“Tell me.” Mr. Ogden waved his hand. “I need to speak with the assembly about an ambulation spell, but it’s very private, involving the queen and all. I don’t want everyone knowing until I learn a few things for certain.”
Then, in Bacchus’s mind, <This one’s being groomed by the assembly for greatness.>
Bacchus nodded, never taking his eyes off the advanced aspector, whom he noted was as English and male as they came. Mr. Ogden had chosen this man because he was favored enough to know things, while also unimportant enough not to break the trust of someone he thought more senior.
It was only then that Bacchus truly understood how dangerous this all was. Elsie might not be the only one sleeping in a jail cell.
“Oh.” The man looked uncomfortable for a moment. Mr. Ogden subtly waved his hands again.
“You can trust me, lad,” he pressed.
After a few seconds, the aspector nodded. “Well, you know only Master Phillips and Master Ulf know the master ambulation spell.”
Bacchus cut in, “Tell me about Master Ulf.” He was one of three men in the assembly that Bacchus knew very little about.
“Master Johan Ulf.” His gaze slid back to Mr. Ogden, as though entranced by his presence. “German scholar, the one with red sideburns. He lives just down the street in the gated neighborhood.” The aspector shifted in his chair. “Doesn’t like me much.”
“And Master Phillips doesn’t like anyone,” Bacchus muttered.
Mr. Ogden shifted suddenly, his gaze on the younger man. “What was that?”
The aspector blinked. “I . . . didn’t say anything, sir.”
Another wave of his hand. “Yes, you did, son. About Master Phillips?”
The man fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. Bacchus intuited that Mr. Ogden had heard a thought and was forcing the aspector to verbalize it. “Just that he’s been acting strangely lately. He hasn’t been to the atheneum in a couple days. He missed a meeting I was taking notes at. Very unlike him.”
Bacchus’s pulse quickened. He pressed his hand to the stone wall for balance. “Where does Master Phillips live?”
“In London, on the east side,” the man said. “Never been there, but his estate is called Wide Springs.”
Mr. Ogden turned to Bacchus. “So one of us will go there, the other to Master Ulf.”
Bacchus nodded.
“Though,” the man added, “he does have a country estate over in Childwickbury. He had a Christmas party there a few years back.”
Bacchus tensed. “Childwickbury? Where is that?”
“Northeast,” Mr. Ogden said. “A few hours’ ride, if I’m not mistaken.”
Bacchus swallowed, his throat constricting. Whispering, he said, “If it’s him, then that would be a good place—”
Mr. Ogden stalled him with a raised hand. “Thank you, lad. What is that on the wall?”
The man turned to look. “I don’t see any—”
His voice cut off, and Mr. Ogden pushed Bacchus away. They walked, somewhat leisurely, away from the space. Bacchus glanced over his shoulder, only to catch the advanced aspector opening his book again, seemingly unaware of them.
“You made him forget us,” he whispered once they were a good distance away.
“It’s easier when someone’s attention is diverted elsewhere. But yes.” Mr. Ogden’s tone had a dark edge to it. “My spells are strong, but they are few. I’ve learned how to use what I have the best I can.”
Bacchus didn’t dare speak again until they’d cleared the front door of the atheneum, and when he did, it was hushed. “Childwickbury. I’m sure of it.”
“You’re not sure of it,” Mr. Ogden stressed, then massaged tension from his forehead with his fingers. “None of us are. But it’s a good lead.”
“We’ll go together.”
But the artist shook his head. “Master Ulf is nearby. I’ll see to him, then find Master Phillips’s London home, just to be safe. If they’re dead ends, I’ll meet you in Childwickbury. I’ll only be an hour behind. If it’s dangerous, wait for me, do you understand?”
Normally, taking orders from an illegal spellmaker would rankle Bacchus. But this was no ordinary situation, and Mr. Ogden was no ordinary spellmaker. “Of course.”
“Don’t let him see you,” Mr. Ogden warned. “I won’t be able to erase his mind.”
Bacchus nodded.
With nothing else left to be said, they went their separate ways. Mr. Ogden hired a cab, and Bacchus returned to their carriage, where he unhitched Master Hill’s horse and barked at a stable hand to get him a saddle.
Elsie sensed a new spell.
She was nearly ready to fall asleep when she did. Her only way to tell time was through the slim crack between basement doors, which let in a hair of light—which she could see only if she stood directly under them. So she knew it was night, but she didn’t know when in the night. It could be the tenth hour. It could be nearly dawn, for all she knew.
But she sensed a new spell, farther out, and it was moving.
She bolted upright, breath catching, and listened. Yes . . . it was only the slightest itch of sensation, something she wouldn’t have noticed had she not spent all day reaching out for the house spells above her. This one was moving. Definitely coming closer.
Throwing off her blanket, Elsie ran to the basement doors, ready to scream for help at a volume even a sound-dampening spell couldn’t temper—but stopped. Closing her eyes, steadying her breathing, she reached for the spell, trying to get a better feel for it. After several seconds, she determined it was moving straight for her, not meandering. Like it had a purpose. No, this wasn’t some innocent passerby who might help her. In all likelihood it was her abductor, headed straight for her, and she was sensing Merton’s spell!
Terror woke her limbs and pricked gooseflesh along her skin. What to do, what to do?
Backing away from the doors, Elsie tried to calm down. She was losing the sensation. Focus.
She couldn’t still her racing heart, but she closed her eyes and reached for that spell. Closer, closer . . .
Physical.
What did he want now? Was he going to take her away from here? To Merton? Or had Merton decided Elsie was too much of a problem? Or was Merton busy and this crook had something entirely different up his sleeve. Torture, or . . .
She swallowed, her corset too tight. She planted a hand over the opus spell there. She couldn’t lose it. But she could use it if she had to. She could make this man forget his intentions. It might give her the opening she needed to break the spell.
Then she noticed the empty tray and bottle of water.
The bread and cheese. Someone had to replace those, didn’t they?
Either way, Elsie intended to put up a fight.
The spell was practically screaming at her with its nearness, though she heard nothing. Bolting across the room, Elsie grabbed the bottle—it was about the length of her elbow to the tip of her middle finger—and stretched back onto the floor, pulling her blanket over her, careful not to touch the spiritual spell embedded in the glass. Worried her expression might give her away, she turned her back to the small enchanted light on the ceiling.
Breathe. Breathe! she urged herself, trying to deepen and slow her breaths as the spell came ever closer.
She lay there, counting heartbeats, focusing on deep breaths and the spell . . . which was so close now. So close. She hadn’t heard a single footstep or the creaking of the doors, but Elsie could have sworn the carrier of that spell was in the cellar with her—
Mute spell. She thought she could sense it now. Just like the spell that had sucked all the sound from Ogden’s attack.