Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(73)

“Said ‘nearby.’ Must’ve been staying round Birmingham, the way he talked.”

Birmingham? That was a ways north of here. Had he been there this whole time?

Elsie held the brief message, written with a fine hand, up to her face.

By the plum where the road turns for Foxstone. Come alone.

That was it.

Elsie turned the paper over, but there was nothing else upon it. Did he want their meeting to be private? Did he intend to wait by the tree day by day until she arrived? It made little sense to her, but Elsie was used to short, direct messages like this.

“Where is the road for Foxstone?”

“That where he is?” Agatha asked, but she pointed toward a corner of the house. “Goes east that way, curves through a bit of a forest. You got to turn right after that, or it’ll send you to Pingewood.”

Elsie turned for the door. Paused. “Thank you so much, Agatha. Might I keep my things here?”

“Of course. Bring him back, if you like, and I’ll see you both fed.” She smiled. “I’m right happy for you, Elsie. Glad it turned out.”

Nodding, Elsie stepped back into the sunlight. A few people, including children, were lurking around the house, likely curious about what had brought a stranger to the Halls’. Ignoring them, she ventured east, searching for a path wide enough to be called a road. After finding it, she glanced over her shoulder once, but no one followed her. Most likely they were pestering Agatha with their questions. Some of them might even remember the little girl who’d been abandoned by her family fifteen years ago . . . but Elsie would worry about that later.

The way was farther than she expected; the woods weren’t close, but she was in a hurry, and she kept up a brisk enough pace that her ribs hurt by the time she reached them. Forcing herself to slow, Elsie scanned the sparse trees, keeping to the center of the road. Father, she thought, disbelieving. She tried to remember the lines she’d rehearsed in the carriage, only to find them forgotten.

Why come back now?

Why did you wait so long?

What is your name?

The woods broke, and Elsie couldn’t help herself—she hurried again, ignoring the stitch re-forming beneath her corset. After another minute of walking, she saw the fork up ahead, as well as a crude, faded sign that pointed toward Foxstone. Sure enough, there was a massive plum tree a short ways to the west. Upon seeing it, Elsie left the road behind and trekked through the long wild grass, crinkling the letter as she picked up her skirts.

She was nearly there when a man stepped out from behind the tree. She slowed, her tongue twisting, her entire body a pulse. He was tall, just like she was, with a prominent nose and dark eyes, unlike hers. His tan spoke of days out in the sun, and his hair was long and straight, streaked with gray that made it look the color of sand. It might have been Elsie’s color, years ago.

She stopped a few paces away from him, surprised at the hardness in his face. Lost for words, she tried, “Hello.”

Her father lunged at her, his calloused hand grabbing her neck. Elsie stumbled backward until she hit the plum tree’s trunk.

It was only then she saw the pistol leveled with her forehead.

Speech fled.

“You won, I’m here. Tell me what you want.”

Elsie gaped. He spoke with an American accent.

This was not her father.

Confusion, fear, and disappointment swirled within her. She grabbed the man’s arm, but he easily overpowered her, and she could not lift his hand from her neck. She croaked, “Who are you?”

He scowled. “Don’t play games with me, Elsie Camden.”

He knew her name. He had come looking for her, then. But why?

When she didn’t answer, he said, “I read your articles. You thought we’d do this on your terms? I looked up your workhouse records. I know what you want, but I’ll kill you before I utter the words.” He dug the pistol into her forehead.

“Stop!” she screamed, writhing, though it cut off her dwindling supply of air. “Help!” The call was little more than a rasp. Clawing at the man’s grip, she said, “What articles? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!”

He sneered. Stared at her for a moment. Released her, but kept his gun level. Elsie bent over, gasping for air.

“You’re too young.” He lowered his gun slightly. “Who sent you?”

Straightening, she looked at him, incredulous. “Who sent me? You did, you blunderbuss! I got a telegram saying you were looking for me!” Her words tight, she said, “I-I thought you were my father.” He must have faked his dialect with Agatha. Either that, or she’d simply gotten it wrong.

Confusion lined his forehead. Elsie shivered with the effort of keeping her thoughts organized and her heart in one piece.

“What articles?” She pushed the question through her sore and tight throat, eyeing the gun. She didn’t think it was enchanted, not that it mattered.

“The newspapers. Magazines. All over Europe and the States.” He glared at her, and his gun twitched. “You’re a pawn.”

“I’m no one’s pawn. Put that bloody thing away!” She gestured toward the gun. The man lowered it a fraction more, so he’d only blow off her knee instead of her head. “I’m no writer. You’ve the wrong person.”

“No.” He shook his head, but he stepped back. He glanced around, as though expecting someone to jump out of the grass and tackle him. “No, it’s you. You must be an apprentice.” He raised the gun again.