Spellbreaker

by Charlie N. Holmberg

This week had been one of the most stressful times in Bacchus’s life.

  All those hours he’d spent stewing over the second spell, unsure what it could mean, had worn on him. He’d hated Ipswich, too. All of the sugar farms had made him think of home in the worst way possible. He hated sugar plantations. Hated what they represented—the fall and mistreatment of his friends’ and neighbors’ ancestors, a legacy that still clung to them even sixty years after emancipation. He hated sweets for the same reason—the sweetest thing he could stomach was pawpaw.

  And then the spell prolonging his life had been removed, and the mysterious second spell had been broken, and . . . he felt marvelous. Healthy, strong, invigorated. Like he was thirteen again. The transition was so confusing, so blissful. His outlook had brightened almost instantly. He could get his mastership easily now; the ambulation spell didn’t matter.

  He could do anything he wanted.

  And yet his glee had been short-lived, not only due to the knowledge that someone had purposefully sabotaged him with that spell, but because of the emptiness of the carriage. He felt the lack of a woman who, he had to admit, was rather . . . amiable.

  Amiable. Even he felt the wrongness of the word. Yes, she was amiable, but it was something else that drew him to her. He could still feel the cool touch of her fingers over his chest and stomach. It had dissipated his anxiety and stoked something even more maddening. Something he hadn’t wished to dwell on before, given their circumstances.

  Now she was gone, and he couldn’t be more confused.

  He no longer suspected Elsie of thievery, but she guarded her secrets so closely. She’d seemed so honest with him, so frank, on their trip to Ipswich, and just as quickly she’d shut down. Fled without reason. Abandoned a mission she’d seemed intent on seeing through.

  What had been in that letter? A threat? Blackmail? Or was he letting his imagination get away from him? He’d wanted to ask her to explain herself. But her eyes had looked so worried, her mouth resolute, and she’d just broken the bonds he had unknowingly worn since adolescence. And so he’d let her go, leaving himself to simmer in unanswered questions.

  Rather than head straight to London, he returned first to Kent, wanting to update the duke and see if Elsie’s promised telegram had arrived. He arrived on Sunday to find there was no telegram, and the duke had fallen into poor health while he was away. It was not the first time it had happened, but it concerned Bacchus, nonetheless. The duke’s entire family was at the end of their line, worrying over him. And so Bacchus had spent most of his Sunday pacing the long corridors of the estate, tormenting himself. He must have been a sight, for even Rainer and John kept their distance.

  Early Monday morning, he returned to London, to the Physical Atheneum.

  He’d written ahead to request an appointment regarding his advancement. But when he arrived, the first place he went was the library. The maze of books became an utter labyrinth once he began walking through the shelves. They hadn’t seemed so imposing in passing.

  He spotted an elderly steward in one of the larger rooms and approached the man.

  “You, are you employed here?” He sounded impatient. He tried to reel himself in, but the questions were boiling over. He could solve at least one of them now: What rune had marked his skin?

  As for Elsie’s—Miss Camden’s—well-being, he was forced to wait.

  The steward looked over his spectacles. He appeared to be frowning, but perhaps that was simply the way the loose skin of his face hung. “Never seen a Spaniard in these parts.”

  Bacchus doubted he’d ever seen a Spaniard period, as Bacchus wasn’t one. He stuffed his impatience into his stomach and chose not to correct the man. “Do you know of any volumes depicting runes?”

  He blinked, the spectacles making his eyes large and birdlike. “Runes? Those are spellbreaker books. Down in the basement. Why?”

  “Thank you.” He stepped away. Paused. “Would you kindly point me in the direction of the stairs?”

  The man did, with a crooked finger, and Bacchus crossed the floor with long strides. Bookshelves like sentinels stood in his way, but eventually he found a stairwell basked in shadow, thanks to a burned-out lamp. He took it carefully, the temperature lowering by the step. The smell of mildew snuck into his nose as he reached the bottom.

