Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(63)

Relief fountained up like it had been pumped by the queen herself.

He moved into the hallway. Gestured with a hand. A young man—he was barely eighteen, if that—strode into her room with mussed hair and an unhappy countenance. A lad grumpy from being woken in the middle of the night. Without any semblance of manners, he grabbed Elsie’s head and wiggled his fingers across it.

The spell vanished.

Elsie took in a deep breath. Stared at the man as he stalked back out of the room. A spellbreaker. She’d never met another one before, not that she was aware. Questions bloomed up her neck and gathered on her tongue. So much she wanted to ask him! Were their methods the same? When had he realized what he was? What sort of training had he received? What work did he do? How much was he paid?

But the young man turned the corner, out of sight. Of course, Elsie couldn’t have risked asking the questions even if he had stayed.

She waited for a long moment, listening to the voices coming from Emmeline’s room. Seeing no harm in it, she rose and tiptoed to Ogden’s room. He had a salve smeared on his eye, a small bandage across his brow. The doctor must have come.

He offered her a weak smile. She sat with him until the constable returned and the truthseeker and his entourage descended the stairs to return to London.

“A few more questions for you, Mr. Ogden,” Constable Wilson said.

Ogden sighed. “I don’t know what more you can get out of me, but go on.”

Elsie patted his shoulder and left, seeking to console Emmeline—and to find out if the truthseeker had asked them both the same questions. But when Elsie arrived at Emmeline’s room, she found it empty, a single candle burning on her bedside table.

“Emmeline?” Elsie asked, crossing to the window. Shielding her eyes, she peered outside.

The maid was on the road, talking to the Wright sisters.

Elsie cursed and turned from the window, determined to silence rumor before it could take root.



Master Ruth Hill had given Bacchus two options for his mastership, both of which were master versions of spells he already knew. The first was a hardening spell, something one could use to make wood strong or metal brittle. But the master version was known as the “gem spell” because it could be used to harden rock into precious stones. It was heavily regulated by the government and required registration to learn.

The second was a state-changing spell, the most basic form of which a novice could learn with water. It did essentially the same thing a stove did: change water to gas. Or the opposite—change water to ice. The more powerful the spell, the more easily a person could change the state of any given matter. The more stubborn the matter, the more intense the spell. This master-level spell would not only allow him to bend more materials to his will—it would also allow him to skip a step with many. Turning water vapor directly to ice, for example.

Bacchus chose the latter spell.

He sat in Master Hill’s private parlor, which, while small, was elaborately decorated almost to the point of untidiness. The wallpaper was roses and red stripes of varying sizes, accented by hibiscus; the carpet was cream; the furniture covered with baubles and books, Russian eggs, and Brazilian ceramics. Either Master Hill was very well traveled or she kept well-traveled merchants very rich.

He was capable of writing the Latin for the spell himself—he was capable of so much now that the life wasn’t being siphoned out of him—but he did not protest when Master Hill took the brush to his arm, a vial of blue ink held delicately between her aging fingers. Bacchus had rolled up his sleeves for the purpose, and Master Hill’s brushstrokes were professional and small. Not once did she make a mistake, and she paused just briefly to tuck a stray piece of graying blonde hair behind her ear. Bacchus read each word as she traced it down his arm, memorizing the incantation. After he absorbed the spell, he would no longer need the words to perform the magic, but he might want to teach it to another aspector or perhaps keep a record of how the spell was achieved. It was generous of her to let him watch; it was not unheard of for spellmakers to be blindfolded when receiving a new master spell in order to keep it valuable.

When Master Hill finished and most of the ink had dried, she handed him so many drops he could barely hold them all. Drops he’d paid for himself, but that didn’t matter. He’d been prepared to spend much, much more on the ambulation spell he no longer needed. They glowed vibrantly, brighter than candles. Bacchus still remembered being nine and having his father, who was not a spellmaker, place a single drop in his hand out of sheer curiosity. It had lit the room, and within the year, he’d been registered with the London Physical Atheneum.

Master Hill then held out an old book to him so he could read the spell aloud, but he didn’t need it. He had already committed the words to memory.

“Versandus naturam. Mutandus viam. Natura versat. Via mutat. Ultimum finemque. Per et intus. Supra et sine. Ultimum. Finem. Audi potentiam meam. Flecte voluntatem meam.

“Muti.”

The drops in his hands glittered and vanished, leaving him with an empty fist. Simultaneously, the ink absorbed into his skin like it had never been there at all. A surge of warmth coursed through him as the spell wrote itself into his internal opus, forever a part of him. Even in death.

“Thank you.” Bacchus lowered his arm and let out a stiff breath.

“You’ve earned it, Master Kelsey.” Master Hill had a knowing grin on her face. “I am glad you returned to us.”