Spellmaker

Gate. There had to be a gate somewhere closer to the house. Retrieving her glass weapon, Elsie hurried along the wall, keeping one hand to it as she went. A physical spell glowed ahead of her—a fortification spell, just like the ones she’d unbound at Seven Oaks. Hope swelled in her. She untied it, but no, the wall didn’t crumble in the absence of magic. In fact, it looked entirely unchanged. Able to be taken out by a sledgehammer, perhaps, not a woman’s bare hands.

So Elsie hurried on, quickening her pace, ignoring the next fortification spell when she reached it. Gate, gate, gate.

The moon snuck out from behind a thick cloud, casting her in darkness. She stepped in a rabbit hole and fell forward, biting her tongue to keep from crying out. The bottle flew from her grasp.

Groaning, she got her knees under her and stood. Her ankle throbbed—it hurt to put weight on it, but it wasn’t broken, thank heaven. So she continued, hobbling as she went. She lost her shoe almost immediately, but didn’t stop to retrieve it. Or the bottle. If the foot was going to swell up, it wouldn’t fit in the shoe anyway. And as much as she needed the bottle, she also needed time.

She reached a junction in the wall. Tried again for handholds, with no luck. She scanned the dark yard—perhaps she could find . . . oh, a stump or a bucket or something to give her a lift. But she saw nothing. No back gate, either.

So she followed the next wall, eyeing the mansion she was slowly moving closer to, praying for a hidden door, a latch, anything.

And then, moments later, she found one.

And it was locked.

Stay calm. She ran her hands over the wrought iron gate, the moon peeking out to help her. The gate started close to the ground and rose just as high as the rest of the wall. It wasn’t locked by magical means—no, that would be too easy. It had a thick steel contraption on it.

But there were crossbars on it. So, ignoring the pointed tips of the gate, Elsie set her good foot onto the first crossbar, which was just below the height of her hip, and lifted herself up. The gate shifted on its hinges. Elsie held on tightly, hissing through her teeth when she put weight on her sore ankle. Using as much upper-body strength as she could to relieve it, she swung over the top of the gate, her skirt catching as she did.

She jumped down the rest of the way, a sharp whine trapped in her throat when she landed on her sore foot, a loud rip sounding as the tip of an iron bar tore through her skirt.

She was a spellbreaker, for goodness’s sake. She could buy another bloody dress.

She had only just gotten back on her feet—her right ankle throbbing anew—when she heard her name.

“Hello, Elsie.”

She whirled around, first to the gate, which was still locked, then to the silhouette a few paces . . . north, was it? She recognized his voice from the carriage. And his stature . . . it was the same.

She limped backward, stumbling. “I-I can help you. I can take it off.”

The man took a step forward. The moonlight highlighted his pointed chin and the gray strands running through his short, side-swept hair. He didn’t have on a mask. He wore normal, tailored clothes. Like he hadn’t had time to disguise himself before Merton had sent him to check on her.

And then he stopped suddenly, like the air had hardened around him. He trembled.

Just like Ogden had.

He was fighting back.

Suppressing her instinct to flee, Elsie hurried toward him and grabbed the front of his shirt. She . . . yes! She could hear Merton’s spell humming—

The man grabbed her wrists. “I don’t think so,” he said, then worked his mouth, a puppet refusing to obey its strings.

Sharpness entered his blue eyes. Merton had won control.

Elsie pulled against his grip, but it didn’t relent. So she kneed him in the groin instead.

The man let out a wheeze, and Elsie twisted her arms, breaking his hold. She turned and ran, stumbling on her aching ankle. Limped to a dark tree line. She could barely see, but it didn’t matter. She had to get away.

Her abductor was following her, feet swift and sure. And truly, what hope did she have of escaping this man on his own property?

Tears flew from her eyes and caught in her hair. God help me. Help me!

She stumbled over a tree branch. Changed direction and rushed south, or what she thought was south. She barely made out a dip in the earth and managed to get over it without tripping. She could feel her foot swelling. Every other step was torture, like glass had wedged into the joints. Her skirt caught on something else, and she yanked it free, tearing more fabric. The trees grew thicker to the east, so she hobbled that way, trying to keep her steps light but knowing she was making a ruckus. She ducked behind one tree, changed direction, pushed between two more. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She couldn’t feel the toes on her right foot.