Spellbreaker

She itched to follow the sound of the alarm, to find a Cowl or, perhaps, someone else who worked for them, but time was of the essence.

She moved quickly.

The room was hot and dim, but she saw enough to make her cringe. All sorts of weapons and tools hung on the walls. How many of these were used against the poor, especially those driven to crime by starving bellies and desperation? The thought made her shudder. She nearly sprinted along the walls, running her hands across handles, avoiding blades. She found the enchanted weapons quickly; they were in the back, sharing a wall.

She didn’t recognize the spells on them except for a temporal rune for preventing rust. She undid everything, untying knot after knot until her wrists itched. Then, her bodice sticking to her chest with perspiration, she fled. She thought she heard a man yell after her as she went, but she ran until her corset became suffocating and sweat dripped from her hairline, and by the time she looped back to her hotel, she had no pursuers.

She departed for Brookley the same day.

This week had been one of the most stressful times in Bacchus’s life.

All those hours he’d spent stewing over the second spell, unsure what it could mean, had worn on him. He’d hated Ipswich, too. All of the sugar farms had made him think of home in the worst way possible. He hated sugar plantations. Hated what they represented—the fall and mistreatment of his friends’ and neighbors’ ancestors, a legacy that still clung to them even sixty years after emancipation. He hated sweets for the same reason—the sweetest thing he could stomach was pawpaw.

And then the spell prolonging his life had been removed, and the mysterious second spell had been broken, and . . . he felt marvelous. Healthy, strong, invigorated. Like he was thirteen again. The transition was so confusing, so blissful. His outlook had brightened almost instantly. He could get his mastership easily now; the ambulation spell didn’t matter.

He could do anything he wanted.

And yet his glee had been short-lived, not only due to the knowledge that someone had purposefully sabotaged him with that spell, but because of the emptiness of the carriage. He felt the lack of a woman who, he had to admit, was rather . . . amiable.

Amiable.

Even he felt the wrongness of the word. Yes, she was amiable, but it was something else that drew him to her. He could still feel the cool touch of her fingers over his chest and stomach. It had dissipated his anxiety and stoked something even more maddening. Something he hadn’t wished to dwell on before, given their circumstances.

Now she was gone, and he couldn’t be more confused.

He no longer suspected Elsie of thievery, but she guarded her secrets so closely. She’d seemed so honest with him, so frank, on their trip to Ipswich, and just as quickly she’d shut down. Fled without reason. Abandoned a mission she’d seemed intent on seeing through.

What had been in that letter? A threat? Blackmail? Or was he letting his imagination get away from him? He’d wanted to ask her to explain herself. But her eyes had looked so worried, her mouth resolute, and she’d just broken the bonds he had unknowingly worn since adolescence. And so he’d let her go, leaving himself to simmer in unanswered questions.

Rather than head straight to London, he returned first to Kent, wanting to update the duke and see if Elsie’s promised telegram had arrived. He arrived on Sunday to find there was no telegram, and the duke had fallen into poor health while he was away. It was not the first time it had happened, but it concerned Bacchus, nonetheless. The duke’s entire family was at the end of their line, worrying over him. And so Bacchus had spent most of his Sunday pacing the long corridors of the estate, tormenting himself. He must have been a sight, for even Rainer and John kept their distance.

Early Monday morning, he returned to London, to the Physical Atheneum.

He’d written ahead to request an appointment regarding his advancement. But when he arrived, the first place he went was the library. The maze of books became an utter labyrinth once he began walking through the shelves. They hadn’t seemed so imposing in passing.

He spotted an elderly steward in one of the larger rooms and approached the man.

“You, are you employed here?” He sounded impatient. He tried to reel himself in, but the questions were boiling over. He could solve at least one of them now: What rune had marked his skin?

As for Elsie’s—Miss Camden’s—well-being, he was forced to wait.

The steward looked over his spectacles. He appeared to be frowning, but perhaps that was simply the way the loose skin of his face hung. “Never seen a Spaniard in these parts.”

Bacchus doubted he’d ever seen a Spaniard period, as Bacchus wasn’t one. He stuffed his impatience into his stomach and chose not to correct the man. “Do you know of any volumes depicting runes?”