Spellmaker

“And Master Phillips doesn’t like anyone,” Bacchus muttered.

Mr. Ogden shifted suddenly, his gaze on the younger man. “What was that?”

The aspector blinked. “I . . . didn’t say anything, sir.”

Another wave of his hand. “Yes, you did, son. About Master Phillips?”

The man fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. Bacchus intuited that Mr. Ogden had heard a thought and was forcing the aspector to verbalize it. “Just that he’s been acting strangely lately. He hasn’t been to the atheneum in a couple days. He missed a meeting I was taking notes at. Very unlike him.”

Bacchus’s pulse quickened. He pressed his hand to the stone wall for balance. “Where does Master Phillips live?”

“In London, on the east side,” the man said. “Never been there, but his estate is called Wide Springs.”

Mr. Ogden turned to Bacchus. “So one of us will go there, the other to Master Ulf.”

Bacchus nodded.

“Though,” the man added, “he does have a country estate over in Childwickbury. He had a Christmas party there a few years back.”

Bacchus tensed. “Childwickbury? Where is that?”

“Northeast,” Mr. Ogden said. “A few hours’ ride, if I’m not mistaken.”

Bacchus swallowed, his throat constricting. Whispering, he said, “If it’s him, then that would be a good place—”

Mr. Ogden stalled him with a raised hand. “Thank you, lad. What is that on the wall?”

The man turned to look. “I don’t see any—”

His voice cut off, and Mr. Ogden pushed Bacchus away. They walked, somewhat leisurely, away from the space. Bacchus glanced over his shoulder, only to catch the advanced aspector opening his book again, seemingly unaware of them.

“You made him forget us,” he whispered once they were a good distance away.

“It’s easier when someone’s attention is diverted elsewhere. But yes.” Mr. Ogden’s tone had a dark edge to it. “My spells are strong, but they are few. I’ve learned how to use what I have the best I can.”

Bacchus didn’t dare speak again until they’d cleared the front door of the atheneum, and when he did, it was hushed. “Childwickbury. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re not sure of it,” Mr. Ogden stressed, then massaged tension from his forehead with his fingers. “None of us are. But it’s a good lead.”

“We’ll go together.”

But the artist shook his head. “Master Ulf is nearby. I’ll see to him, then find Master Phillips’s London home, just to be safe. If they’re dead ends, I’ll meet you in Childwickbury. I’ll only be an hour behind. If it’s dangerous, wait for me, do you understand?”

Normally, taking orders from an illegal spellmaker would rankle Bacchus. But this was no ordinary situation, and Mr. Ogden was no ordinary spellmaker. “Of course.”

“Don’t let him see you,” Mr. Ogden warned. “I won’t be able to erase his mind.”

Bacchus nodded.

With nothing else left to be said, they went their separate ways. Mr. Ogden hired a cab, and Bacchus returned to their carriage, where he unhitched Master Hill’s horse and barked at a stable hand to get him a saddle.

Elsie sensed a new spell.

She was nearly ready to fall asleep when she did. Her only way to tell time was through the slim crack between basement doors, which let in a hair of light—which she could see only if she stood directly under them. So she knew it was night, but she didn’t know when in the night. It could be the tenth hour. It could be nearly dawn, for all she knew.

But she sensed a new spell, farther out, and it was moving.

She bolted upright, breath catching, and listened. Yes . . . it was only the slightest itch of sensation, something she wouldn’t have noticed had she not spent all day reaching out for the house spells above her. This one was moving. Definitely coming closer.

Throwing off her blanket, Elsie ran to the basement doors, ready to scream for help at a volume even a sound-dampening spell couldn’t temper—but stopped. Closing her eyes, steadying her breathing, she reached for the spell, trying to get a better feel for it. After several seconds, she determined it was moving straight for her, not meandering. Like it had a purpose. No, this wasn’t some innocent passerby who might help her. In all likelihood it was her abductor, headed straight for her, and she was sensing Merton’s spell!

Terror woke her limbs and pricked gooseflesh along her skin. What to do, what to do?

Backing away from the doors, Elsie tried to calm down. She was losing the sensation. Focus.

She couldn’t still her racing heart, but she closed her eyes and reached for that spell. Closer, closer . . .

Physical.

What did he want now? Was he going to take her away from here? To Merton? Or had Merton decided Elsie was too much of a problem? Or was Merton busy and this crook had something entirely different up his sleeve. Torture, or . . .

She swallowed, her corset too tight. She planted a hand over the opus spell there. She couldn’t lose it. But she could use it if she had to. She could make this man forget his intentions. It might give her the opening she needed to break the spell.

Then she noticed the empty tray and bottle of water.