Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “I’m fond of the exercise, Mr. Parker.” She smiled. He looked only a little perplexed as he offered her a gracious nod and led the way through the house.

  It was a far larger house than a simple squire should have, in Elsie’s opinion—more suitable to a baron. The sparse yet costly décor had not changed, nor did it seem to have aged, although her perspective was slightly different since she’d grown several inches in the interim. It struck her that perhaps the squire had kept things the same because he had not yet managed to convince a woman to marry him and refresh the place. All wood was polished, all windows were free of smudges. Every light fixture seemed dotted with crystal. Something with thyme in it was being baked in the kitchen, but Mr. Parker led her into the courtyard before she could determine what.

  The courtyard was completely engulfed by the house, about twice the size of Ogden’s studio. A stone path looped through gardens lush with greens and spindly trees. A bench sat in the shade on the far side. Brick lined the walls of the house where the garden met them, and atop it was a border of plaster. Or rather, the start of one. Elsie imagined that Ogden’s artwork would be carved into that plaster, providing visitors with something to admire as they walked the stone loop. Elsie had tried to walk that loop once, but the housekeeper had caught and scolded her. She’d had her hand switched for “going where she didn’t belong,” which had made scrubbing pots the next day miserable.

  Ogden crouched at the northeast corner, barely visible behind some well-trimmed dogwood.

  “Mr. Ogden, you’ve a guest.” Mr. Parker spoke with the slightest hint of cheer. How anyone could be cheery in Squire Hughes’s employ, Elsie didn’t know.

  “Not so much a guest as a deliverer,” Elsie said as Ogden turned around. His eyes immediately went to the trowel bag, and relief lit his face.

  He crossed the path—“You’re an angel”—and took the bag.

  “More so Emmeline. She’s the one who noticed it.”

  Ogden gave her a look that said, I know you and your desire to ogle, which she steadfastly ignored.

  Brushing off her skirt and checking for remnants of plaster dust, Elsie said, “Well, that will be that. I’m afraid I’ll get lost in this enormous house, Mr. Parker.” It had been ten years, after all, and her station had been so low she’d rarely seen the main floor. “Would you see me to the door?”

  The steward smiled. “It would be my pleasure. Good day, Mr. Ogden.”

  Ogden nodded and returned to his work.

  Once inside, Elsie said, “Is it a lot of trouble, keeping on top of all the workings of such a large household?”

  Mr. Parker shook his head. He moved at a leisurely pace, which allowed for good conversation. “Not at all. I keep all the books in order, and the squire isn’t a frivolous man. Makes things simple.”

  Feeling daring, Elsie remarked, “I’m not sure anything would be simple, with the squire.”

  To her relief, Mr. Parker merely chuckled. “I understand your point, Miss Camden. He has been out of sorts lately, what with the passing of the viscount.”

  The viscount?

  She’d hoped for some talk of the baron, who’d stayed with the squire two summers past if the Wright sisters were to be believed, but who was this viscount?

  Elsie’s stomach did a little flip at the promise of gossip. Yet Mr. Parker had said it with the assumption that she would know to whom he referred. He was not baiting her. Thinking quickly, Elsie asked, “Is he distraught?”

  “Of course.” They entered a long hallway. “There was only an empty bedroom between them. Right under his nose, yet no one heard a thing. He hasn’t been himself since returning from London. They were not terribly close, but it is a reminder of our own mortality.”

  Her mind spun, craving the pieces of the puzzle she was missing.

  As they neared the entry hall, the squire himself came around the corner, tall and brooding. Elsie was so involved in her own mind that he startled her, eliciting a small gasp from her lips, which she quickly shut. Decorum mandated she not speak to her better first, and she was grateful for the excuse to ignore him.

  Unfortunately, Squire Hughes did not ignore her. He stopped abruptly, eyeing Elsie as if he were some bull and she a red flag. His fiery gaze flew to Mr. Parker. “What on earth are you doing with your time, Parker? Who is this woman, and why is she in my house?”

  Anger burned up Elsie’s neck. She bit down so many heated retorts her teeth hurt. At least he didn’t seem to recognize her from their brief meeting in London.

