Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(91)

She folded it carefully and slid it beneath her mattress—a temporary hiding spot until she thought of something better. She braided her newly washed hair over her shoulder and crept to Ogden’s bedroom. She didn’t bother knocking; he was expecting her, sketch pad, pencils, and charcoal spread across the foot of his bed.

She shut the door and sat on his trunk. Without waiting to be asked, she began describing the American.

“It will take a few tries.” He started with the shape of the head and the narrow jaw Elsie remembered. “I won’t influence you one way or another. Just tell me what you can remember.”

“He was about your age. Tanned. Traveled,” she offered. “His eyes were close set. Long hair. His hairline started . . . here.” She touched her crown. “And there was a peak.”

It took Ogden longer to draw than it did for her to describe. She looked over his shoulder every now and then, offering suggestions.

After nearly an hour, Elsie asked, “Where did you keep the opuses, Ogden? We should find a way to return them.”

His attention never left the sketch. “I didn’t. He took me somewhere, before the docks. I don’t quite remember it. Somewhere dark and wet. A sewer, or maybe a sepulchre. I grabbed spells almost at random to defend myself before moving on.” He slowed. “The mind and the spirit are interesting things. Separate, yet interlocked. Perhaps, if I can get my hands on the right library, I could study their boundaries for myself.” He resumed sketching.

Elsie nodded, considering. Replaying last night’s events in her thoughts. How Ogden, or his puppet master, knew to flee still confused her, but she didn’t want to distract Ogden with questions, especially ones he likely wouldn’t be able to answer. So she watched him draw instead. The sketch was beginning to come alive. It didn’t look quite right, yet Elsie couldn’t explain how without the American standing in front of her. As Ogden filled in the brow, however, he paused.

“This isn’t him.” He set the pad of paper on his lap. “I know it’s not him.”

Elsie rolled her lips together and took the pad in hand. You’re a pawn, he’d said. Which meant he wasn’t.

“It was worth a try.”

“The eyes . . . The eyes aren’t right.”

Elsie stood. “You remember?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Ogden rubbed his head. “I can almost . . .”

Elsie set down the pad and paced the room, thinking. She pulled her robe close around her. It was almost summer, but the room felt cold. Was it worth it to light the fire?

The fire.

She paused. “Ogden.”

He glanced up.

She met his tired eyes. “It was a woman who took me from the workhouse. A woman with a”—she closed her eyes, picturing it—“a receded chin.”

He froze a moment. “A woman,” he whispered. He held still as a grave, focus shifting. A moment passed. He stiffened suddenly and picked up his pad and charcoal. He sketched in a frenzy, drawing, shading, then shaking his head and ripping the page free, only to start anew. “A woman. I can see it. A woman . . . Yes . . . Almost . . .”

He started with the chin, adding lines around it. He jumped from that to outlining the hair around the face. No style, no hat, no pins. And a forehead. He began a thick eyebrow, then smeared the lines with the side of his hand and redrew them thin. He sketched the eyes, paused. Looked away and let his fingers draw from memory.

“Something like . . .” He added a heavy lid and a brow that looked almost Russian.

A chill ran through Elsie’s body. “God save us.”

Ogden turned toward her. “You recognize her?”

Mouth dry, Elsie nodded. The woman was older now, and the picture was incomplete, but she knew that face. And she understood why Ogden had known when to flee.

“She’s the one he was looking for,” she said, words barely more than a rasp. “The American. She’s in London. Her name is Master Lily Merton.”





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Oh hey, lots of people helped me with this book! They are the best. No book is a one-man show, and there are many thanks to be passed around.

First, God. He usually comes at the end of these, but I’m moving Him up to throw off the readers who actually peruse this section. Thanks, God.

Second, alpha and beta readers. These are people who slog through my rough drafts with no glory and no pay. Rebecca Blevins, Cerena Felt, Tricia Levenseller, Whitney Hanks, Rachel Maltby, and Leah O’Neill. I appreciate you guys SO MUCH. Even my agent doesn’t see my rough drafts!

A special thank-you to Caitlyn McFarland for helping me work out plot points, characters, and more on the phone and in person. And for letting me yell at you and call you names and then still liking me afterward.

Many thanks to Professor Thomas Wayment at Brigham Young University, who was much more useful with my Latin translations than the internet was.

So, so, so many thanks to my husband, Jordan, who also reads my crappy rough drafts, takes care of our kids so I can write crappy rough drafts, brainstorms ideas for my crappy rough drafts, and is every bit as chivalrous as a Victorian man should be.

Thank you to my agent, for getting this book into the right hands; my shiny new editor, Adrienne Procaccini, for helping me with the vision for this duology; and Angela Polidoro, who got up to her elbows in word grease to help me fine-tune this story.