Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(62)

She heard a cacophony of shod horse hooves and wheels. Peeked out her window, but she couldn’t see the arriving carriage, only hear the exhaustion of the animals pulling it. Sweat slicked her palms. There were so many questions they could ask. So many, and Elsie wouldn’t be able to resist answering, unless she broke the spell before speaking. Would a truthseeker notice?

“Calm down,” she whispered. She drew in deep breaths, squared her shoulders. She had no reason to be fearful. If they noticed she was discomfited, they’d ask more questions. More questions meant more truths.

And she didn’t think she’d be able to barter free labor to keep a truthseeker quiet.

A pang stung her heart.

Footsteps came up the stairs. Elsie ran to her bedroom door and pressed her ear to it, listening. A few pleasantries were exchanged—she recognized the constable’s voice but not any words—and then a door shut. They were starting with Ogden.

More footsteps neared her door. Elsie leapt back from it, and a moment later, a knock sounded.

She opened it and looked at the constable.

“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Camden.” He again looked sympathetic. “It will be just a few moments now.”

Elsie stuck up her nose. “I don’t suppose I have time to get dressed.”

Fortunately, the man didn’t point out that she could have done so while waiting for the court carriage to arrive. “I’m afraid not.”

“Very well. And thank you for your help.”

He nodded. She closed the door. Opened it again, a few inches. Moved her chair over to the window and sat, looking down at the light-stippled shadows below. Half the town appeared to be awake. She thought she could make out the Wright sisters.

Were she a less refined woman, she would have shouted, Go home! out her window. But she didn’t.

She was too scared to unlock it.

She was still sitting there, wringing her hands, when the truthseeker knocked on her door ten minutes later. The man was about Ogden’s age, perhaps a little older, though fatigue might have aged his features. He was balding in a very unfortunate manner, losing the crest of his hair while the sides still clung on. He didn’t have an unkind face, but she suspected his nose had been broken before. She prayed it was from an accident and not violence.

She glanced at his hands. What kind of criminals did he enchant? Did he have . . . other methods of seeking truth?

She swallowed.

“No need to be nervous, Miss Pratt. It’s merely procedure.” He shut the door behind him. It struck Elsie as somewhat funny that she was alone in the room with a man and it wasn’t considered improper, but the absurdity of the situation didn’t cheer her up.

“I’m Miss Camden.” She hated how timid she sounded.

“My apologies.” He stepped close to her, and despite her best efforts, Elsie tensed. What would he ask her? What are your secrets? What are you hiding? Is there any reason you should be incarcerated? “And my condolences. We’ll get this taken care of quickly.”

She nodded stiffly. Without further ado, the truthseeker placed his palm against her forehead. Did he feel how clammy it was? What if the spell didn’t take because of what she was? What if she was found out—

She felt the spell as it formed, like grains of sand dusting her skin. It rang like her ears sometimes did as it knotted together, heavy on her skin.

It dug into her soul.

She cringed.

“What is your name?” the truthseeker asked, pulling a pencil and pad of paper from a carryall.

“Elsie Camden.”

“Your age?”

“One and twenty.” She tried to think something else, like twenty-three, but found her thoughts blanked when she did.

She did not like this. Hurry up so you can take it off!

“Tell me the events that happened tonight.”

“I went to bed at ten—” Her tongue twisted, cutting off her words. “Perhaps later? Eleven?”

That spilled out just fine. Apparently the truthseeker could catch lies she wasn’t even purposefully making. How was she supposed to remember precisely when she’d gone to bed?

The aspector simply nodded.

“And I slept until I heard a clamor. I thought it was part of a dream.” She hadn’t meant to say that last part. She’d felt . . . compelled to. “I lit a candle and chased after the sound, and I found Ogden on the floor. A shadow vanished through the window. I told Emmeline to get Mr. Morgan, our neighbor, for help.”

The man nodded, focused on his notes, not on her. “And what did the culprit look like?”

“A shadow,” she repeated. “I saw nothing more. Not even where he went.”

“Or how he got down?”

She shook her head. The man didn’t seem to notice, so she said, “I suppose he jumped. He shattered a windowpane.”

“For what means does Cuthbert Ogden use his aspection?”

The questioning had taken a jarring turn, and it took her a moment to answer. “For his art. He knows very little. He changes the color of things. Softens stones. He can change the opacity of an object. That’s all I’ve seen him do.”

“He knows no other spells?”

“He struggles to learn them. Just a few weeks ago, he floundered with an intermediate spell.”

The man hummed to himself and scribbled on his pad. “Thank you, Miss Camden. I think that will be all.”