Spellmaker

Miss Pratt and Mr. Camden were near the front of the house when Bacchus and the others emerged. Mr. Camden rushed to the stonemason’s side, and Miss Pratt paled nearly as much as Ogden had.

“I’ll get ’im a carriage,” Mr. Camden said, and ran for the lane. Meanwhile, Bacchus and Miss Prescott led Mr. Ogden to the grass and sat him down. He looked ready to vomit a second time.

“Take her away,” Miss Prescott murmured, tilting her head to Elsie. “It’s best we’re not seen together too long, just in case.”

Elsie’s lips parted as though to protest, but she closed them again, pressing them into a thin line. Bacchus took her hand and guided her away. They would hire their own carriage home.

“He’ll be fine,” he assured her. “It will pass.”

Elsie glanced over her shoulder as they neared the lane her brother had darted toward. A small carriage was pulling around, hopefully for Mr. Ogden. It couldn’t pull too close; as the morning wore on, more and more people were arriving for the memorial-turned-estate-sale, and those who owned their vehicles left them parked as close to the house as they could get. At least the clutter made it easy for Bacchus and Elsie to vanish from sight. The guards outside the home were likely watching Mr. Ogden like a hawk.

Elsie somehow managed to take in a deep breath; Bacchus wasn’t sure how women breathed in those contraptions they wore around their waists. Perhaps sometime he’d ask her. “He’ll be fine,” she repeated. Then, “I suppose we won’t be getting those candlesticks.”

Bacchus had forgotten about the card in his pocket. “I suppose not.”

She squeezed his arm, drawing closer to him, which Bacchus didn’t mind in the slightest. “You’re sure it wasn’t . . . ?”

“The pages were thick and easy to turn. I saw every spell. That opus is not Master Merton’s.”

Elsie nodded, looking straight ahead. They’d reached the main road, and Bacchus turned them west to keep the sun from their eyes. They could walk off the morning’s events before finding transportation. Even Bacchus needed a moment, his body still recovering from the rational spell.

“What next?” he asked.

Elsie shrugged. “More newspaper articles? Perhaps once Ogden is recovered, he can search for clues around Rochester . . . but I’m honestly not—”

She stopped—speech, movement, everything—her eyes glued to a couple coming across the street. There was nothing special about them; they were well dressed, but not to the extent an aristocrat would be. The man appeared to be close to Bacchus’s age, with coiffed ginger hair that was beginning to recede from his forehead. The woman looked older, perhaps Miss Prescott’s age. Her hat was so wide it nearly hit the gentleman in the head while they walked.

“Someone you know?” Bacchus inquired.

Elsie nodded. “That is Alfred Miller.”

It took a second for Bacchus to place the name; Elsie had mentioned the man only once.

This was her old beau.

Bacchus altered their course slightly to be sure they’d cross paths with the couple.

Elsie didn’t object, but her hand tightened on his arm. For a moment it seemed the couple wouldn’t notice them, so Bacchus cleared his throat.

Mr. Miller looked up first, noticing Elsie at once. His countenance was first that of surprise, which he quickly tucked away with a too-wide smile. “Oh! My dear, look. You remember Miss—”

And then his gaze shifted to Bacchus, who stood a full head taller than he and nearly twice as broad. Bacchus made a point of keeping his chin up so he could look down his nose at the man. Here was another reason to be grateful for that gaudy aspector’s pin.

Elsie leaned into Bacchus as they paused on the side of the road. “Oh, Alfred. You’re looking well.” She said nothing to his wife. “What are you doing way out here?”

“The estate sale, of course . . .” Mr. Miller’s eyes kept jerking over Bacchus, like he was trying to ignore him and having a hard time. In that moment, Bacchus found great joy in standing out like a cat in a crow’s nest.

“Oh, I didn’t think you would be interested.” Elsie smiled. “Do stay clear of the veranda; I hear a man lost his breakfast there, looking at the prices of everything.”

Mr. Miller flushed slightly. “And what are you doing here, Elsie?” He eyed the pin on Bacchus’s lapel.

Before Elsie could answer, Bacchus said, “Have you not heard? Mrs. Kelsey is a spellbreaker. She has priority.”

The flush faded to a blanch. “Are you really?”

His wife tugged on his arm. “Alfred.”

“We’d best be going.” Bacchus offered only a nod in farewell before escorting Elsie farther down the street. Neither of them looked back. Elsie walked with a straight spine until they turned the next corner.

Then her flat affect slipped, and she broke out in laughter.

“That was brilliant,” she said, releasing his arm and clapping her hands. “Did you see the look on his face? Just brilliant. You’re so direct, Bacchus. It’s quite menacing.”

Bacchus smirked. “Is it?”