Spellbreaker

“You couldn’t,” he interjected. Now he reached forward, pulling one of her hands free and holding it between his own. “But I knew you were the only one who could free me. If I had left on that boat, I would never be free. It took years for me to learn the rune without him noticing. I gave you every clue I could. He realized it, in the end. But I would rather die fighting him than live as his puppet.”

Elsie’s thoughts flew back to Juniper Down, to the strange man who’d held a gun to her head. He had been a spiritual aspector. “The person controlling you wasn’t American, was he?”

“What?”

She described the man in detail. She thought again on his mention of articles, but she still hadn’t figured out what he’d meant by that. So much had happened she hadn’t yet found time to consider it.

Ogden released her. His forehead wrinkled. “I . . . I don’t remember. I know I saw him that first time. But the spell forbade me to think on it, and after so long, I can’t recall. I don’t think so. But this American knows something. What was his name?”

“I don’t know.” Failure tasted sour in the back of her mouth, but she stiffened. “But you could draw him, Ogden. I could describe him to you, and you could draw him.”

His eyes brightened. “Yes.” He smiled. “Yes, Elsie. I will.”

“Well, it’s quite the misunderstanding!” Emmeline crowed. Elsie had never seen the young maid so angry. “To have them chase you like that!”

Emmeline stirred the pot of jelly like she was beating a rug, but she’d accepted the tale easily enough. Elsie and Ogden had both since cleaned up. Elsie thought of the police, the docks, the spells. And she thought of Bacchus. Of his seat beside her in the small hospital room, his low voice, his hand engulfing hers. When was he leaving for Barbados? Elsie hadn’t even asked. He could be setting sail even now, for all she knew.

She thought of his cheek beneath her lips, which made her face burn. Foolish woman, she thought, breathing around a rusted spike in her chest. God save her, it shouldn’t hurt this much. Maybe Ogden could smooth this sensation away from her, too. And yet . . . she wasn’t sure she wanted it gone. It was too soon to tell.

That night, after Emmeline had turned in and things felt more or less normal, Elsie dressed down to her nightgown and robe. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she unfolded the opus spell she’d taken from the dock.

She couldn’t read it in full. Barely in part. But she didn’t need to—she could cast this spell without any knowledge. Without any drops. She traced her fingers over words she recognized: Memoria, perdita. Memory, lost. The word oblivio made her think of oblivion. She’d have to get a Latin-to-English dictionary, but she was almost certain this spell was one of forgetting. The faded red ink told her it was a rational spell, which leaned to her theory. And judging by its length, it might even be a master spell. From whom, she’d never know. But seeing the way Ogden had wept and trembled on that dock . . . Maybe it would come in handy. She hoped not, but she couldn’t convince herself to do away with it.

She folded it carefully and slid it beneath her mattress—a temporary hiding spot until she thought of something better. She braided her newly washed hair over her shoulder and crept to Ogden’s bedroom. She didn’t bother knocking; he was expecting her, sketch pad, pencils, and charcoal spread across the foot of his bed.

She shut the door and sat on his trunk. Without waiting to be asked, she began describing the American.

“It will take a few tries.” He started with the shape of the head and the narrow jaw Elsie remembered. “I won’t influence you one way or another. Just tell me what you can remember.”

“He was about your age. Tanned. Traveled,” she offered. “His eyes were close set. Long hair. His hairline started . . . here.” She touched her crown. “And there was a peak.”

It took Ogden longer to draw than it did for her to describe. She looked over his shoulder every now and then, offering suggestions.

After nearly an hour, Elsie asked, “Where did you keep the opuses, Ogden? We should find a way to return them.”

His attention never left the sketch. “I didn’t. He took me somewhere, before the docks. I don’t quite remember it. Somewhere dark and wet. A sewer, or maybe a sepulchre. I grabbed spells almost at random to defend myself before moving on.” He slowed. “The mind and the spirit are interesting things. Separate, yet interlocked. Perhaps, if I can get my hands on the right library, I could study their boundaries for myself.” He resumed sketching.