Every now and then she got up and walked the perimeter of the space—at least she had the option to do that. In jail, she hadn’t. Then again, she’d at least had some idea of what might happen in jail. Here, she hadn’t a clue.
She’d woken to a new loaf of bread and some cheese. Their mere existence shocked her. No one had come in last night. She hadn’t slept . . . not really. She’d tried to, after a time. But food and water couldn’t just spell themselves into a room. She was sure of that. And surely no physical aspector could open a hole in the wall willy-nilly, slide the food through it, and seal it up again. Or at least it sounded like a terrible amount of effort.
She’d missed something. Something important.
Her tailbone was sore, but she didn’t move. She was tired but not sleepy, weak but not hungry. She listened to her breathing, thinking half-formed thoughts that slid away before they had any real meaning.
That was, until one pressed on her.
She felt something.
A sensation, hard to describe, but she’d felt it before. In the kitchen, with Irene. And with Bacchus and the duke. Spellbreakers identified physical spells by sight, but she’d sensed all those spells without ever glimpsing the runes.
Closing her eyes, Elsie tried to focus on the sensation. It felt like an itch on bone, too deep to scratch. It wasn’t terribly close—not in this room—and for some reason she got an earthy taste in the back of her mouth. A temporal spell? It made sense. There was probably a wine cellar, or a cellar used for actual food nearby. A temporal spell would keep it from wasting. It was . . . above her and behind, she thought.
Interesting. Had Irene ever sensed spells this way? Elsie would have to ask when . . . if . . . she saw the woman again.
She dwelled on the temporal spell a little longer before trying to push out her awareness. She imagined herself as one of the Tibetan monks she’d read about, meditating, seeking enlightenment. The room around her was silent, still, cool. Not even a rat to interrupt her.
There was a distant whisper of a spell, higher up, near the door. A physical spell. Was that . . . a sound-dampening spell? So no one could hear her scream? She shuddered and sensed another farther away, a feather brush across her mind. She couldn’t quite tell what it was. A color-changing one, perhaps. Something to keep mortar hard or corkboard soft? Actually . . . it felt like two of them, close together.
Physical and temporal. Not opus spells—judging by Merton’s projection, she’d contacted Elsie from some distance, so this couldn’t be her residence. It would have been foolish for her to bring an enemy to her hideaway anyway.
Perhaps this was the enslaved physical aspector’s home, but spells were expensive. If he had multiple classes of spells, he was probably rich. Granted, all master aspectors were well-off, so it wasn’t surprising that he should be.
Elsie suspected she would find more spells if she were to escape her prison. Opulent ones, excessive ones. Perhaps there was a great manor overhead, stretches of green speckled with gardens. That’s how it looked in her mind, at least.
Her head began to throb, and her wrists itched as though she’d been spellbreaking. Elsie opened her eyes, and the faraway sensations of spells slowly receded.
So she crossed the room, sat down, and tried again.
Bacchus woke to a spell in his brain at a quarter to six, his shoulder stiff from lying on the floor. But any hard words he had for Mr. Ogden were quashed when he said, “Emmeline has the horse ready.”
As promised, they were on the road by six, the dawn only a whisper of promise on the horizon.
When Bacchus entered the London Physical Atheneum this time, it was Mr. Ogden who got the looks. Bacchus was an increasingly familiar presence, whereas Mr. Ogden was a nobody—as far as anyone could tell.
They’d gone over the names of everyone in the assembly, as well as their descriptions, though Bacchus was fuzzy on a few of them. Only Master Hill was not a suspect. The plan they’d formed was simple, and completely dependent upon the rational aspector’s abilities.
Once they entered the library, Mr. Ogden nudged Bacchus with his elbow and tilted his head toward a heavy smattering of bookshelves. Bacchus followed him there, the light dimming as the expansive shelves blocked the glow from the high windows. Mr. Ogden paused near the back and walked to the middle of one shelf.
Then he closed his eyes.
Nothing extraordinary happened, but Bacchus knew spells were being cast. He had never considered rational aspecting—he had enough issues getting people to trust him without the threat that he could rip all their secrets from their brains—but its usefulness was becoming more and more apparent.
He wondered what this would look like—feel like?—to Elsie if she were in his place. Listening to Miss Prescott explain runes during Elsie’s lessons somewhat fascinated him, but he preferred the more colorful descriptions Elsie shared with him in quiet moments afterward. Knots and glitter and mushrooms. He hadn’t asked her what rational spells felt like.
Chest tightening, Bacchus feigned an interest in the book spines in front of them. The embossed lettering might as well have been in another language. Dear God, please help us find her before it’s too late. Please.
If she died . . . Bacchus didn’t know what he’d do. Lock himself away in Barbados and never cross the ocean again. Too many reminders . . .
Several minutes passed before Mr. Ogden opened his eyes. “I think I found someone useful. Come.”
He left like he owned the place, though it was apparent he’d never stepped foot in it, since he tried to walk through a wall more than once. Making his way to the “someone useful,” no doubt. Paying more attention to thoughts than to reality. Questions flitted about Bacchus’s uneasy mind, but he didn’t voice them.
They stayed on the main floor. Passed through a study hall before entering another chamber crammed with books. Mr. Ogden paused once, then took a sharp left.
A young man, probably a little younger than Bacchus, sat at a small round table in the corner, the enchanted disk on the table giving off enough light to illuminate the old book clutched in his hands. He didn’t look up when they approached.
Judging by his appearance, age, and the book he was reading, Bacchus guessed him to be an advanced physical aspector.
“My good sir,” Mr. Ogden said with authority, but quietly enough to keep his voice from carrying, “I have questions for you.”
The man looked up, forehead crinkled with irritation at being interrupted. Before he spoke, however, his entire expression changed, and he slammed the book shut and tried to stand, knocking the enchanted light off his table. “Master Bennett! What brings you here?”
Bacchus scooped up the light and replaced it as Mr. Ogden said, “No need for exclamations, young man. Sit.”
He did, admiration in his eyes.
Master Bennett? Bacchus eyed his companion. Had he planted a false memory in the man, making him think he was speaking to a venerable master aspector?
He’s even more powerful than I thought. Which put Bacchus on edge. Had he ever been enchanted in such a way? Rational aspectors were very closely monitored because of the nature of their spells. But Mr. Ogden was not a member of any atheneum—there was no oversight for his use of the magic. And while it was possible to purchase a rational master spell protecting the mind, not unlike what Ruth Hill’s assailant had worn when attacking Mr. Ogden, Bacchus certainly would not delay Elsie’s rescue in order to acquire one. Which left him with little choice but to push his misgivings aside and go with the plan.