She thought of his cheek beneath her lips, which made her face burn. Foolish woman, she thought, breathing around a rusted spike in her chest. God save her, it shouldn’t hurt this much. Maybe Ogden could smooth this sensation away from her, too. And yet . . . she wasn’t sure she wanted it gone. It was too soon to tell.
That night, after Emmeline had turned in and things felt more or less normal, Elsie dressed down to her nightgown and robe. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she unfolded the opus spell she’d taken from the dock.
She couldn’t read it in full. Barely in part. But she didn’t need to—she could cast this spell without any knowledge. Without any drops. She traced her fingers over words she recognized: Memoria, perdita. Memory, lost. The word oblivio made her think of oblivion. She’d have to get a Latin-to-English dictionary, but she was almost certain this spell was one of forgetting. The faded red ink told her it was a rational spell, which leaned to her theory. And judging by its length, it might even be a master spell. From whom, she’d never know. But seeing the way Ogden had wept and trembled on that dock . . . Maybe it would come in handy. She hoped not, but she couldn’t convince herself to do away with it.
She folded it carefully and slid it beneath her mattress—a temporary hiding spot until she thought of something better. She braided her newly washed hair over her shoulder and crept to Ogden’s bedroom. She didn’t bother knocking; he was expecting her, sketch pad, pencils, and charcoal spread across the foot of his bed.
She shut the door and sat on his trunk. Without waiting to be asked, she began describing the American.
“It will take a few tries.” He started with the shape of the head and the narrow jaw Elsie remembered. “I won’t influence you one way or another. Just tell me what you can remember.”
“He was about your age. Tanned. Traveled,” she offered. “His eyes were close set. Long hair. His hairline started . . . here.” She touched her crown. “And there was a peak.”
It took Ogden longer to draw than it did for her to describe. She looked over his shoulder every now and then, offering suggestions.
After nearly an hour, Elsie asked, “Where did you keep the opuses, Ogden? We should find a way to return them.”
His attention never left the sketch. “I didn’t. He took me somewhere, before the docks. I don’t quite remember it. Somewhere dark and wet. A sewer, or maybe a sepulchre. I grabbed spells almost at random to defend myself before moving on.” He slowed. “The mind and the spirit are interesting things. Separate, yet interlocked. Perhaps, if I can get my hands on the right library, I could study their boundaries for myself.” He resumed sketching.
Elsie nodded, considering. Replaying last night’s events in her thoughts. How Ogden, or his puppet master, knew to flee still confused her, but she didn’t want to distract Ogden with questions, especially ones he likely wouldn’t be able to answer. So she watched him draw instead. The sketch was beginning to come alive. It didn’t look quite right, yet Elsie couldn’t explain how without the American standing in front of her. As Ogden filled in the brow, however, he paused.
“This isn’t him.” He set the pad of paper on his lap. “I know it’s not him.”
Elsie rolled her lips together and took the pad in hand. You’re a pawn, he’d said. Which meant he wasn’t.
“It was worth a try.”
“The eyes . . . The eyes aren’t right.”
Elsie stood. “You remember?”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Ogden rubbed his head. “I can almost . . .”
Elsie set down the pad and paced the room, thinking. She pulled her robe close around her. It was almost summer, but the room felt cold. Was it worth it to light the fire?
The fire.
She paused. “Ogden.”
He glanced up.
She met his tired eyes. “It was a woman who took me from the workhouse. A woman with a”—she closed her eyes, picturing it—“a receded chin.”
He froze a moment. “A woman,” he whispered. He held still as a grave, focus shifting. A moment passed. He stiffened suddenly and picked up his pad and charcoal. He sketched in a frenzy, drawing, shading, then shaking his head and ripping the page free, only to start anew. “A woman. I can see it. A woman . . . Yes . . . Almost . . .”
He started with the chin, adding lines around it. He jumped from that to outlining the hair around the face. No style, no hat, no pins. And a forehead. He began a thick eyebrow, then smeared the lines with the side of his hand and redrew them thin. He sketched the eyes, paused. Looked away and let his fingers draw from memory.
“Something like . . .” He added a heavy lid and a brow that looked almost Russian.
A chill ran through Elsie’s body. “God save us.”
Ogden turned toward her. “You recognize her?”
Mouth dry, Elsie nodded. The woman was older now, and the picture was incomplete, but she knew that face. And she understood why Ogden had known when to flee.
“She’s the one he was looking for,” she said, words barely more than a rasp. “The American. She’s in London. Her name is Master Lily Merton.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Oh hey, lots of people helped me with this book! They are the best. No book is a one-man show, and there are many thanks to be passed around.
First, God. He usually comes at the end of these, but I’m moving Him up to throw off the readers who actually peruse this section. Thanks, God.
Second, alpha and beta readers. These are people who slog through my rough drafts with no glory and no pay. Rebecca Blevins, Cerena Felt, Tricia Levenseller, Whitney Hanks, Rachel Maltby, and Leah O’Neill. I appreciate you guys SO MUCH. Even my agent doesn’t see my rough drafts!
A special thank-you to Caitlyn McFarland for helping me work out plot points, characters, and more on the phone and in person. And for letting me yell at you and call you names and then still liking me afterward.
Many thanks to Professor Thomas Wayment at Brigham Young University, who was much more useful with my Latin translations than the internet was.
So, so, so many thanks to my husband, Jordan, who also reads my crappy rough drafts, takes care of our kids so I can write crappy rough drafts, brainstorms ideas for my crappy rough drafts, and is every bit as chivalrous as a Victorian man should be.
Thank you to my agent, for getting this book into the right hands; my shiny new editor, Adrienne Procaccini, for helping me with the vision for this duology; and Angela Polidoro, who got up to her elbows in word grease to help me fine-tune this story.
Always, my utmost appreciation to the 47North team—author relations, copyeditors, proofreaders, fact-checkers, marketers, and so on. Thank you for making my dream job that much more awesome.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charlie N. Holmberg is the author of the Numina series and the Wall Street Journal bestselling Paper Magician series, which has been optioned by the Walt Disney Company. She is also the author of five stand-alone novels, including Followed by Frost, a 2016 RITA award finalist for Best Young Adult Romance, and The Fifth Doll, winner of the 2017 Whitney for Speculative Fiction. Born in Salt Lake City, Charlie was raised a Trekkie alongside three sisters who also have boy names. She is a proud BYU alumna, plays the ukulele, and owns too many pairs of glasses. She currently lives with her family in Utah. Visit her at www.charlienholmberg.com.