PRAISE FOR CHARLIE N. HOLMBERG
THE NUMINA SERIES
“[An] enthralling fantasy . . . The story is gripping from the start, with a surprising plot and a lush, beautifully realized setting. Holmberg knows just how to please fantasy fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With scads of action, clear explanations of how supernatural elements function, and appealing characters with smart backstories, this first in a series will draw in fans of Cassandra Clare, Leigh Bardugo, or Brandon Sanderson.”
—Library Journal
“Holmberg is a genius at world building; she provides just enough information to set the scene without overwhelming the reader. She also creates captivating characters worth rooting for, and puts them in unique situations. Readers will be eager for the second installment in the Numina series.”
—Booklist
THE PAPER MAGICIAN SERIES
“Charlie is a vibrant writer with an excellent voice and great world building. I thoroughly enjoyed The Paper Magician.”
—Brandon Sanderson, author of Mistborn and The Way of Kings
“Harry Potter fans will likely enjoy this story for its glimpses of another structured magical world, and fans of Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus will enjoy the whimsical romance element . . . So if you’re looking for a story with some unique magic, romantic gestures, and the inherent darkness that accompanies power all steeped in a yet to be fully explored magical world, then this could be your next read.”
—Amanda Lowery, Thinking Out Loud
THE WILL AND THE WILDS
“An immersive, dangerous fantasy world. Holmberg draws readers in with a fast-moving plot, rich details, and a surprisingly sweet human-monster romance. This is a lovely, memorable fairy tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Holmberg ably builds her latest fantasy world, and her brisk narrative and the romance at its heart will please fans of her previous magical tales.”
—Booklist
THE FIFTH DOLL
Winner of the 2017 Whitney Award for Speculative Fiction
“The Fifth Doll is told in a charming, folklore-ish voice that’s reminiscent of a good old-fashioned tale spun in front of the fireplace on a cold winter night. I particularly enjoyed the contrast of the small-town village atmosphere—full of simple townspeople with simple dreams and worries—set against the complex and eerie backdrop of the village that’s not what it seems. The fact that there are motivations and forces shaping the lives of the villagers on a daily basis that they’re completely unaware of adds layers and textures to the story and makes it a very interesting read.”
—San Francisco Book Review
ALSO BY CHARLIE N. HOLMBERG
The Numina Series
Smoke and Summons
Myths and Mortals
Siege and Sacrifice
The Paper Magician Series
The Paper Magician
The Glass Magician
The Master Magician
The Plastic Magician
Other Novels
The Fifth Doll
Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet
Followed by Frost
Veins of Gold
The Will and the Wilds
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Charlie N. Holmberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542020091
ISBN-10: 1542020093
Cover design by Micaela Alcaino
To Emily Schwarzmann,
the mighty Em’terprise,
who stands fast in the storm,
dances through the currents,
protects her tribe,
and shouts LOVE from the rooftops.
Step back, world,
and hear her roar.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Abingdon-on-Thames, England, 1885
Elsie hadn’t meant to burn down the workhouse.
She hadn’t mentioned this to the constable when he’d come around to question her and the other children. She hadn’t said anything at all.
It wasn’t a matter of who had started the fire. Everyone knew it had been Old Wilson, whose knuckles ached when it rained and whose body trembled a little more every year. He’d dropped the lamp. Broken the glass. Spilled the kerosene. But that’s not why the rug and walls had lit up. It wasn’t why the big block of a building raged orange and yellow behind them, its smoke stinging Elsie’s eyes.
She hadn’t known the pretty rune on the wall was a fireguard. She hadn’t known it was important. She’d pointed it out to both Betsey and James, but neither of them could see it. She’d wanted only to touch it, trace it. And when she did, it had vanished beneath her fingertips. She hadn’t told a soul. Didn’t want to get into trouble. Didn’t want the workhouse to throw her away, too.
That had been a month ago. So when Old Wilson had dropped his lamp, there’d been no magic to stop the fire from eating up the whole place.
Elsie hated the workhouse. She didn’t feel so terrible watching it crumble, but she did feel bad that everyone had been put out of their beds, that the constable was being so mean, and that Old Wilson would get in trouble.
Elsie didn’t know where they would send her now. Another workhouse? With new people, or the same ones?
One of the boys beside her started to cry. Elsie didn’t know what to say. She wanted to help, but telling the truth wouldn’t help them—it would only hurt her. She didn’t want to give them a reason not to love her.
She stepped away. The police had told everyone to stay put, but the fire was so hot. Elsie didn’t go far, just a few steps, then a few more. Turning her face toward the tree-shadows behind her, she let it cool off in the damp air that smelled like storms.
