Spellbreaker

His throat tightened as he said, “I thank you kindly for the approval.” He bowed, if only to buy himself a few seconds to sort out his tangled thoughts. “Forgive my impertinence, but why have I been denied the requested spell? I do not ask for any others.” Desperation drove him to ask. It would be virtually impossible for someone to guess the words to a spell, which were both lengthy and in Latin. Certain spells could be acquired directly from spellmakers or opus collectors, but master spells tended to be dangerous, and were thus much more closely regulated. There was, of course, the illegal route, but the punishment for misusing magic in any way was hard and swift, and any aspector caught doing it would immediately lose his license, assuming he didn’t lose his head as well. “I will not drain any of the atheneum’s resources. I will not share the knowledge with any, save on the bed of my death.”

His mastership meant nothing if he did not have that ambulation spell.

His future would mean nothing, too.

“It is a powerful spell. Rare, valuable. As you know,” Master Phillips replied. He appeared to be looking just over Bacchus’s head rather than at his eyes.

“I am aware.” Bacchus carefully measured out his words. He could not unball his fists, so he stowed them behind his back. “But I do not request it for the sake of its rarity. It would prove very useful at my estate.” Not a lie. “I will compensate the atheneum generously and the drops, of course, will come from my own pocket.”

One could not master even a novice spell without paying for it in aspector drops—the universe’s wizarding currency—but Bacchus had been saving a long time. He was prepared for that.

“I do not doubt its usefulness, young man,” Master Phillips replied, “but the master ambulation spell is a treasure of the atheneum. It must stay among its people.”

His brow twitched. “Pardon?” He’d been a student of this atheneum since his childhood.

Master Phillips sighed very much like a parent tired of scolding his child. “Although none can dispute your talent, you are not truly of this atheneum, Mr. Kelsey. You are not one of us. Your request is denied. However, were you to make a substantial donation to the atheneum, we could work out another master-level spell for your repertoire and provide the necessary witness.”

Bacchus’s muscles tightened to steel. He understood every unspoken word. “My father was just as English as you, Master Phillips. And as stated by the assembly, my aspector lineage is pure.” Though they likely knew he was a bastard, and he did not doubt they’d gossiped about it prior to his visit. “The London Physical Atheneum administered all my prior testing.”

Master Phillips picked up a gavel and struck it against the edge of the wall. “Thank you, Mr. Kelsey. You are dismissed.”

His steel muscles instantly turned to pudding. That was it? He could not defend himself? Yet every defense surfacing in his tumbling mind would not win the favor of this court. No, the words piling upon his tongue were laced with anger; if he spoke any of them, he’d likely lose the chance of promotion entirely. So he kept silent as the assembly members rose from their seats and began filing out through a back door. The only person to give him a second glance was Master Ruth Hill. The pity in her eyes left a sour taste in his mouth.

The door behind him opened, his guards expectant. They forced his retreat, but this battle wasn’t over. One way or another, Bacchus would get his spell, the atheneum be damned.

He’d have to tell the duke he was extending his stay.

CHAPTER 5

Mr. Ogden had forgotten his trowels.

Emmeline discovered the error not thirty minutes after Ogden departed for another day of work at Squire Douglas Hughes’s estate. He’d left the plaster-stained bag by the front door—and then exited out the back. Elsie wasn’t sure he was plastering today, but if the man had taken the effort to stick the bag where he’d thought he wouldn’t forget it, then he must need it for something. And though Elsie was loath to get any closer to the squire than was absolutely necessary, she would be more loath if Ogden lost the job and could no longer fund her own. So she took the bag, holding it away from her so as not to get bits of dried plaster on her dress, and crossed Brookley to the squire’s home.

Squire Hughes’s home was very much like himself. Distant from the riffraff, gaudy in appearance, and generally pointless. Elsie’s sides were stitching by the time she arrived. Unwilling to wait in the line of servants at the back door, she decided a direct approach would be best. Striding up to the front door, she slammed the iron knocker against it.