Spellmaker

Elsie laughed. “That is the question of the year, isn’t it?”

His lip quirked, but his eyes were sober. He waited patiently, a wavy strand of hair falling from its tie. Elsie wanted to tuck it behind his ear, but she felt suddenly self-conscious. As though that simple touch would be more intimate than what they had already shared.

“Merton,” she began quietly, glancing around to ensure their privacy, “did she ever . . . touch you?”

“Touch me?” He thought a moment. “I did lead her into the dining room once.” His eyes softened. “She never set a spell on me. You would have found it, with the others.”

“Time has passed since we visited Master Pierrelo’s home,” she replied, her voice soft.

Bacchus put a knuckle under her chin. “For better or for worse, I haven’t seen the woman since Abel Nash tried to kill me.”

The words weren’t as reassuring as they should have been. Doubt was a long-term companion to Elsie, present in all her thoughts, all her conversations. She’d trusted the Cowls so blindly, and the debacle with Master Phillips had her questioning her own truths. “She could be making you say that.” She twisted the ring on her finger.

Bacchus considered a moment before stepping closer to her, his strong arms wrapping around her shoulders. There was no one to see, but embarrassment tickled Elsie’s spine regardless. Bacchus put his chin on her head. “Listen.”

Relax. It’s all right, she chided herself, and, muscle by muscle, loosened in his grasp, letting her hands curl up to his shoulders. She turned her head, ear near his collar, and listened. Crickets hummed in the nearby grass. Bacchus’s heartbeat was strong and steady beneath her cheek. There was no song outside of that—no spiritual spells.

Still in his embrace, she murmured, “Ogden hid his for nine years.”

“I could take my clothes off, if you insist.”

Elsie stiffened, and Bacchus laughed, which made her laugh, which made her realize there was not enough laughter in her life. Merton was controlling her even without a spell.

Stepping back, Elsie rubbed her neck, hoping to hide her pinkening cheeks. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Master Kelsey.” A flash of memory—of her hand on his shirtless chest—only made her skin flame brighter. Yet relief blossomed in her breast; surely all of their relationship had been genuine, from his initial manhandling of her at Seven Oaks to his insistence of her innocence to the proposal that never really happened to that kiss in the carriage to now. It was real, it had to be real, and yet it felt no more real to her than a novel reader. Any moment now Elsie would turn the page and the story would be over because that’s how fairy stories like this worked.

“Dogwood.”

She pulled from her reverie at the word and met Bacchus’s gaze. “What?”

He gestured to the bright-green bushes that stood even taller than he did. “Dogwood. Ogden had some control during those nine years, yes? To leave you those clues about the spell. If Merton really is alive, and she ever tries to bespell one of us, that’s how we’ll know. It will be a password, of sorts.”

“Dogwood,” Elsie repeated. A small smile pulled on her mouth. “But what if we’re sitting in this very spot and I insist on talking of the landscape?”

“Then we must refrain from speaking of the landscape, or horticulture in general. In truth, it is not my strongest subject, so you’ll have little to regret.”

She smiled fully at him, then brought herself back to the present. “We’ve a few days before the estate sale if you want to visit Seven Oaks.”

Bacchus planted his hands on his hips and sighed.

“They were invited to the wedding,” he said. “The duchess even picked out the invitations. But I do not think the duke would come, even if I forgave him.” He looked into the dogwood. The wind rippled its leaves, and one could almost imagine fairies hidden among them.

“Will you let him die with such guilt on his shoulders?” He glanced to her, and Elsie held up her hands in mock surrender. “I am not pardoning him. But he’s been like a father to you for many years.”

“And my own father had his hand in it,” Bacchus replied gruffly. He shook his head. “The further I get from it, the more civil I feel. But then I remember all the challenges and fears I had for my entire adult life and several years of my adolescence, and forgiveness seems . . . not impossible, but far away.” He paused, swallowed. “I wonder, if they’d approached me, if I would have offered to help of my own volition. I’m not sure; there’s no way to know, in the end.”

“Don’t hold yourself accountable for it.” She said it in the serious tone it deserved, then found herself chuckling. “Now where have I heard that advice before?”

Bacchus pressed a kiss to her forehead. She wished they could stay there in the spotty shade so Elsie could hold on to that fairy-tale-like respite, but it was not to be.

They had a caper to plan.

The opus was in the second-floor parlor.