Spellmaker

They split up, Bacchus taking Elsie on his arm, Mr. Ogden wandering with Miss Prescott, while Miss Pratt and Mr. Camden toured the gardens. They did not want to draw attention to themselves as a large group, and they did not think it wise to head straight for the opus. This was an estate sale; they needed to present themselves as interested buyers. The flyer Miss Prescott had given them had been handed out at the atheneums, giving spellmakers—and breakers—priority with the event. In order to look the part, Bacchus had donned his garish master’s pin, and Irene wore a similar one depicting her as a licensed spellbreaker.

They had a plan, but there were many things that could go wrong. Bacchus was worried about Mr. Ogden, who was too emotionally invested in this matter. He hadn’t been sleeping well—Bacchus had seen him up late in the sitting room with his sketchbook more than once, and his left eye had taken to occasionally twitching. Hopefully the drive to protect the others would overpower his personal need for closure. And if the opus was Merton’s . . . then this entire venture was more or less over. Truthfully, Bacchus hoped for that outcome, even if it robbed justice. It would be nice to have peace, for once. Though it might leave Master Phillips in dire straits. Despite Bacchus’s personal dislike for the man, his sense of justice insisted that he not suffer for another’s crimes.

He and Elsie had looked over the paintings, feigning interest in some, though a depiction of the English countryside did appeal to his aesthetic. A few rooms were closed and roped off. One of the windows that had been broken was boarded up, and there was a pale spot on the carpet where a rug used to be—a rug that had supposedly been stained with blood from the “attack.” Other rooms still needed sorting or were being used for storage.

Merton’s home was quaint but spacious, more room than a single woman would likely need, especially since the only servant she had kept on hand was, apparently, a cook. The parlor sat at the end of a large hall, and great windows leading to a narrow veranda let in the early-morning light, illuminating the space. Two rooms lay on either side of the parlor—the library and Merton’s study—where a few other early risers were perusing books, perhaps hoping to find aspecting secrets between their pages.

The parlor’s walls were stark white and simply adorned, the carpet burgundy, and in the back of the room, several feet off center, stood a white-painted podium of wood, surrounded by taupe cords to dissuade the passing public from touching. Atop that podium sat a thick opus, its cover marbled mauve and cream, its thick pages lined silver, its corners rounded. A rather feminine opus. And, of course, it was closed.

More importantly, there were five guards in the parlor alone, each armed with a sword and rifle. One stood between the podium and the veranda. One lingered near the library entrance, another near the study entrance, and two watched from where the hall opened up into the parlor. One of those men wore blue lapels, labeling him as a physical aspector. His lack of a pin indicated he was likely an intermediate spellmaker who had burned out and taken a position in law enforcement instead of staying with the atheneum.

Elsie squeezed Bacchus’s arm as they approached to pay their respects, just as one would at a coffin. She looked beyond the opus, her eyes going out of focus.

“It’s the real thing,” she whispered, then blinked in surprise. “I thought . . . I thought it might be an astral projection, and the real book would be in one of those locked rooms. But there are no active spiritual spells here.”

Bacchus, pointedly not looking at the guards, walked Elsie around the podium slowly. Anyone watching would think they were just admiring the opus. “What else?”

She closed her eyes a moment. “There’s a rational spell on the podium. An emotional one.”

“Perhaps fear, to dissuade those who are too interested.”

She nodded, still unfocused, trying to perceive any other spells they might face. A few faint freckles dotted the bridge of her nose. For a moment, Bacchus let his thoughts wander elsewhere, to Barbados, to Elsie strolling along the beach, freckles blooming across the entirety of her face. She would hate the notion, he was sure, but the image his mind conjured was rather beautiful.

“There’s a spell thickening the air around the opus, and I think it’s also fused to the podium. And”—she sniffed—“possibly a temporal spell to keep the pages well, but that might just be the opus itself. I . . . I haven’t smelled a lot of opuses.”

Bacchus chuckled and led Elsie away before they could garner too much of the guards’ attention. It was unfortunate none of the others could do the job; Bacchus tended to rouse suspicion no matter his behavior, as he had at Christie’s Auction House. At least the pin helped. He’d seen more than one security detail’s eyes drop to it.

Mr. Ogden’s voice pushed into his head.