Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(67)
Emmeline sighed in relief.
“My apologies.” Ogden rubbed his forehead, then again adjusted his shirt. “I suppose last night has caused more stress than I care to let on. Nothing some work won’t fix.”
He nodded politely to Elsie and Bacchus before following Nash’s footsteps into the studio.
“I . . . Why don’t we exit through the back door, hmm?” Elsie offered, exchanging a look with Emmeline she hoped said, Make sure Ogden is all right.
She led the way, and Bacchus followed silently behind her, though he might as well have been a wolf breathing down her neck, the way he loomed. At the back door, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Emmeline hadn’t strayed, she whispered, “You’ve no luck figuring out who did it?” She was very close to him—close enough to detect a spell, if he still had one. The faintest scent of cut wood and oranges danced around her, no longer seasoned by that earthy note of the temporal rune, and she again thought about the feel of his chest beneath her hand. She cleared her throat and willed her skin not to flush.
It took Bacchus a moment to answer—she hadn’t been very specific, so she didn’t blame him. “No. I will look into it, but I fear it will be a fruitless endeavor. It happened long ago, and I cannot even connect which continent it happened on.” He sighed and slipped his hands into his coat pockets.
“How very strange.”
“Are you honestly well, Elsie?” His eyes seemed too knowing for some reason, like they could burrow beneath her skin. She dashed her traitorous thoughts away, fearing he’d pluck them right from her head. “You are unharmed? You have no concerns?”
She thought of Ogden’s flaring temper, so unusual for him. “I’m certainly concerned,” she admitted. “But what is there to be done? The man, thief, whatever he may be, is gone, and none of us got a good look at him. The constable can’t search for a person with no description. And the truthseeker didn’t seem interested.”
“They alerted the High Court?”
The front door opened and closed, meaning Nash was on his way again. “Ogden is an aspector. It’s procedure, apparently, with everything happening.” She offered a weak smile. She still couldn’t believe the attack was related to the ones previously in the papers—Ogden was a feeble spellmaker. Yet the incident had still left a mark on her nerves. “No need to worry. I’ve avoided shackles once again.”
“Good.” He averted his eyes in thought. “I wonder if it is only one person. There’s such a breadth to the crimes, and no real evidence to speak of. If we start connecting every crime in the aspector world, we’ll never solve anything. The academy, for example.”
That gave her pause. “What academy?”
“The aspection academy that filters into the atheneums.” When she didn’t react, he continued, “A wing of it burned down, killing a professor and two apprentices.” He frowned. “Their opuses weren’t recovered, but that’s to be expected in a fire. And yet even that is being attributed to this bandit.”
She tried to ignore the gooseflesh rising on her back and arms. “That’s . . . terrible.”
Rubbing his beard, Bacchus hummed his agreement.
Elsie wondered if the squire had been to the academy on one of his trips to London. He’d need a reason to visit, having not a magical hair on his body. Perhaps Bacchus was right, and it wasn’t one great murdering criminal, but several wayward souls trying to cause a storm. Or perhaps the uprisings of the seventeenth century were upon them once more, the magicless and downtrodden attacking aristocrats, stealing their opuses so they could have some semblance of power for themselves. “Ogden may be right about journalists,” she offered. “And about him being a target for his opus. He barely knows more spells than my shoe, really.”
His lip quirked at that. If only he would smile at her, fully, one more time. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask, nor to be witty enough to merit it.
“Give my best to the duke, Bacchus.” She touched his sleeve, then instantly regretted it when her cheeks warmed. “Take care of yourself, and . . . let me know if I can help.”
It was a foolish offer. If their acquaintance deepened, he might discover what Ogden and Emmeline still had not. He might catch sight of her wrongness.
He nodded. “You as well. I . . . might place a few wards on my way out.”
“I would like that, thank you.”
They stood there awkwardly for a moment before Elsie opened the door. “I don’t mean to insult you by sending you out the back—”
“I’d rather not interrupt Mr. Ogden’s business.” He offered her a nod, the hair gathered at the nape of his neck bouncing slightly, and departed. Just like that. Elsie forced herself not to watch him go. She needn’t stand in the doorway like some lovesick pup.
I’m not lovesick, she snapped at herself, closing the door a little too hard. Bacchus was merely an adventure. A fancy. Proof that she read too much fiction.
Perhaps she should switch to scientific journals for a while. She couldn’t think of a better medicine for her twisted insides at the moment besides warm milk.
The studio door opened and closed. Best she help the next customer.
But when Elsie stepped into the studio, it was empty, save for Ogden hacking at a lump of clay in the corner.