Spellmaker

“Thank you for your time, Duchess Morris,” he said without missing a beat. He stood and offered his hand to Elsie for her to do the same. He looked especially large in this room, somehow, or perhaps that was because Duchess Morris was barely over five feet. The way she carried herself, one would think she wasn’t aware of her petite stature.

“Oh, my pleasure. Always happy to help.” She smiled. Elsie didn’t mention the tour, and Duchess Morris seemed to have forgotten, for she didn’t initiate another invitation. She saw them into the hallway, where a smartly dressed servant escorted them to the door.

Elsie barely noticed the passing of distance between the house and the victoria. Crimean War. Lost mother. Charitable donations. Master Merton seemed to fit the mold of a serial murderer even less, knowing all of that.

It wasn’t until Bacchus pulled the carriage around that Elsie said, “Do you think it bothered her, swearing allegiance to Britain? I would never have thought her Russian. She speaks so elegantly, wears all the English fashions—”

“Elsie,” he said, nodding as another servant opened the gates for them. “When you are an outsider, you do what you have to do to fit in, or people will ostracize you. Sometimes without even realizing it. If Master Merton wanted to succeed in spiritual magic here in London, she would have had to assimilate so thoroughly that others would forget she was ever different. It is a necessity, for people like us.”

That gave Elsie pause. She studied Bacchus, the darkness of his skin, the length of his hair, his height and breadth. He’d held on to his English accent, not slipping into his natural one, like he had before. His father was English, but his mother was Algarve, and he’d been raised in Barbados. He dressed like an Englishman, spoke like an Englishman, but he didn’t look like one. Elsie had forgotten he was different.

No wonder Alexandra Wright had been staring.

“Have I offended you?” She found herself holding her breath, waiting for his response.

“No.” He slipped the reins into his left hand and reached over with his right, covering her fingers with his palm. “No, you haven’t.” She wondered if his Bajan tones came through naturally or if he let them in to reassure her. “But it is easy to miss the pain of being different when you fit in so well with the standard.”

She nodded. Dared to lift her other hand and place it atop his. “I suppose you’re right.” She thought of Ogden, of his confessions. He was different, too, and hid it remarkably well. “I wonder what sort of pains Master Merton has borne in her lifetime. And why they’ve made her behave the way she has.”

Because if Lily Merton wanted peace, as Duchess Morris claimed, why was she killing so many people? Why the grab for power?

And what did the American have to do with any of it?

Elsie felt closer to finding answers. The only problem was that she seemed to acquire more questions at every turn.

It was oddly difficult to get back into a daily routine after being imprisoned.

Elsie managed it anyway, ordering materials for Ogden, who had blessedly gotten two more commissions. One was from the hateful squire, who had decided to commission a bust of himself, as if the people who visited his home didn’t know perfectly well what he looked like. The other was from out of town. Ogden needed the distraction just as much as Elsie did. When he wasn’t slinking around London, prying into strangers’ minds, he was quiet, unlike himself, sketching and murmuring under his breath.

Elsie was more than happy to spend her morning trekking to the squire’s estate, for while she didn’t like the man—it really was a pity he wasn’t the murderer—she quite enjoyed his steward, Mr. Parker. Polite and to the point, he passed along the measurements and other information she needed with admirable efficiency. Elsie wondered if Ogden would notice if she altered the sculpture before it set—giving the squire an unseemly mole or a crooked tooth. Then again, if she got Ogden put out of his job, she’d be put out of hers, too.

Fortunately, she’d have a husband to support her if that happened.

She tripped on nothing as she trekked back through town, catching herself and managing not to drop the satchel with her employer’s papers in it. Husband. It all seemed like a very odd dream, didn’t it? The worst part was that they still hadn’t discussed their plans. How would Bacchus balance Barbados and England? Or perhaps he wouldn’t balance them at all. For all she knew, he intended to let her live in a townhouse in London, while he fled to Barbados and grabbed a mistress or two. That would be a fair compromise, wouldn’t it?

If only the thought didn’t form such a deep pit in her stomach. It would have been rather nice to be engaged after a pleasant courtship. To be sure of wanting.

“Oh, Miss Camden!”

Elsie winced at the sound of the familiar voice behind her, and kept walking as though she hadn’t heard. Increased her pace.

“Miss Camden!”