  “Just an aide to Mr. Ogden, who is doing fine work on your inner courtyard. I’m seeing her out now. I do believe Markson was looking for you regarding your luncheon.”

  Squire Hughes’s lips curved in a most unpleasant fashion. Instead of answering, the despicable man merely pushed past the both of them and continued on his ornery way.

  Well, I never. She didn’t dare say it aloud, so she merely folded her arms.

  “My apologies.” Mr. Parker crossed the entryway and took hold of the door handle. “The squire is very . . . old fashioned.” There was a glint in his eyes Elsie couldn’t quite interpret. “Please do send my regards to young Emmeline, hmm?”

  She paused a step from the door frame, taking in Mr. Parker’s aging but wise features. “You know Emmeline?”

  He smoothed his cravat. “It is my business to know all things Brookley, my dear.” Did he wink, or was there perhaps something in his eye?

  Did he know about her? About them?

  Elsie nodded slowly. “Of course. Thank you.”

  She walked out, listening for the door to shut behind her. She never heard it click, but when she turned back, it was closed. She paused a moment, studying the front of the house.

  Was it a steward’s business to know? And what did he know? And why had he imparted the information about the viscount?

  Elsie contemplated the questions the entire way home, never once deciding on a definitive answer for any of them.

  “It’s been like this a long time . . . years,” Thom Thomas, known locally as Two Thom, held up a small plaster Christus statue in aged hands that trembled ever so slightly. Part of the Christus’s robe had chipped away, and its left hand had snapped clean off. The old farmhand offered a light chuckle. “Since my boy was still at home. He’s the one knocked it off the mantel, you see. We haven’t displayed it since.”

  Elsie nodded as she gingerly took the small statue and its severed hand and fit them together. She’d left the shop again that afternoon to pick up a few supplies, hoping to distract herself from overthinking her visit to the squire’s estate. Two Thom had apparently been on his way to the studio when he spied her on the street.

  “Should be an easy fix.” She could probably even do the repair herself, but Ogden’s hands were far more practiced than her own. “I don’t think he’d charge more than a shilling or two, and only that because he’ll have to shape the plaster for the robe.”

  Two Thom smiled, exposing two gaps in his bottom jaw. “That will do.” He fished two tarnished shillings from his pocket and handed them to her. “She’ll be so surprised. It’s our anniversary next week. Forty-three years.”

  He had already mentioned the anniversary, but Elsie smiled. “It’s a very thoughtful thing to do. I’ll carry it like my own babe back to the shop. You can pick it up the day before your celebration, hmm? Or I can deliver it.”

  Two Thom shook his head. “I’ll make the walk. I can get away.”

  He shook her hand. Elsie took off her gloves and wrapped the plaster pieces in them before nestling them in her basket.

  Turning back for home, Elsie slid the shillings into her chatelaine bag, only to have her fingertips brush a folded piece of paper there. Her first thought was that she needed to stop by the post office and post her letter. The second was that she had not written a letter to be posted.

  She let the coins slip from her fingers and pinched the paper’s edge, pulling it free. It wasn’t even a full sheet
of paper, but a quarter sheet with a silvery hue, folded tightly and sealed with a crescent moon and bird’s foot.

  Heart leaping, Elsie whirled around so quickly she nearly swung the plaster Christus right out of her basket. Two Thom had already crossed the road back to Clunwood. But he’d never been near her chatelaine. No one had. And . . . well, he couldn’t be a Cowl himself, unless he was a fantastic actor. Two Thom had lived in Clunwood all his life and was as simple as a man could be. Yet she was certain her chatelaine had been note-free that morning! Where had she gone, besides . . .

  Mr. Parker passed through her thoughts, but he hadn’t touched the bag, had he? Still, he’d known so much about her, more than he should, given their weak acquaintance. She tried to remember how closely they had stood . . . and the speculation only made her heart beat faster. Her fancies were getting away with her! She needed to focus, not dawdle on potentialities.

  But if it was Mr. Parker . . . if she could finally know at least one of the people guiding her . . .