She was picking out shapes in the shadows when a hand touched her shoulder. She flinched, sure it was the constable. Sure Betsey or James had tattled on her, saying she had seen a rune and broken it—
But it was a cloaked figure who stood beside her, face obscured by a cowl. “My dear,” the voice within said, “what is your name?”
Elsie swallowed, her throat tight. She glanced back to the fire, to the shouting men trying to contain it.
“Don’t mind them. You’re safe. What is your name?”
Elsie peered into that cowl, but the darkness hid any discernible features. The voice was quiet and feminine. “E-El
sie. Elsie Camden.”
“Such a pretty name. How old are you?”
The compliment took her by surprise. “E-Eleven.”
“Wonderful. Come with me, Elsie.”
Her feet were slow to move. “Are you taking me to another workhouse?”
The cowl shook from side to side, revealing a weak, fleshy chin. “Not if you do as I say. You’re very important, Elsie. I need your help to make the world a better place. I need to use that special talent of yours.”
Elsie dug her heels into the soft earth. She knew it. She knew she was one of them. A spellbreaker, born with one kind of magic instead of taught a hundred.
“If you register me, they’ll know I did it,” she whispered.
The hand on her shoulder squeezed. “Yes, they will. And you’ll get into a lot of trouble. Noose around your neck, no doubt. But I would never ask you to do such a thing. You’ll help me, and I’ll help you. We’ll keep you safe, and you’ll never be the government’s pet. We’ve a lot of good work ahead of us, sweet Elsie. Helping those who need it, not those in power. Come on, then. I know a good place to hide, and we’ll get you a bite to eat. How does that sound?”
The heat of the fire prickled Elsie’s scalp.
She was wanted? She was important? Her spirit felt too big for her body, blooming like a wild rose. Elsie smiled, and the cloaked woman led her away.
She never did see her face.
CHAPTER 1
London, England, 1895
Elsie could just barely hear the toll of Big Ben in the distance. Four o’clock. A decent enough time for breaking the law.
But when the law wasn’t fit, was it really a bad thing to break it?
Slipping around a corner, Elsie pulled the letter from her pocket. Although London was only an hour’s ride by omnibus or carriage from her home in Brookley, she was not familiar with this particular neighborhood. She usually burned the letters right away, but she’d feared she might get lost if she didn’t bring this one along.
The note had found its way to her despite the fact that it hadn’t been delivered by post. As always, the sender had not signed it, although the small seal of a bird foot stamped over a crescent moon was identification enough.
The Cowls.
That wasn’t their real name, obviously. But Elsie didn’t know what else to call them. She hadn’t seen any of them since she was eleven, ten years ago. But they kept in contact. More often than usual, lately. Either the world was getting worse, or they were on the cusp of making real change, and including her in that change.
At first, they’d given her small tasks, local tasks. She’d dis-spelled an unbreakable wall, magically fortified centuries ago, which had sat in the middle of farmland. The local tenants had spent months writing to their lords, petitioning for the spell’s removal for the sake of planting, but she was the one who’d helped them. Some of the early tasks she’d been given didn’t even require her fledgling spellbreaking. Delivering bread baskets to an orphanage had been the first to take her away from her home, and she’d managed it, getting lost only once. As her gifts improved, so the tasks she was given became bigger, more important. Elsie became more important, and the occasional coin or candy left with her missives told her the Cowls were grateful, that she was of real value to them.
Mind returning to the present, Elsie rechecked the address. A young woman hawked roses from a basket on one corner, and across from her was a small shop with a bright-blue sign reading WIZARD OF ALL TRADES. Elsie rolled her eyes. Not at the boldness of the color, but at the idea of being a wizard-of-all-trades. Only someone needing a very small spell or someone with no comprehension of magic would visit such a place. For when a person learned magic in all four alignments, they would be very weak in each of them, no matter how much magical potential they possessed. There was a reason people specialized.
Not that it pertained to Elsie. Specializations were only for spellmakers.
Pulling her eyes away, she crossed at the next intersection. This neighborhood was so large and so winding . . . she was sure she’d passed her turn. But she couldn’t retrace her steps. Couldn’t do anything to draw suspicion. So she shoved the letter back into her pocket and strolled, enjoying the sunshine, trying not to think too hard on the novel reader she’d finished just before getting this latest missive. Oh, but it was hard not to think on the mystery! The baron in disguise had just confided his secret to Mademoiselle Amboise, completely unaware that she was betrothed to his enemy! There were so many ways the plot could unwind, and the author had cruelly ended the piece right there, forcing Elsie and thousands of others to wait for the continuation. Were it Elsie’s novel—that is, she was no writer, but if she were—she would have Mademoiselle Amboise get into some sort of trouble. Perhaps with a highwayman? The lady would be forced to relinquish the information before she could give it to the villainous Count Neville, only to later learn the highwayman was actually the baron’s long-lost brother and rightful heir!