  The area was poorly lit, so Bacchus took one of the lamps off the wall and brought it with him. Two others shared the space: a woman nearly as old as the steward, and a boy who could not have yet been twelve. The woman squinted at Bacchus; the boy, his hair mussed, pored over a book. Her apprentice, he suspected. Perhaps he was a spellbreaker in the making. Hopefully he did not have the tome Bacchus sought.

  The man had not said where in the basement the books would be, and so Bacchus forced himself to slow down, to read spines and labels, which were severely lacking in information. He pulled out the folded paper in his pocket to again study Elsie’s drawing. The symbol looked almost Asian, but the curls on the edges lent it more of a French aesthetic. Not that it mattered. Magic was universal.

  Tucking the paper away—thinking about Hadleigh, where Elsie claimed to have gone—he investigated one row of books, then another only a quarter full. On to the next shelf. At this rate, he’d have to ask the old woman—

  Encyclopedia of Runes until 1804, a book spat at him. The spine was the same width as his hand, and when he pulled it free, he grunted at its weight. The thing might as well have been made of iron. He expected dust, but got little. Either the tome was used often or the stewards of the library took their jobs very seriously.

  He searched for a table, but the only other one was back by the woman and her apprentice, and he’d rather have privacy. So he returned to the quarter-full shelf and set down both the lamp and the book, opening the latter.

  It had three to four spells per page, labeled in alphabetical order. Fortunately, the thing was also segmented into four sections: novice, intermediate, advanced, and master spells. He flipped to the last quarter and slowly turned the pages, moving the lamp closer.

  So that’s what the ambulation spell looks like, he thought, tracing his fingers over the complex coils of the spell he’d tried so hard to obtain. A spell he no longer needed, thanks to Elsie. His stomach tightened. He ignored it.

  The ambulation rune would do nothing to teach him the Latin spell that would actually enable him to use it. The name had a plus sign by it. An advanced master spell, then.

  He turned the page. Upon closer inspection, the ink was actually colored to match the alignment of the spells. The physical spells were blue, rational spells red, spiritual spells yellow, and temporal spells green. The yellow ink had faded, making the spiritual runes hard to read in the poor lighting, but Bacchus had a mind for only the physical runes.

  He dismissed spell after spell, turned page after page. Thought he heard the woman and boy move from their table to the stairs. He neared the end, turned the page.

  Saw the rune immediately.

  His breath caught, and he slammed a hand onto the page as though the rune might leap away. The blue ink was faded nearly to black, and the name had two pluses by it. A very strong spell.

  The letters seemed foreign for a moment. Bacchus held the lamp even closer. The word revealed itself. Siphon.

  He formed the syllables with his lips. Siphon. A siphoning spell? And on the following page, the rune was inversed. Squinting at the faded text beneath the images, he read on the first, Dare, and on the second, Accipere. Latin. To give and to receive.

  A physical aspector had somehow placed a high-ranking master spell on his person and . . . siphoned his strength away from him? Given him symptoms two doctors had diagnosed as the early onset of polio? Had the aspector kept the stolen strength for himself? Bottled it up? Let it drain out with the sea?

  Why?

  He gripped the edges of the book until his fingernails left marks in the covers. His only consolation was knowing that whoever had benefitted from sapping his strength could no
longer tap it. But where had it happened? Barbados? England? He’d been to New York and France as well, but he had absolutely no memory of the event . . . or of the person who’d done it. Had a rational aspector been present as well, to wipe his mind clean?

  Now he was getting into the absurd.

  Siphon. He knew when, roughly, it had happened. Before his parents had brought the first doctor in. But . . .

  Closing his eyes, he racked his memory. He’d come to England often as a boy. Gotten seasick once on the journey back. Had that been the start of the siphoning, or had it not occurred until he was home in Barbados? But Barbados was not renowned for its aspectors. Bacchus has been one of few, though American spellmakers were known to holiday there during the winter months . . .

  He slammed the book shut. He couldn’t make sense of it . . . and he had to accept that he might never know. He could investigate in Barbados first, ask his aging nursemaid, but she had never accompanied him and his father on their trips. She’d fretted over him. Wept over the diagnosis! Had she known anything, surely she would have said so. And to think his father would never know the truth . . .

