Spellbreaker

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.