Spellmaker

Elsie considered this. Spellmakers tended to purchase drops—the quartz-based “currency” needed to absorb spells—as they needed them, because they were painfully expensive and every spell required a different amount. The more powerful the spell, the more drops necessary to absorb it.

“Perhaps he used them,” Ogden murmured. When the others looked at him, he continued, “We’ve deduced he has a spell Merton wants. Think on it. A spiritual aspector, working on some great theory, vanished, only to be hunted down by another spiritual aspector. His theory likely pertained to a master spell. A spell that would require a large amount of drops. Many do.”

Elsie wondered how Ogden obtained the drops for his spells. Likely not by legal means, but she thought it best not to ask in front of Irene. Her willingness to overlook their illegal activities might go only so far.

“Perhaps,” Irene considered. “But the spells of aspection have been solidified for centuries. One does not merely make up a new one.”

“It may not be made-up,” Ogden countered. “It might merely have been lost.” Opuses saved aspection from the throes of time, but there was no evidence that all the spells mankind knew now equaled all the spells mankind had known a millennia ago.

“Master Merton knows.” Elsie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She knows what he found, spell or theory or whatever it may be. And she wants it.”

Silence again filled the dining room until Ogden asked, “Anything else?”

Irene shook her head. “I don’t recall. I’m sorry. I didn’t know him personally. I might not have remembered him at all, but the mystery revolving around his disappearance was . . . noteworthy.”

Elsie clasped her hands together. This was so much more information than they’d had before. They had a name! He was no longer “the American,” but Master Quinn Raven. They also had a motivation: Merton wanted something he had, likely a spiritual spell. And they had a new partner, who in the matter of an hour had already proven herself incredibly useful.

Closing her eyes, Elsie transported back to Juniper Down, remembering the man’s stance, his scowl, the gun in his hands. I know what you want, but I’ll kill you before I utter the words, he’d said.

Utter the words. It had to be a spell. But what spell had he discovered that Merton wanted so badly? So badly that she’d devolved into a thief and a murderer?

Irene broke Elsie’s train of thought. “Will you tell me how you did it? How you stopped the gust spell before it had a chance to start?”

Elsie opened her eyes. “I . . . I don’t know how I did it. I mean, I can try? We can simulate it later, with Bacchus.” Her focus shifted to Ogden. “We need to reach out to Raven. Let him know he has allies to stand with him against Merton.”

“How?” Emmeline asked.

“The same way Merton did.” Ogden folded his arms. “Through the newspapers.”

Elsie nodded. “Irene said Master Raven vanished eleven years ago. We can’t wait another eleven years.”

Ogden interjected, “He knows that’s how she’s trying to reach him. He also knows your name. If we publish under your name, he’ll likely take notice. He might even still be in Europe.”

Elsie considered this, then perked up. “Reggie said he repairs letterpresses. He must have connections to newspapers all over London.”

Emmeline grinned. “What a wonderful idea! He could help us!”

“Who is this person?” Irene asked.

“My brother.” Those words still felt so singular passing her lips. “We’ll invite him here and tell him—it will be easier if we don’t have to tiptoe around him. Ogden, you can ensure he’s trustworthy. I’ll start writing up articles to publish. We might need to be more direct than Merton was if we want to do this quickly.” She’d write to Bacchus straightaway and let him know. He needed to be kept in the loop, and Elsie didn’t mind the excuse to contact him.

Closing the sketchbook, Irene said, “Will Master Merton notice?”

Elsie shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe not, if she’s in hiding. But we’ll have to risk it.”

“I’ll send a telegram.” Emmeline hopped up from her chair. Reggie had left his contact information before leaving yesterday.

“Good. And I’ll write to Bacchus. Perhaps he can fund us if the newspapers insist we pay.” She winced at the idea of asking him for more money. She still felt guilty about the dress.

“I can fund it,” Irene said. “And I’ll help you write the articles, too.”

Elsie nearly crumbled with relief. Irene smiled, and for the first time, Elsie saw the bright possibility of friendship with her tutor. “That would be wonderful.”

Irene nodded resolutely. “And I’ll keep checking off on your lessons. None will be the wiser.”

Elsie could have hugged the woman. “I am in your debt.”

“As am I,” Ogden added. “Let’s get started.”