Her heart flipped, and it took all her effort not to let her breathing hitch. He’s in here right now. And I can’t hear him. Was this why Merton wanted to keep her unconscious?
Closer, closer. Over to the tray. Did he notice the missing bottle? The spell stalled for just a moment. Elsie’s heart lodged firmly in her throat. Then the person passed by her.
Gritting her teeth, Elsie pushed herself up off the floor and whirled around, colliding into another body. She barely registered it as a man before she swung the bottle with all her might into the side of his head.
He crumpled to the ground, soundless.
Her hands slick on the bottle’s neck, Elsie gasped for air, her hair wild around her face and shoulders. He wore all black, along with a high collar that might have been pulled up over his mouth if he’d had the mind. A large nose, slender shoulders . . . he looked to be a little younger than Elsie.
She took a step back. His build was wrong, and his eyes. This wasn’t her abductor.
There was bread on the tray, and a tin pitcher beside it.
A servant of some kind. Another Nash. She swallowed and, keeping one hand on the bottle, knelt next to him, searching for . . . yes, a rune glimmering through his black sleeve.
Cringing, Elsie grabbed his wrist and pulled back the cloth. She untied the spell, and suddenly the lad’s breathing touched her ears. A little strained, but even. There was a sizeable goose egg growing behind his ear. But no compulsion spell, and he wasn’t armed.
And the left basement door was open, a ladder set against it.
“Sweet merciful heaven.” Abandoning the servant, Elsie bolted to the ladder, picking up her skirts so she could climb it. It was difficult with the bottle still in hand, but it was her only weapon, and she wasn’t going to give it up anytime soon.
A cool night wind caught her hair as she climbed out. The first thing she noticed was the untamed grass nearby, and the dark silhouettes of tall trees. Then the light in a window not far from her.
She’d been right—there was a house. A big house, belonging to some nobleman or another. She might have scoffed at it at another time, but right now she needed to flee before the servant woke and spread the alarm.
Setting the bottle down, she grabbed the ladder with both hands and hauled it out of the basement, then carefully shut the door so it wouldn’t slam, just in case the mute spell she’d sensed earlier wouldn’t cover that noise.
Taking the bottle in hand, she ran.
Away from the house. She didn’t care where she was going as long as it was away. The terrain was smooth enough, the moon high but partially shielded by clouds. She carried the front of her skirt in her arms in a very unladylike manner, pumping her legs, running, running—
She nearly ran into the stone wall, it was so dark. She skidded to a stop right before it.
“No,” she whispered, pressing a hand against it. It was about ten feet high.
Cursing, she followed the wall in one direction, then the other, but she couldn’t see where it ended. So she dropped the bottle and wedged her fingertips between layers of weathered stone, but there wasn’t enough of a lip for her to get a strong hold. She tried in several spots, her fingers always slipping.
So she jumped, trying to reach the top of the wall to pull herself over—but she didn’t come close to breaching it.
Her breaths were hoarse now. “Oh God, help me,” she whispered, turning back, the partially lit mansion looming in the distance. If she kept moving away from it, who knew how long she’d be wandering around. Many houses this large had extensive properties.
Gate. There had to be a gate somewhere closer to the house. Retrieving her glass weapon, Elsie hurried along the wall, keeping one hand to it as she went. A physical spell glowed ahead of her—a fortification spell, just like the ones she’d unbound at Seven Oaks. Hope swelled in her. She untied it, but no, the wall didn’t crumble in the absence of magic. In fact, it looked entirely unchanged. Able to be taken out by a sledgehammer, perhaps, not a woman’s bare hands.
So Elsie hurried on, quickening her pace, ignoring the next fortification spell when she reached it. Gate, gate, gate.
The moon snuck out from behind a thick cloud, casting her in darkness. She stepped in a rabbit hole and fell forward, biting her tongue to keep from crying out. The bottle flew from her grasp.
Groaning, she got her knees under her and stood. Her ankle throbbed—it hurt to put weight on it, but it wasn’t broken, thank heaven. So she continued, hobbling as she went. She lost her shoe almost immediately, but didn’t stop to retrieve it. Or the bottle. If the foot was going to swell up, it wouldn’t fit in the shoe anyway. And as much as she needed the bottle, she also needed time.
She reached a junction in the wall. Tried again for handholds, with no luck. She scanned the dark yard—perhaps she could find . . . oh, a stump or a bucket or something to give her a lift. But she saw nothing. No back gate, either.
So she followed the next wall, eyeing the mansion she was slowly moving closer to, praying for a hidden door, a latch, anything.
And then, moments later, she found one.
And it was locked.
Stay calm. She ran her hands over the wrought iron gate, the moon peeking out to help her. The gate started close to the ground and rose just as high as the rest of the wall. It wasn’t locked by magical means—no, that would be too easy. It had a thick steel contraption on it.
But there were crossbars on it. So, ignoring the pointed tips of the gate, Elsie set her good foot onto the first crossbar, which was just below the height of her hip, and lifted herself up. The gate shifted on its hinges. Elsie held on tightly, hissing through her teeth when she put weight on her sore ankle. Using as much upper-body strength as she could to relieve it, she swung over the top of the gate, her skirt catching as she did.
She jumped down the rest of the way, a sharp whine trapped in her throat when she landed on her sore foot, a loud rip sounding as the tip of an iron bar tore through her skirt.
She was a spellbreaker, for goodness’s sake. She could buy another bloody dress.
She had only just gotten back on her feet—her right ankle throbbing anew—when she heard her name.
“Hello, Elsie.”
She whirled around, first to the gate, which was still locked, then to the silhouette a few paces . . . north, was it? She recognized his voice from the carriage. And his stature . . . it was the same.
She limped backward, stumbling. “I-I can help you. I can take it off.”
The man took a step forward. The moonlight highlighted his pointed chin and the gray strands running through his short, side-swept hair. He didn’t have on a mask. He wore normal, tailored clothes. Like he hadn’t had time to disguise himself before Merton had sent him to check on her.
And then he stopped suddenly, like the air had hardened around him. He trembled.
Just like Ogden had.
He was fighting back.
Suppressing her instinct to flee, Elsie hurried toward him and grabbed the front of his shirt. She . . . yes! She could hear Merton’s spell humming—
The man grabbed her wrists. “I don’t think so,” he said, then worked his mouth, a puppet refusing to obey its strings.
Sharpness entered his blue eyes. Merton had won control.
Elsie pulled against his grip, but it didn’t relent. So she kneed him in the groin instead.
The man let out a wheeze, and Elsie twisted her arms, breaking his hold. She turned and ran, stumbling on her aching ankle. Limped to a dark tree line. She could barely see, but it didn’t matter. She had to get away.