Spellmaker

Back at the stonemasonry shop, Bacchus’s body was tense from crown to heel, like wet leather pulled taut over a frame, left to cure in the blistering sun. It was well past the hour of retiring, but he sat at the dining room table with Mr. Ogden and Miss Pratt, who had stoked the fire and the oven to warm them. Bacchus’s jacket lay drying near the latter, but he hadn’t changed out of his damp clothes—Mr. Ogden owned nothing that would fit him. He flexed and relaxed his fists atop the table, stopping only after he saw Miss Pratt staring at them, wide-eyed.

“No one has a motive but Merton.” Bacchus tried not to let his voice growl. “You’re sure you saw nothing notable about the man who attacked the house?”

Mr. Ogden shook his head, looking over his sketch work for the twentieth time. He’d drawn the attacker on multiple pages, from different angles, but the sketches were all alike, all next to useless. Each one depicted a man of slightly above-average build, clad in gray. Blue eyes. Physical aspector. That was all they knew.

All they knew.

Bacchus lifted a fist and slammed it on the table, making Miss Pratt jump. If they couldn’t find Merton, and they couldn’t find her goon, then they would never find Elsie.

Where was she right now? Tied up in some back room, or on her way across the Channel?

Bacchus’s stomach shifted. He really was going to be sick.

Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, he said, “Tell me everything about that night. Everything.”

“He was guarded.” Mr. Ogden leaned against the stove. “Mentally. I think Merton used one of her opus spells on him before sending him our way.”

“Which means they’ve been in recent contact,” Bacchus said.

Mr. Ogden nodded. “Or she simply directed him to where she left it. She’s well hidden. I don’t know if she’d risk . . . not that it matters. Point being that I couldn’t fight him myself. My attempts bounced off him. I got close to breaking through once, but I lost my concentration.”

Miss Pratt added, “It was so quiet at first. Then all of a sudden a loud ruckus came from upstairs. Elsie was shouting.”

“Sound dampening,” Mr. Ogden clarified. “Elsie broke it.”

“I thought Mr. Ogden had fallen,” the maid went on, “but . . . the thumping happened over and over again.”

“He came in through the window.” Mr. Ogden closed his eyes. “Slammed me back against the wall, then shot the bed at me, pinning me there. That’s when Elsie came in and took down the dampener. Then”—he chuckled—“she jumped on him.”

Bacchus shook his head. She would.

“I got free. The man drew a knife—”

“Wait.” Bacchus straightened. “You said he threw you into a wall? With what? Wind?”

Mr. Ogden shook his head. “He simply flung his hand out, like he pushed me without touching me. Same with the bed.”

Bacchus’s breath hitched. His mind moved through every spell he knew, but nothing else fit. “Ambulation.”

Mr. Ogden pushed off the stove. “Pardon?”

“An ambulation spell. The ability to move a physical object without touch. I had occasion to research it recently.” He stood, needing to move, needing to expel the energy building in his limbs. “It’s a very rare, very powerful master spell. Few people would have it.”

Mr. Ogden looked hopeful. “And you know who does?”

“I know where to look,” he said. “The London Physical Atheneum. No doubt someone on the assembly there has it, and they will know who else does. What time is it?”

“A-About half past two,” Miss Pratt said. “None of the atheneums will be open.”

Bacchus ground his teeth. “Then we’ll knock on the doors of each assembly member, one by one.”

“You know where they live?” Mr. Ogden seemed intrigued.

Bacchus rubbed his eyes. “I . . . have an idea on a few. Master Hill might have some of the locations in her study.”

Mr. Ogden sighed. “By the time we find them, the atheneum will be open. Eight o’clock, is it not?”

Bacchus nodded. “It’s worth a shot.”

The rational aspector rubbed his eyes. “Perhaps it would be best for us to get a few hours of rest before heading into London. We can be at the Physical Atheneum’s doors the moment they’re unlocked.”

Bacchus shook his head. “No. I’ll not sleep while she’s in danger.”

“Whoever took her is likely resting, too.” Mr. Ogden turned to Miss Pratt. “Would you get Elsie’s bed ready? Master Kelsey will be staying here tonight.”

Shaking his head, Bacchus snatched his damp coat from its place by the fire and pulled it on. “I’m going to London.”

“And you’ll be too weary to be of any use to anyone,” the stonemason countered. “Rest only a few hours.”

“I will not—”

“I can force you to, and I will.” He stifled a yawn. “There is nothing we can do now. We’ll leave the moment the clock strikes six.”

Bacchus glowered. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Mr. Ogden met his glare. “I am a practitioner in the rational arts, Master Kelsey, however unlicensed. When a man is not being rational, I must force him to be.”

Bacchus’s jaw was so tight he feared he’d chip several teeth. Buttoning his coat, he stepped around Mr. Ogden and headed for the back door.