  She couldn’t read the note here. Not where someone could see. So Elsie tucked the note back into her little pouch and clutched it to her, forgoing the road and cutting through the wild grass behind the butcher shop. She popped out into a cul-de-sac of houses surrounding a well. Spied Alexandra Wright strolling toward Main Street with her arm knit through that of a ginger-haired man—

  Her heart thudded once against her chest before dropping to her feet, the note in her pouch forgotten. That couldn’t possibly be . . . not here . . .

  But the man turned his head to Miss Wright as he chuckled at something, and in his profile Elsie saw a complete stranger.

  The relief was instant, though her heart was slow to reclaim its place in her breast. He merely looked like Alfred. Her former beau hadn’t graced Brookley with his presence for nearly two years. Why should he do so now? Still, she didn’t like being assailed with memories of the man, even if it was hardly the fault of Miss Wright’s companion.

  Picking up her feet, Elsie carved out one more shortcut before passing behind the post office and the saddler on her way to the masonry shop. She went in through the side door and did not remove her shoes before venturing upstairs to her room.

  Closing the door and leaning against it, Elsie tore open the note.

  It is urgent that you break the spell in Kent.

  That was it.

  She blinked and stared at the paper. Break the spell in Kent? But she had! Not even two days ago. Surely they knew the wine basket had been picked up. Did they think her a failure?

  Gooseflesh erupted under Elsie’s fitted sleeves. She had never failed the Cowls. She was too afraid of what it might cost her. Not afraid of the Cowls themselves, but of being discarded. Of being deemed useless. Of losing her purpose. Of never learning the identity of those who secretly employed her. Surely every mission was a test, and once she proved herself . . .

  There was no way to reply to the letter. No way to defend herself. No proof and no ability to provide it if she’d had any.

  She tore up the letter and threw it into her fireplace, though her hands fumbled with the match. She had to return to Kent. She’d have to buy the Madeira herself—and it was certainly expensive! Would it look questionable were she to return to the servants’ door so soon? Would they want more, regardless of the price?

  She chewed on her lip and paced the floor as tiny flames ate up the letter. It would be too suspicious, she decided, to repeat the ruse of being a saleswoman. She raked her mind for a better excuse. Looking for a job? The cook would recognize her, but that wouldn’t be so bad. A bigger stumbling block was the need for a letter of reference. She could forge one. But what happened if someone recognized it as a forgery? If there was one thing Elsie needed to avoid, it was the law. Unregistered aspectors, spellbreakers included, faced harsh and unsavory penalties. The most common was the noose.

  Think, think. She could just walk right up, disenchant the thing, and walk away. She might not be noticed. But that was trespassing, wasn’t it? Was it permissible only if she had a basket of goods on her arm?

  She’d have to go at night. She’d done missions for the Cowls at night before, but rarely. Yes, she’d go at night, and if she was caught . . .

  She thought of Miss Wright, arm in arm with the mystery man. Elsie could claim a romantic tryst with one of the footmen. She was there to see him. If they asked for his name, she could deny the request, insist on protecting him. Or realize she’d come to the wrong estate. Or that her beau had lied about his employment. She could feign heartbreak and cry. Surely she’d be sent away without penalty if she cried!

  Then again, this was a household that imprisoned their own staff, so perhaps not. But Elsie didn’t have any other ideas.

  She’d sneak away just after dinner. Return before dawn. Maybe Ogden wouldn’t notice her absence—

  A knock on the door startled a squeak from her throat. Glancing to the fireplace and seeing her pathetic flames had already died, she marched to the door and opened it with more force than was necessary.

  Emmeline blinked at her in surprise. “Mr. Ogden is requesting you.”

  Elsie whirled toward the window. The day was nearly over—had so much time passed already? Ogden must have just gotten home from the squire’s.

  “Thank you, Em.” She snatched up the basket by the door and hurried downstairs, the maid calling “The studio!” behind her.

  Ogden leaned against the countertop near the front entrance to the studio, hovering over a sketch pad. He still had his work trousers on, stained with plaster. “Ah, there you are,” he said as she approached.

