Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(59)

He reached to the floor to grab a bottle of white paint. “Go rest, Elsie. I’ll have plenty for you to catch up on in the morning.”

“You’re sure?”

“Am I ever not?”

She smiled. “In that case, a little mouse told me my next novel reader arrived.”

He chuckled. “That little mouse was supposed to leave it on your bed for you.”

“I’ve not yet been upstairs, so I’ll check.” She paused halfway to the door. “Mr. Ogden, you read the paper.”

The bottle of paint spit onto his palette. “Yes . . .”

“Then you know there has been an alarming number of thefts and . . . murders . . . as of late.”

He paused. Set down the paint and his palette. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to be informed or ignorant. Or, rather, informed and depressed, or ignorant and happy.”

Elsie nodded. “If only one could be informed and happy.”

Standing from his stool, Ogden said, “Ah, but that is not the way of the world. Journalists do not pay their rent reporting on how well things are going, unless it is in regards to the queen.”

She twisted her fingers together. “I merely wish we could do something about it.”

“Careful, Elsie. You’ll sound like a Tory.”

She offered a weak smile. “Why do you say that?”

“Most of the crime that has been reported on lately has targeted the upper class.”

“True,” she said carefully, “but it’s not really worth nicking from those who don’t have money. Or magic.”

Ogden nodded. Sat, and picked up his brush and palette. He began randomly dabbing white paint onto the canvas: first near the top, then to the side, then down to the right. It made no sense, even if he were attempting clouds, but there was a strange sort of pattern to it. Elsie could almost guess where Ogden would touch his brush next. “That is true. There does seem to be a theme running through it. Or perhaps the newspapers are focusing solely on lords and aspectors because it makes for a more interesting story.”

She chewed on her thumbnail. “Perhaps.”

“If it helps”—he dabbed the center of the canvas—“the squire is unworried about it. It came up, my last day there.”

Elsie clicked her tongue. “The squire doesn’t care about anything but himself. If anyone were to go after opuses, it would be him. He loves power. And what’s more powerful than magic you can cast for free?”

“Be careful, Elsie.” He lowered his brush. “You never know when one might be listening.”

She stiffened. Glanced at the door, then the window. They were alone. “You mean to scare me.”

Though his mouth turned up at one end, Ogden shook his head. “I don’t. But you needn’t fear. You’ve no opus to steal, and mine isn’t worth more than a page.”

The words, half in jest, struck Elsie to her core. Ogden was right, of course—righter than he realized. Spellbreakers didn’t have opuses. They could only dismantle spells, not learn them.

He considered a moment. “If things ever do get bad, we’ll steal away, you, Emmeline, and I. Ride up to the Thames, maybe even the St. Katharine Docks, and take a discreet boat out to the channel. How’s your French?”

Elsie snorted. “Very poor, indeed. Let us hope it does not come to us relying on my French.” Leaving Ogden to his work, she passed through the kitchen to grab some bread and butter to eat, then hauled her valise up to her room. All her clothes needed laundering and ironing; she’d get to that tonight, before she went to bed. The novel reader was indeed on her coverlet, but Elsie went through her valise before looking at it, ensuring there were no more notes stowed away.

How did they get into the bag in the first place?

Part of her wished she hadn’t seen it. How much more could she have learned about Bacchus Kelsey had she slipped into the London Physical Atheneum with him? Not only the mystery of the spell, but the mystery of the man.

Not that you have any right to know. Really, Elsie.

Forcing her thoughts back to rational things, she moved toward the window and stared down at the street below. It was empty but for a couple of men who stood off the main road. Neither of them glanced up at her, or showed any interest whatsoever in the stonemasonry shop.

“Will you ever tell me your secrets, Cowls?” she whispered to the glass. “Will you deem me worthy and bring me into the fold?”

She wondered if they’d consider her more valuable if she started ignoring their missives. She didn’t fear they’d reciprocate in any foul manner; they’d only ever been kind to her. Mr. Parker was certainly kind. No, her worst fear was that they’d stop asking altogether.

Heaviness weighed down her eyes, and she rubbed it away. She could use a rest. Lifting her gaze from the street, she peered over Brookley, into the green distance. Did you find your rune, Bacchus? Will you tell me, or have I tried your patience, too?

It was fruitless to worry over it. But that didn’t stop her.

Drawing one of her curtains, Elsie retired to bed, focusing on her novel reader to keep her thoughts at bay.

She fell asleep halfway down page 3.



Elsie was sweeping the porch when a post dog jogged up to her, its pink tongue hanging out as it panted.