory of the event . . . or of the person who’d done it. Had a rational aspector been present as well, to wipe his mind clean?

Now he was getting into the absurd.

Siphon. He knew when, roughly, it had happened. Before his parents had brought the first doctor in. But . . .

Closing his eyes, he racked his memory. He’d come to England often as a boy. Gotten seasick once on the journey back. Had that been the start of the siphoning, or had it not occurred until he was home in Barbados? But Barbados was not renowned for its aspectors. Bacchus has been one of few, though American spellmakers were known to holiday there during the winter months . . .

He slammed the book shut. He couldn’t make sense of it . . . and he had to accept that he might never know. He could investigate in Barbados first, ask his aging nursemaid, but she had never accompanied him and his father on their trips. She’d fretted over him. Wept over the diagnosis! Had she known anything, surely she would have said so. And to think his father would never know the truth . . .

He pulled away from the shelf, dragging the light with him. Let it go, he heard his father say in his memory. It will do you no good, allowing it to fester.

He’d said it to him often, first when he was the only foreign-looking boy on the English streets, and later when his temper rose over inconsequential things.

He couldn’t let it go, not yet. But he would tuck it away until he could investigate further.

In the meantime, he had a mastership to obtain.





CHAPTER 17



When Elsie returned to Brookley, the first place she went was the post office to send a vague and inexpensive telegram to Kent: All is well. She casually asked Martha Morgan first if any new crimes regarding opuses had appeared in the papers and, second, if the squire had been in town. Martha claimed she hadn’t seen any news on the aspector crimes, but the squire had been in just yesterday.

No murders while the squire was at home. The information stoked Elsie’s growing suspicion. If only she were a registered spellbreaker . . . she’d have access to the atheneums and be able to weave through the highest circles of aspectors and pick their brains, glimpsing secrets journalists didn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, put in the paper.

But she wasn’t registered and never would be. What could she, Elsie Camden, do? It wasn’t like Ogden would ever be targeted. She’d have to wait for the answers to come to her just like everyone else. A novel reader without a clear-cut publication date.

Valise in hand, she hurried home. She didn’t even make it to the front door before Emmeline scared her halfway to Liverpool.

“Elsie!” the younger woman shrieked, nearly tripping over the basket of laundry she was midway through hanging. She rushed for Elsie and hugged her. “How was it? Was it exciting? It’s been so boring here without you. And your next novel reader came! But Mr. Ogden said I couldn’t read it without your permission. I’ve been going wild wondering what will happen next. Is this the last issue?”

Elsie laughed, which lightened her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. “Perhaps we could read it together, while I put my feet up. If Ogden isn’t desperate for help, that is.”

“Oh”—she took Elsie’s valise—“you must be exhausted. I didn’t even think of it. We’ll look at it tomorrow.”

Elsie took the luggage back. “I’m well enough to carry my own things. Where’s Ogden?”

“In the studio, last I saw.”

Elsie squeezed Emmeline’s shoulder before trekking into the house, setting her valise at the bottom of the stairs. She pulled her gloves off as she walked. Sure enough, Ogden was in the studio, his tarps over the floor, a canvas half-painted blue sitting before him.

“Work or pleasure?” Elsie asked.

He startled, fortunately pulling his brush back before he could tarnish his work. “Oh, Elsie! So good to see you back. How was it?”

She’d already rehearsed her words in the cab, so they flowed from her lips as easily as if they were true. “It was rather dreadful, honestly. Everyone invited was in a position similar to mine, including a few secretaries. But they treated us like a bunch of ninnies, like we barely knew how to read, let alone put our shoes on the right foot. I didn’t learn much of anything.” She sighed. “I’m glad to be home.” That much, at least, was sincere.

“Oh dear.” Ogden rested his brush on his palette. “I shall have to write them with my disappointment.”

Elsie nodded. “I’ll get you the address.” Which was code for I’ll wait until you forget you asked. Stifling a yawn with a knuckle, she asked, “What can I get for you, Ogden? I suppose you’ve lunched already.”