If Elsie had been less devout to the Cowls, none of this would have happened. Not to Master Phillips, not to the deceased, and not to Ogden.
Which was part of her newest worry. Something Irene had said on the ride home yesterday evening had stuck in Elsie’s mind like a rusted knife, and she struggled to wrench it free.
Who knows who else she’s controlled. Irene had clucked her tongue and stared out the window, hopelessness on her face. Meanwhile, for Elsie, the trip from Oxford turned out to be the longest one yet.
Lily Merton was friendly with the Duke and Duchess of Kent, and Elsie had met her for the first time—officially, at least—the night she’d first dined at Seven Oaks. Back then, of course, she’d had no idea who Lily Merton was, but the woman had already sent her to Seven Oaks on Cowls duty twice before that. Either for the duke’s ancestral opus or for Bacchus’s. Perhaps for both.
Looking up from her path—she was coming back from the squire’s now, with Mr. Parker’s signature of approval in hand—she spied Bacchus waiting outside the stonemasonry shop. His arms were folded across his tight chest, and the way he squinted in the sunlight made him look menacing, or at least it might to one who didn’t know him. His dark hair glimmered in the light, and when he turned and saw her coming, recognition lit up his face. He walked to meet her, passing the well, crossing Main Street.
Elsie’s chest hurt as she met him near the dressmaker’s. “What’s wrong?”
He offered his elbow, which she took, and handed her a thin paper. There weren’t many out in the street, so Elsie needn’t worry about onlookers.
He’d given her a flyer for the Merton estate sale.
“Tuesday.” Bacchus spoke quietly as they walked down the lane leading to the stonemasonry shop. “Ogden’s information was good. The estate sale runs until Friday, but the opus will be on display only on Tuesday, for the memorial, before it’s taken to the atheneum.”
Elsie read over the paper, though it merely reiterated what Bacchus had said. “Irene?”
“She’s inside, speaking with Mr. Ogden.”
Elsie nodded. Folded the paper. “I don’t know how we’ll get to it.”
“He feels confident we can, if we go early.” He let out a breath. “He thinks he can turn the minds of the guards so I can access the opus.”
Elsie’s steps slowed. “You?”
He nodded. “It’s in Latin; it’s my understanding you’re not fluent.”
Elsie frowned, but nodded. “And if there are spells?”
“You’ll be in the room with us, and Irene will be nearby. He wants to bring Reggie and Emmeline along in case a distraction is needed.”
Elsie’s stomach tightened. “If they see you with the opus . . .”
“We’re all taking risks.” His elbow squeezed around her hand, reassuring her.
It was a risk. Ogden would have to slip into the minds of multiple guards . . . Elsie had never been to an estate sale before, let alone one for a master aspector. How many guards would there be? How far could Ogden’s spells stretch?
How far could Merton’s?
They approached the house, but Elsie tugged on Bacchus’s arm. “Can I . . . talk to you, for a moment?” She knew it would kill her to keep her fears to herself, letting them simmer in the back of her mind. With so much happening, she wouldn’t survive another problem.
Bacchus raised an eyebrow, but nodded, and Elsie guided him around the stonemasonry shop, to the wild land behind it. There was a copse of dogwood back there that offered some shade—the same place she had once argued with him about the propriety of traveling together to Ipswich.
Bacchus paused, unwinding her hand from his arm and cupping her elbow instead. “What’s wrong?”
Elsie laughed. “That is the question of the year, isn’t it?”
His lip quirked, but his eyes were sober. He waited patiently, a wavy strand of hair falling from its tie. Elsie wanted to tuck it behind his ear, but she felt suddenly self-conscious. As though that simple touch would be more intimate than what they had already shared.
“Merton,” she began quietly, glancing around to ensure their privacy, “did she ever . . . touch you?”
“Touch me?” He thought a moment. “I did lead her into the dining room once.” His eyes softened. “She never set a spell on me. You would have found it, with the others.”
“Time has passed since we visited Master Pierrelo’s home,” she replied, her voice soft.
Bacchus put a knuckle under her chin. “For better or for worse, I haven’t seen the woman since Abel Nash tried to kill me.”
The words weren’t as reassuring as they should have been. Doubt was a long-term companion to Elsie, present in all her thoughts, all her conversations. She’d trusted the Cowls so blindly, and the debacle with Master Phillips had her questioning her own truths. “She could be making you say that.” She twisted the ring on her finger.
Bacchus considered a moment before stepping closer to her, his strong arms wrapping around her shoulders. There was no one to see, but embarrassment tickled Elsie’s spine regardless. Bacchus put his chin on her head. “Listen.”
Relax. It’s all right, she chided herself, and, muscle by muscle, loosened in his grasp, letting her hands curl up to his shoulders. She turned her head, ear near his collar, and listened. Crickets hummed in the nearby grass. Bacchus’s heartbeat was strong and steady beneath her cheek. There was no song outside of that—no spiritual spells.
Still in his embrace, she murmured, “Ogden hid his for nine years.”
“I could take my clothes off, if you insist.”
Elsie stiffened, and Bacchus laughed, which made her laugh, which made her realize there was not enough laughter in her life. Merton was controlling her even without a spell.
Stepping back, Elsie rubbed her neck, hoping to hide her pinkening cheeks. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Master Kelsey.” A flash of memory—of her hand on his shirtless chest—only made her skin flame brighter. Yet relief blossomed in her breast; surely all of their relationship had been genuine, from his initial manhandling of her at Seven Oaks to his insistence of her innocence to the proposal that never really happened to that kiss in the carriage to now. It was real, it had to be real, and yet it felt no more real to her than a novel reader. Any moment now Elsie would turn the page and the story would be over because that’s how fairy stories like this worked.
“Dogwood.”
She pulled from her reverie at the word and met Bacchus’s gaze. “What?”
He gestured to the bright-green bushes that stood even taller than he did. “Dogwood. Ogden had some control during those nine years, yes? To leave you those clues about the spell. If Merton really is alive, and she ever tries to bespell one of us, that’s how we’ll know. It will be a password, of sorts.”
“Dogwood,” Elsie repeated. A small smile pulled on her mouth. “But what if we’re sitting in this very spot and I insist on talking of the landscape?”
“Then we must refrain from speaking of the landscape, or horticulture in general. In truth, it is not my strongest subject, so you’ll have little to regret.”
She smiled fully at him, then brought herself back to the present. “We’ve a few days before the estate sale if you want to visit Seven Oaks.”
Bacchus planted his hands on his hips and sighed.
“They were invited to the wedding,” he said. “The duchess even picked out the invitations. But I do not think the duke would come, even if I forgave him.” He looked into the dogwood. The wind rippled its leaves, and one could almost imagine fairies hidden among them.
“Will you let him die with such guilt on his shoulders?” He glanced to her, and Elsie held up her hands in mock surrender. “I am not pardoning him. But he’s been like a father to you for many years.”