  “Thom Thomas stopped me in town.” She tried to relax her body so her nerves wouldn’t creep into her speech. She set the Christus in front of him and dug out the two shillings. “Asked for it to be repaired by next week.”

  Ogden paused a moment before setting down his pencil and studying the statue. “Easily done.” He eyed her. “Are you quite all right?”

  Elsie felt herself blush. “Just fine. The walk exhilarated me, is all.”

  Ogden set the statue on a shelf below the counter. “Do you remember that little supply store in Westerham?”

  Elsie rubbed her eyes, forcing her brain to switch from one channel to another. “Yes, the one with the cherry trees?”

  Ogden grinned. “That’s the one. I’m in need of that metallic paint they have. I was hoping you’d venture down there to fetch some. It’s quicker than requesting delivery.” He shook his head, and for the first time Elsie noticed how tired he looked. “The squire is a persistent man, but I need that paint for another client. Now, Elsie, hold your tongue.”

  He knew her so well. She swallowed the words The squire is a ratbag and nodded. Then straightened.

  Westerham was south of Brookley, and Kent was southeast . . . Couldn’t she swing by the duke’s estate on her way back?

  “I can go tonight, if you’d like.” She stretched her mouth into a cheerful smile. “I have a friend in”—think—“Knockholt. Since it’s a bit of a trip, perhaps I could dine with her tonight and come back in the morning?”

  “You’re welcome to hire a cab,” he said. “But yes, that should be fine, so long as you’re back in the morning to assist customers. I won’t be here most of the day. Let Emmeline know. Did you get those chops?”

  “I will and I did.”

  Ogden gave her a paternal smile. “You’re a treasure, Elsie.” He turned back to his sketchbook.

  And you have impeccable timing, she thought, assembling her darkest outfit in her head for tonight’s venture. She tagged it with a little prayer—she’d need all the extra help she could get.

  She’d stashed the paint behind the woodpile of a bakery.

  A few stars gleamed overhead as Elsie approached the duke’s estate. It seemed so much larger and more ominous in the dark. It had a heavy stone wall that faced the road, but the back of it opened up onto woodland. Land only the duke and his guests could hunt on, though that was
a gripe for another evening.

  Elsie did not much like ambling through the woods in the dark, yet her choices were limited. She could only pray no one mistook her for a poacher.

  She stepped quietly, holding her skirts in her hands. Modern fashion did not take into account a woman’s need to be stealthy amidst brambles. There was decent moonlight, but the trees and clouds played peekaboo with it, forcing Elsie to move very slowly or risk falling. Wouldn’t that be something, stranded in the Duke of Kent’s wood with a twisted ankle?

  Would her tale of secret love wriggle her out of that predicament?

  Fortunately, the excursion through the wood proved uneventful. The trees thinned, the ground evened, and a manicured lawn sprawled ahead. She stepped onto the hunting path leading from the back of the estate with a sigh of relief.

  She made it only a few steps before her foot was sucked into the path. Not mud—it hadn’t rained the last few days. No roots or holes, either. The glimmer of a rune revealed the truth, its feeble gleam highlighting the earth that popped up around her shoe, grabbing it in an iron-like grasp. It was not unlike the one she’d disenchanted on the doorknob, but it was more complex, with several tight, interlocking loops.

  More spells to keep your servants in their place? she wondered, making a half-hearted attempt to tug her leg free. Crouching, watching her surroundings, Elsie touched the spell. She didn’t recognize this one—a physical spell, but not one she’d disenchanted previously. She tugged at the knot one way, then another, before finding a loose end and unraveling the rune bit by bit. The spell flashed—she almost thought it pouted—before vanishing, and the earth holding her in place crumbled back to dust.

  Elsie shook off her shoe and proceeded carefully. Runes weren’t bold things; she couldn’t merely glance down the path ahead of her to see where any copycats lay. They would reveal themselves only as she got closer. Sometimes close enough to touch, for more masterful spells. Stepping just off the path, Elsie tiptoed carefully, catching sight of another foot trap several yards ahead. She searched the shadows, waiting for movement. Listening for sound. She smelled the stables but didn’t hear horses. Seemed all was well and proper. Good.