Spellmaker

Getting a new piece of paper, Elsie wrote down all the irregular lines. A neighbor—Merton?—was trying to contact someone who had traveled away from America. One of the other headlines mentioned a spiritual aspector—the American Elsie had met in Juniper Down, surely. So Master Merton wanted to talk to him . . . about a spell? And she was trying to convey that his behavior, the traveling he’d been doing, was unnecessary.

Was he hiding from Merton? Had she paid to publish these articles across random papers in the hopes that he’d take notice? Was that why she’d used American spelling?

Astonishingly enough, it had worked, because the American had come to England. He’d looked up the articles’ author—Elsie Camden—and met her in Juniper Down, her last known residence prior to the burned-down workhouse.

That had happened while Ogden was still under Merton’s spell, but because Ogden hadn’t witnessed it himself, Merton had no way of gleaning the information from him.

Which meant she likely didn’t know the American had come at all.

Elsie tapped her pencil against her lips. She had so many questions, but this was progress. With luck, Ogden would return home tonight with news from the spirit line. Finding more of these articles might reveal more truths, about both Merton and the unknown man from Juniper Down.

“Elsie?” Emmeline poked her head into the room.

Lowering her pencil, Elsie said, “Hmm?”

“Do you want help getting ready?”

Elsie looked up, confused, before understanding dawned on her and she leapt off the sofa. “Emmeline, thank you. I’d nearly forgotten.”

She was to dine at Seven Oaks again tonight. Bacchus had arranged it—in a storybook, he would have done so to spend time with her because they were blissfully in love. In reality, he needed her to get close to the duke again so she could uncover the truth behind the mysterious spell hidden on his person. She hoped she didn’t make a fool of herself, but more so, she hoped she was wrong. That she actually hadn’t sensed a spell, or that the spell was something else entirely. Bacchus was so close to the duke . . . Elsie didn’t want anything to estrange them. Nor did she want Bacchus to taste betrayal. The acrid flavor was still familiar on Elsie’s tongue, and she didn’t wish it upon anyone, least of all the man she lov—

She cleared her throat, reining in her thoughts. At least she’d managed to convince the duke and duchess that she was fine company.

“Do you want to wear my pearls?” Emmeline asked as Elsie stepped through the door. “They look real.”

She was about to say no, but paused. This was a duke’s home, and there was only so much she could do to her dresses to make it look like she belonged. “Yes, Emmeline,” she said, running her thumb over the sapphire on her finger. “That would be wonderful.”

Elsie was especially nervous riding to Seven Oaks this time, and not merely because a bout of rain threatened to unwind her meticulously placed curls. The problem was this: while the duke seemed happy enough to welcome her into his home—he’d always been welcoming, even before her forced engagement to Bacchus—they weren’t chummy. Getting close enough to the duchess to uncover a spell would be trying enough, but to her husband? Elsie had to find a way to do it without looking like she’d gone mad. And even then, if it was a physical spell, she wouldn’t know for sure unless she saw the bloody thing. Perhaps if she tripped while carrying a knife just so, she could slice through the buttons of the duke’s shirt without actually injuring him . . .

Do it for Bacchus, she reminded herself. She didn’t want him to doubt people like she did.

She twisted the ring on her finger until the skin beneath grew raw.

When the carriage pulled through the gates and around the drive, Elsie searched for Bacchus, but he wasn’t there to meet her. Something inside her sank.

A servant opened the carriage, and Elsie hid her discomfort somewhere near her diaphragm, where it bubbled and mewed little enough for her to ignore it. “Miss Camden,” the young man said, “allow me to escort you to the sitting room.”

“Thank you.” Elsie tried her best to sound refined. The servant walked two steps ahead of her, guiding her down an increasingly familiar path to the elaborate sitting room. The duke and his entire family were inside; a harp had been brought over, and Ida played a lovely tune upon it. Bacchus was nowhere to be seen.

Her anxiety sharpened. Was he well? Worried? Should she find him?

“Miss Camden!” exclaimed the duchess, who rose from her chair and crossed to her, grasping Elsie’s hands gently in greeting. “It’s so wonderful to have you with us again.”

Elsie put on a smile. “It’s always wonderful to be here, Your Grace.”

The duchess chuckled. “Please, you must call me Abigail. Come take a seat. I apologize for Bacchus; it’s not like him to be late.”

Elsie glanced back to the way she had come. “No, it’s not.”