And to think she had to wait another two weeks to read what happened next.
Oh, wait, here she was. Swallow Street. She glanced up at the rows of large houses, thinking on how many families could fit into one of the behemoths, before walking down the road. The elaborate homes on one side of the street were guarded by wrought iron fences. The houses on the other side were closed in by a high brick wall. She found Mr. Turner’s house easily enough on the brick side. It was three stories high and white with navy tiles, windowed on all sides. Black shutters, blue drapes, a large elm growing up along its east side. Bold white cornices, bay windows, everything a wealthy person could want.
These folk didn’t want the poor traipsing around their doorstep, that was for sure.
Elsie hid her frown as she approached the end of the street, then turned onto the next road and looped back to approach the Turner home from behind. Despite the crowded nature of the city, these estates didn’t have a second row of buildings at their backs. The wealthy demanded nice gardens to accompany their nice houses. Meanwhile, their tenants worked their land and paid their dues without so much as a cheers! sent their way.
Which was precisely why Elsie didn’t feel bad about breaking the law.
It would be sneakier to do it at night. Surely a burglar or the like from one of the tales in her novel reader would have acted at night. But Elsie was already a single woman venturing about on her own; she needn’t ruin herself by doing so after sundown. Times were changing, yes, but people’s minds were slow to keep up.
A man passed by her, tipping his hat in greeting. Elsie smiled and nodded back. Once he’d left, Elsie touched the brick wall encircling the Turner home, letting its roughness pass beneath her fingertips. Searching for anything magicked.
A few feet ahead of her, a rune shimmered once and shied away, as though embarrassed by Elsie’s scrutiny. A physical spell, if she could see it. Different spells manifested themselves to her in different ways. She could feel rational runes, hear spiritual ones, and smell the temporal. Physical spells, however, liked to be seen. They were the dandies of the magic world.
The thing all runes had in common was their knot-like quality. At least, Elsie liked to think of them as knots. And like knots, they could fray over time. The more masterful the spellmaker’s hand, the more stubborn the knot was to untie. The ones she could see—physical spells—were made of light and glitter, bright and pretzel-like, loose if the man casting them had been lazy or simply wasn’t talented.
Aspectors were usually men, anyway.
There were two kinds of wizards in the world—those who cast spells, and those who broke them. The spellmakers, known as aspectors, paid a king’s ransom for the spells they took into their bodies, yet another means of benefitting the rich and rebuffing the poor. But God had a way of making things even. He’d been generous with the other side of the coin, for spellbreakers were born with the ability to dis-spell magic, and it didn’t cost them a farthing.
Elsie couldn’t handle any of the four a
lignments of magic herself, but she could detect spells and unravel them like knots. This spell was decently tied, but not terribly so. An intermediate or advanced physical spell of hiding. It concealed a door, Elsie was sure of it. And it just so happened that Mr. Turner had a habit of “losing” his tenants’ rent and forcing them to pay double. The people who depended on him for their livelihoods could barely keep food on the table, while this man lounged with the peerage and had servants at his beck and call. This was the sort of injustice the Cowls often addressed—with Elsie’s help. She would disenchant this door, and the Cowls would take back the money he had stolen. Very Robin Hood of them. And Elsie was their Little John.
Pushing her palms into the spell, she pulled on the ends of the knot. There were seven of them, and she would need to unravel them in the reverse order of their placement. Fortunately, Elsie had encountered this spell before. She’d know how to proceed, once she found the loose end.
In a matter of heartbeats, the spell faded, and the creases and hinges of a brick-heavy door became visible to her eye.
“Who goes there?”
Elsie’s heart leapt into her throat. She pulled away from the wall as though it had stung her. It was not a constable, but a man in a fine waistcoat and trousers, a gold watch chain swinging from one of his pockets. Upon recognizing his face against the late-afternoon sun, however, Elsie almost wished it had been a constable.
Squire Douglas Hughes. The squire who presided over her hometown. Brookley was close enough to London that it wasn’t particularly odd for her to see him here. But it was bad luck.
Not because she feared he’d recognize her—despite the fact that she’d worked in his house for a year, she doubted he would—but because Squire Hughes was the epitome of everything she hated. He was rude to the common folk and a sycophant to the aristocrats. He hoarded his money and passed off his squirely duties whenever he could, and when he could not, he bore them with the utmost disdain and didn’t attempt to hide it. He held his nose when he passed farmers. And he’d once trodden upon Elsie’s foot and not even stopped to see if she was all right, let alone apologize for it.
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