  He pulled away from the shelf, dragging the light with him. Let it go, he heard his father say in his memory. It will do you no good, allowing it to fester.

  He’d said it to him often, first when he was the only foreign-looking boy on the English streets, and later when his temper rose over inconsequential things.

  He couldn’t let it go, not yet. But he would tuck it away until he could investigate further.

  In the meantime, he had a mastership to obtain.

  CHAPTER 17

  When Elsie returned to Brookley, the first place she went was the post office to send a vague and inexpensive telegram to Kent: All is well. She casually asked Martha Morgan first if any new crimes regarding opuses had appeared in the papers and, second, if the squire had been in town. Martha claimed she hadn’t seen any news on the aspector crimes, but the squire had been in just yesterday.

  No murders while the squire was at home. The information stoked Elsie’s growing suspicion. If only she were a registered spellbreaker . . . she’d have access to the atheneums and be able to weave through the highest circles of aspectors and pick their brains, glimpsing secrets journalists didn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, put in the paper.

  But she wasn’t registered and never would be. What could she, Elsie Camden, do? It wasn’t like Ogden would ever be targeted. She’d have to wait for the answers to come to her just like everyone else. A novel reader without a clear-cut publication date.

  Valise in hand, she hurried home. She didn’t even make it to the front door before Emmeline scared her halfway to Liverpool.

  “Elsie!” the younger woman shrieked, nearly tripping over the basket of laundry she was midway through hanging. She rushed for Elsie and hugged her. “How was it? Was it exciting? It’s been so boring here without you. And your next novel reader came! But Mr. Ogden said I couldn’t read it without your permission. I’ve been going wild wondering what will happen next. Is this the last issue?”

  Elsie laughed, which lightened her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. “Perhaps we could read it together, while I put my feet up. If Ogden isn’t desperate for help, that is.”

  “Oh”—she took Elsie’s valise—“you must be exhausted. I didn’t even think of it. We’ll look at it tomorrow.”

  Elsie took the luggage back. “I’m well enough to carry my own things. Where’s Ogden?”

  “In the studio, last I saw.”

  Elsie squeezed Emmeline’s shoulder before trekking into the house, setting her valise at the bottom of the stairs. She pulled her gloves off as she walked. Sure enough, Ogden was in the studio, his tarps over the floor, a canvas half-painted blue sitting before him.

  “Work or pleasure?” Elsie asked.

  He startled, fortunately pulling his brush back before he could tarnish his work. “Oh, Elsie! So good to see you back. How was it?”

  She’d already rehearsed her words in the cab, so they flowed from her lips as easily as if they were true. “It was rather dreadful, honestly. Everyone invited was in a position similar to mine, including a few secretaries. But they treated us like a bunch of ninnies, like we barely knew how to read, let alone put our shoes on the right foot. I didn’t learn much of anything.” She sighed. “I’m glad to be home.” That much, at least, was sincere.

  “Oh dear.” Ogden rested his brush on his palette. “I shall have to write them with my disappointment.”

  Elsie nodded. “I’ll get you the address.” Which was code for I’ll wait until you forget you asked. Stifling a yawn with a knuckle, she asked, “What can I get for you, Ogden? I suppose you’ve lunched already.”

  He reached to the floor to grab a bottle of white paint. “Go rest, Elsie. I’ll have plenty for you to catch up on in the morning.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Am I ever not?”

  She smiled. “In that case, a little mouse told me my next novel reader arrived.”

  He chuckled. “That little mouse was supposed to leave it on your bed for you.”

  “I’ve not yet been upstairs, so I’ll check.” She paused halfway to the door. “Mr. Ogden, you read the paper.”

  The bottle of paint spit onto his palette. “Yes . . .”

  “Then you know there has been an alarming number of thefts and . . . murders . . . as of late.”

  He paused. Set down the paint and his palette. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to be informed or ignorant. Or, rather, informed and depressed, or ignorant and happy.”

  Elsie nodded. “If only one could be informed and happy.”

  Standing from his stool, Ogden said, “Ah, but that is not the way of the world. Journalists do not pay their rent reporting on how well things are going, unless it is in regards to the queen.”

