Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,23

the spells themselves. Who had penned the first spell was as shrouded in enigma as who had penned the last. None of the authors were known, and spells across all four disciplines were set. Many had studied the language and style of spellmaking enchantments in an effort to expound upon them, or create one anew, and not one had ever been successful. The magic was as set in stone as the Commandments themselves.

Ogden’s handwriting was in blue ink, for physical aspecting. Red was used for rational, yellow for spiritual, and green for temporal. Why, she didn’t know. That was just the way God had made it.

She settled down on the nearby settee, the drops warming in her hands. Her eyes fell to a folded newspaper beside her—Ogden’s morning read. She opened the thin paper, her eyes instantly falling to the main headline.

Viscount Aspector Struck by Lightning on Clear Day.

Its subheading read:

Opus Not Recovered.

Furrowing her brow, Elsie brought the paper closer to her face. Viscount Byron had been struck down in London after a meeting of Parliament, in the late hours of the evening. Though there was no storm, lightning had forked from the sky through his window and into his person. The witness, who had asked not to be identified, ran screaming from the house, but when the family—and later authorities—arrived on the scene, there was no sign of the viscount or his opus.

A chill coursed down Elsie’s spine as Mr. Parker’s words came rushing back to her: He has been out of sorts lately, what with the passing of the viscount . . . Right under his nose, yet no one heard a thing.

Her mouth went dry. Had the steward been referring to Viscount Byron? Could Squire Hughes be the unidentified witness?

Her thoughts ran rampant. According to the Wright sisters, the squire had also been connected to the baron who had passed. Quite a coincidence that he should know both of the men whose opuses had been taken. And why the sudden increase in opus-related crime? This wasn’t the seventeenth century—

“Elsie?”

She set down the paper and forced her thoughts to the present, tucking away the information for later study. Crossing to Ogden, she placed the drops in his waiting hand. They seemed so bright at first, but it was only a trick of the sun, for when Ogden shifted his hand, they glowed only faintly.

This was another aspect of drops—they reacted to a person’s magical fortitude. Glowed. The stronger the spellmaker, the brighter the drop. They did not, however, react to a spellbreaker’s magic. If Elsie held them in her hand, they remained unlit and translucent. Ogden had some ability, but not much. The spells she’d encountered at the duke’s estate would be far beyond his grasp. But he did try, and occasionally succeed.

“Which spell is this?”

“Temperature change.” Ogden held his painted arm out straight in front of him. “Would make some of my work easier. Maybe help with pottery.”

Elsie stepped back, and Ogden chanted Latin. Elsie understood only a few words of the old language, and none of the ones passing her employer’s lips. She tried to follow the words on his arms, for that was what he read, but Ogden’s body hair was thick, and he had turned the top of his forearm away from her. When he finished, his fist closed around the drops. They brightened slightly, then dulled.

Ogden sighed. The spell hadn’t taken.

“Maybe try again,” Elsie suggested. “I can check your handwriting; the brush could have slipped.”

“It’s an intermediate spell.” Ogden lowered his arm, looking fatigued. “It was a long shot to begin with. Seems I must appease myself with novice learning only.”

Elsie rested her hand on his shoulder. “You still know more magic than I do.” It was both a truth and a lie.

He offered a weak smile and patted her hand. “It’s fine. I am an artist, not an aspector. This is really just a hobby.”

“At least you’ll only ever have to buy white paint.” Ogden’s most-used spell was the color-changing one, although he couldn’t mimic the metallic glints in the paint Elsie had retrieved for him last night. “I put the new paint in your studio.”

“Thank you. Mind getting me a tea cloth so I can wash this off? Emmeline hates scrubbing ink from my shirts.”

She nodded and turned, but paused. “Did you read the paper already?”

“I have.”

“What do you think . . . of the murders? And the opuses?” The opuses that had been stolen were from master magicians, people who