Spellmaker

“I keep playing it over and over. Juniper Down, I mean.” She kept an ear attuned to the stairs, listening for any creaks in the wood that would signal Emmeline was up and about, but the house remained quiet. “The American said he knew my name from newspapers and magazines. Articles I’d published. But I’ve never published a word in my life.”

Ogden nodded. “I remember.”

Leaning closer, she asked, “Is there a way to look up newspaper articles by author?”

Ogden straightened.

“He said they were in Europe and the States. Some of them had to be published in England, surely.”

To her relief, Ogden nodded. “Yes, in Colindale. There’s a repository there with newspapers dating back decades. If they’ve been well archived, we should be able to look up your name.”

Excitement pricked her like needles. Perhaps they could unfurl another part of this mystery. “That’s not far from here.” North London, if she was right.

He nodded. “We can go in the morning.”

She bit her lip. “I can go. You have the squire’s deadline—”

“I’ll go with you,” he reaffirmed. “If the squire complains, I’ll just make him think he extended.”

Elsie paused. “You can do that?”

Ogden simply looked at her.

“All right.” She stood, careful not to let her chair scrape on the floor. “It will be a good place to start. First thing in the morning.” She turned from the table, paused, and turned back. “Ogden?”

He snuffed one of the three candles. “Hm?”

She debated with herself a moment, but it was better to risk offense than to keep on wondering and fearing. This was one worry she could kill here and now. “I need you to promise me you will never make me think differently than I do. Not without my asking.” It was a bold statement to make to one’s employer, but in all truthfulness, Cuthbert Ogden was much more than that now.

His lip quirked. “I don’t think I could, without you noticing.”

“But you could make me not notice, couldn’t you? Like before.”

He pressed his lips together and leaned his chin on his hands. “Perhaps. But you’ve grown in strength, Elsie. Your skills are . . . impressive.”

“Still,” she pressed, trying not to preen with the compliment. “I need you to promise me.”

“I promise you.” A sliver of volume leaked into his voice. “I promise you, Elsie, over my parents’ graves, and my own. I’ll never influence you with magic.”

The hidden opus spell tucked beneath her sash grew heavy. She thought about the horrible things Merton had manipulated her into doing, and about Bacchus, whose understanding and patience surely had limits—limits she was pushing. But she had no idea how much of her life such a spell would erase . . .

“Unless I ask you to,” she added in a soft voice.

He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you ask me to.”

Content, Elsie retrieved her candle and made her way back upstairs, leaving Ogden to ponder alone in the light of only one.

The British Museum’s repository for newspapers was an unremarkable and unassuming building, lacking in any refined architecture or color, but Elsie was hardly interested in its exterior. Ogden held the door for her, and she slipped inside, almost immediately being greeted by rows and rows of books, drawers, and shelves. At least they were notably organized.

After a moment, Ogden pointed. “This way.”

Elsie followed him. “Did you spy into a curator’s mind for that?”

Ogden gave her a flat look and pointed to a sign indicating newspapers and their dates. Feeling foolish, Elsie followed.

Only problem was, she didn’t know precisely what dates she needed. How long had it taken the American to sniff her out? Still, if the articles weren’t indexed by name, it would be a nearly impossible task to sort through even a year’s worth of newspapers. Especially since she doubted the curators would permit her to simply take whole stacks of newspapers home to rifle through.

An older gentleman strode by, glancing once at her and Ogden before continuing on his way.

“Here.” Ogden pointed in the direction from which the man had come, to a wall full of tiny wooden drawers. Elsie had to remind herself not to run as she approached. There were drawers organized by date, by region, and—

“By author,” she whispered, touching the handwritten surnames on one of the drawers. She quickly reviewed the display, dropping to her knees to reach the C’s. She pulled out one that read, Calladine–Cook.

Ogden crouched beside her. The drawer was much longer than she had thought. Hundreds of cards were crammed into it, all handwritten, some in different penmanship and colors of ink. It made her think of aspecting, but there were no spells to be found here. She carefully separated the cards with her nails, one by one. She found what she was looking for fairly quickly, thanks to the magic of alphabetizing.