  She twisted her fingers together. “I merely wish we could do something about it.”

  “Careful, Elsie. You’ll sound like a Tory.”

  She offered a weak smile. “Why do you say that?”

  “Most of the crime that has been reported on lately has targeted the upper class.”

  “True,” she said carefully, “but it’s not really worth nicking from those who don’t have money. Or magic.”

  Ogden nodded. Sat, and picked up his brush and palette. He began randomly dabbing white paint onto the canvas: first near the top, then to the side, then down to the right. It made no sense, even if he were attempting clouds, but there was a strange sort of pattern to it. Elsie could almost guess where Ogden would touch his brush next. “That is true. There does seem to be a theme running through it. Or perhaps the newspapers are focusing solely on lords and aspectors because it makes for a more interesting story.”

  She chewed on her thumbnail. “Perhaps.”

  “If it helps”—he dabbed the center of the canvas—“the squire is unworried about it. It came up, my last day there.”

  Elsie clicked her tongue. “The squire doesn’t care about anything but himself. If anyone were to go after opuses, it would be him. He loves power. And what’s more powerful than magic you can cast for free?”

  “Be careful, Elsie.” He lowered his brush. “You never know when one might be listening.”

  She stiffened. Glanced at the door, then the window. They were alone. “You mean to scare me.”

  Though his mouth turned up at one end, Ogden shook his head. “I don’t. But you needn’t fear. You’ve no opus to steal, and mine isn’t worth more than a page.”

  The words, half in jest, struck Elsie to her core. Ogden was right, of course—righter than he realized. Spellbreakers didn’t have opuses. They could only dismantle spells, not learn them.

  He considered a moment. “If things ever do get bad, we’ll steal away, you, Emmeline, and I. Ride up to the Thames, maybe even the St. Katharine Docks, and take a discreet boat out to the channel. How’s your French?”

  Elsie
snorted. “Very poor, indeed. Let us hope it does not come to us relying on my French.” Leaving Ogden to his work, she passed through the kitchen to grab some bread and butter to eat, then hauled her valise up to her room. All her clothes needed laundering and ironing; she’d get to that tonight, before she went to bed. The novel reader was indeed on her coverlet, but Elsie went through her valise before looking at it, ensuring there were no more notes stowed away.

  How did they get into the bag in the first place?

  Part of her wished she hadn’t seen it. How much more could she have learned about Bacchus Kelsey had she slipped into the London Physical Atheneum with him? Not only the mystery of the spell, but the mystery of the man.

  Not that you have any right to know. Really, Elsie.

  Forcing her thoughts back to rational things, she moved toward the window and stared down at the street below. It was empty but for a couple of men who stood off the main road. Neither of them glanced up at her, or showed any interest whatsoever in the stonemasonry shop.

  “Will you ever tell me your secrets, Cowls?” she whispered to the glass. “Will you deem me worthy and bring me into the fold?”

  She wondered if they’d consider her more valuable if she started ignoring their missives. She didn’t fear they’d reciprocate in any foul manner; they’d only ever been kind to her. Mr. Parker was certainly kind. No, her worst fear was that they’d stop asking altogether.

  Heaviness weighed down her eyes, and she rubbed it away. She could use a rest. Lifting her gaze from the street, she peered over Brookley, into the green distance. Did you find your rune, Bacchus? Will you tell me, or have I tried your patience, too?

  It was fruitless to worry over it. But that didn’t stop her.

  Drawing one of her curtains, Elsie retired to bed, focusing on her novel reader to keep her thoughts at bay.

  She fell asleep halfway down page 3.

  Elsie was sweeping the porch when a post dog jogged up to her, its pink tongue hanging out as it panted.

  “Why, hello.” She set the broom against the wall and moved to the bag attached to the dog’s neck. She pulled out two letters, one addressed to her and one addressed to Ogden. She studied the handwriting on the first, but it didn’t match that of the postmaster in Juniper Down. Her heart sank just a little—Mr. Hall had meant every word, hadn’t he? She wasn’t ever going to hear from them again.