Spellmaker

Elsie took in a deep breath and let it all out at once. “I suppose it’s only fair. Perhaps you should write it, Raven. I think your handwriting will be the least easy to identify.”

“She’ll write it,” Ogden said, straightening. “I’ll guide her hand.”

Elsie looked at him, then lifted her gaze to Bacchus’s. His brow was resolute, but his eyes were sad. Elsie was sad, too, though this was the right thing to do. Still, not everything she’d said to Merton was a lie. They were similar, in so many ways. In another world, perhaps they could have been family.

“All right.” She rubbed her arms uneasily. “But make sure she confesses to everything. Including the control and framing of Master Phillips. We need to make this right.” She looked between them, a chill embracing her. “Oh God, Irene. Where is Irene?”

Ogden released his spell suddenly, and Merton startled. “Where am I?”

“Help me get Miss Prescott to the carriage.” Ogden gestured to Bacchus. “She needs a doctor.”

As the two men hurried back to the barn, Merton pulled her hand from Elsie’s—Elsie had forgotten she was holding it. “My dear,” she said, “I’m quite confused. Will you help me?”

Elsie gave her the best reassuring smile she could muster. “Of course.” She glanced to Raven. “We’ll get you to where you need to be.”

CHAPTER 24

Elsie hadn’t stayed to see Merton interrogated. None of them had. They’d swiftly taken Irene to a hospital, retrieved Emmeline and Reggie, and escorted Merton to the local constable’s home early the following morning. She carried with her a letter sealed with plain wax.

The story hit the newspapers two days later.

Forgetful Aspector Raised from Death Confesses to Murders, the headline read. It was the top story that day. Three days later, Master Enoch Phillips Acquitted replaced it as the leading headline. They all collectively let out a breath of relief. It was hard for Elsie to believe it was over, but it was. Merton was taken to Her Majesty’s Prison Oxford. Her state of mind would likely spare her the penalty of death. She could speak no lie; when she said she didn’t remember, it was true.

Though Merton would not remember setting her control spell on Bacchus, its song remained, and Elsie had promptly removed it the moment he returned from aiding Irene.

And like that, it was over, as though it had never begun. The remainder of the stolen opuses had not yet surfaced, as Master Merton did not remember where she had hidden them, but from Ogden’s sleuthing they knew the authorities were on the hunt, combing through Merton’s estate and local haunts as thoroughly as possible. The missing spells gave Elsie an uneasy feeling, like she was reading a novel with the last page missing. Like it wasn’t a true ending.

Master Quinn Raven disappeared before Merton’s story spread like wildfire through England, offering no goodbyes—but little more could be expected of a recluse who’d had no social ties for years. But weeks later, Ogden found an interesting article on the second page of Brookley’s local paper. The headline read, American Artist Honors British Compatriots with Gratitude. The article was brief and poorly written, switching back and forth between American and British English. There wasn’t even a picture of the “art” the article mentioned, but the author named himself Blackbird. Whether or not he would return to the public eye was yet to be determined.

Ogden fell behind on his commissions for a time, enough so that when he got his wits about him again, Elsie put in three days’ work per week for four weeks to help him catch up. Ogden didn’t talk about it, but Elsie suspected there was still need for healing, despite his abuser being behind bars. If anyone knew minds, it was Cuthbert Ogden. The last time Elsie visited, he was smiling again, and had finally hired her replacement—a rather charming young man from Aylesbury who seemed utterly enthralled by Ogden’s nonmagical talents and was an adept sketch artist himself.

Irene Prescott spent six weeks at home with a broken leg—such a thing can happen when one is sprinting in one direction and a sudden magical rise of a floorboard makes the bone surge in the opposite direction. Elsie had heard her scream, and knowing what caused it pained her. Not nearly as much as it pained Bacchus, whose guilt kept him from visiting the spellbreaker the first two weeks of her recovery. It had taken both Elsie’s and Irene’s reassurance to finally drag him to her townhome in London, where friendships were mended, “training” continued, and a recommendation for a maid was given.

As for guilt, or perhaps for the resolving of it, Bacchus did attend the Duke of Kent’s funeral with Elsie at his side. He stood beside the duchess and her daughters, and even said a few words at the duke’s graveside, not one of them limned with bitterness. The duke had been forgiven.