Spellmaker

It was hard, pretending everything was normal. To walk to Squire Douglas’s home to have a bust design approved, to fill out Ogden’s ledgers, to greet customers when they came. Their worlds kept spinning even though hers had stopped.

Master Phillips would almost certainly be executed, in the end, but the truthseekers’ findings were delaying the inevitable. He had said, and meant, three things—that he wasn’t the killer, that he hadn’t stolen opuses, and that he’d been under a spell. But there was no evidence to support Master Phillips’s claim other than his own words . . . which was not enough to exonerate him. A person could believe something to be true that wasn’t—a selfish person might think themselves kind, or an ugly person think themselves beautiful. And so truth was a sticky thing of wavering substance, not enough to acquit a man, especially when so many of the missing opuses had been found at his home.

With no evidence to support Master Phillips’s claims, he would probably be ruled as insane and his trial would proceed. Though surely there were alibis from others to show he wasn’t near, say, Viscount Byron or Alma Digby when they met their ends. Perhaps the confusion would keep Master Phillips safe long enough for Elsie to figure out what on earth Merton was up to, if she was even on Earth anymore.

If Elsie had been less devout to the Cowls, none of this would have happened. Not to Master Phillips, not to the deceased, and not to Ogden.

Which was part of her newest worry. Something Irene had said on the ride home yesterday evening had stuck in Elsie’s mind like a rusted knife, and she struggled to wrench it free.

Who knows who else she’s controlled. Irene had clucked her tongue and stared out the window, hopelessness on her face. Meanwhile, for Elsie, the trip from Oxford turned out to be the longest one yet.

Lily Merton was friendly with the Duke and Duchess of Kent, and Elsie had met her for the first time—officially, at least—the night she’d first dined at Seven Oaks. Back then, of course, she’d had no idea who Lily Merton was, but the woman had already sent her to Seven Oaks on Cowls duty twice before that. Either for the duke’s ancestral opus or for Bacchus’s. Perhaps for both.

Looking up from her path—she was coming back from the squire’s now, with Mr. Parker’s signature of approval in hand—she spied Bacchus waiting outside the stonemasonry shop. His arms were folded across his tight chest, and the way he squinted in the sunlight made him look menacing, or at least it might to one who didn’t know him. His dark hair glimmered in the light, and when he turned and saw her coming, recognition lit up his face. He walked to meet her, passing the well, crossing Main Street.

Elsie’s chest hurt as she met him near the dressmaker’s. “What’s wrong?”

He offered his elbow, which she took, and handed her a thin paper. There weren’t many out in the street, so Elsie needn’t worry about onlookers.

He’d given her a flyer for the Merton estate sale.

“Tuesday.” Bacchus spoke quietly as they walked down the lane leading to the stonemasonry shop. “Ogden’s information was good. The estate sale runs until Friday, but the opus will be on display only on Tuesday, for the memorial, before it’s taken to the atheneum.”

Elsie read over the paper, though it merely reiterated what Bacchus had said. “Irene?”

“She’s inside, speaking with Mr. Ogden.”

Elsie nodded. Folded the paper. “I don’t know how we’ll get to it.”

“He feels confident we can, if we go early.” He let out a breath. “He thinks he can turn the minds of the guards so I can access the opus.”

Elsie’s steps slowed. “You?”

He nodded. “It’s in Latin; it’s my understanding you’re not fluent.”

Elsie frowned, but nodded. “And if there are spells?”

“You’ll be in the room with us, and Irene will be nearby. He wants to bring Reggie and Emmeline along in case a distraction is needed.”

Elsie’s stomach tightened. “If they see you with the opus . . .”

“We’re all taking risks.” His elbow squeezed around her hand, reassuring her.

It was a risk. Ogden would have to slip into the minds of multiple guards . . . Elsie had never been to an estate sale before, let alone one for a master aspector. How many guards would there be? How far could Ogden’s spells stretch?

How far could Merton’s?

They approached the house, but Elsie tugged on Bacchus’s arm. “Can I . . . talk to you, for a moment?” She knew it would kill her to keep her fears to herself, letting them simmer in the back of her mind. With so much happening, she wouldn’t survive another problem.

Bacchus raised an eyebrow, but nodded, and Elsie guided him around the stonemasonry shop, to the wild land behind it. There was a copse of dogwood back there that offered some shade—the same place she had once argued with him about the propriety of traveling together to Ipswich.

Bacchus paused, unwinding her hand from his arm and cupping her elbow instead. “What’s wrong?”