Spellbreaker

“You cannot share the details?”

He sighed.

“Just for this one, and I’ll leave you to your meal,” she promised, hearing the desperation in her voice. “E-Even if it’s only what I’d find in the papers, should I take the time to research.”

Mr. Bowles leaned onto his fist, and Elsie thought he was trying to remember. “She was—is—a spiritual aspector traveling for a holiday. Went missing en route. I believe there was evidence of a highway robbery. Miss Digby had ordered a magic-armored carriage, which we found, but the spell protecting it had been removed.”

Elsie couldn’t breathe.

Mr. Bowles stood. “Are you quite all right?”

She managed a nod.

“Let me get you something to drink—”

“No.” The word was too forceful. Her lungs felt like blacksmith bellows. “No, I’ll see myself out. Thank you.”

She stormed back through the house, not even bothering to thank Mr. Bowles’s family for their time. The hot afternoon air slapped her as she stepped outside. She kept walking, unsure of her destination, needing to expend the energy building inside her.

She had snuck into a carriage house and broken spells on its vehicles.

She had created an easy path into Mr. Turner’s home.

She had broken the water staffs that could put out the fire at the academy.

She had cleared a path into the London Physical Atheneum, where Professor Clive was murdered.

Pausing, Elsie gasped for air, her ribs aching. A cab passed by her.

How many more was she connected to? And each one assigned to her by the Cowls.

By Ogden.

“Oh God,” she whispered, holding her middle. “It’s him.” He was behind it all. He had sent her those letters. He had never once complained about her time away, because she’d been doing his bidding.

The American had been right. She was a pawn.

And the attack on the stonemasonry shop . . . It didn’t match the other crimes. It had happened shortly after Elsie expressed her worry about the stolen opuses. Had it been a cover? Had Ogden attacked himself, or hired someone to do so? Then what, paid off the truthseeker? Used an opus spell to thwart his interrogation?

She hunched over, sure her stomach would upturn the remains of her breakfast—she hadn’t eaten since. Wasn’t sure she’d ever want to eat again. She was a tool in the greatest crime spree of the century. She’d blindly followed all of it, thinking she was doing good, thinking—

How long had he been using her? She . . . She’d loved Ogden. He was the father she couldn’t remember. Always kind, always ready to listen. He’d never made her feel small or useless. And yet, just like all the others, he didn’t truly care about her. He was simply a dot in a network Elsie didn’t understand, a puppet master pulling her strings to do awful, heinous things in the name of good—

“Miss, are you all right?” asked a voice, but Elsie waved the person away with a sharp jerk of her hand. Footsteps faded behind her.

Her body shook as she held it all in. The information, the questions, the screams, the tears. Straightening, Elsie hobbled to a lamppost and leaned against it, trying to digest the truth, poisonous as it was, and decide what to do about it. She had to say something to the authorities. Come up with a story that wouldn’t indict her. She had to stop him somehow—

Oh God in heaven. Emmeline.

She was still there. Sharing a roof with a murderer. And despite her world turning inside out, Elsie knew one thing for certain: Emmeline was an innocent in all of this.

Elsie had to get back to Brookley. She had to get back now.

CHAPTER 22

The train gave her time to reflect, and she hated every minute of it.

Am I a murderer?

Thank the stars I didn’t ask Ogden about the seal.

Is Nash part of this? Is that why Emmeline is so uncomfortable around him?

Does Emmeline know anything? No, of course she doesn’t . . .

How many more crimes am I connected to? No, I don’t want to know.

I want to know.

I don’t want to know.

How will I convince Emmeline to come away with me without Ogden overhearing?

Should I send a telegram ahead, pretending to be a buyer, and set an appointment with him?

Where will I go when this is all over?

She wrung her hands together until they were sore and dry. When the train stopped in London that evening, Elsie grabbed her valise and dragged herself to the platform. She’d barely slept, and the only food she’d eaten since breakfast was a bite or two of what was left of Emmeline’s packed morsels. Her stomach was a tight knot, and not one she knew how to dis-spell.