Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,25
and Mr. Parker sat at his desk, a dainty pair of spectacles resting at the end of his nose, making him look quite old. He scrawled something on a piece of paper. Elsie let herself in. She wasn’t quiet about it, and when the steward glanced up and saw her, he immediately slammed his left hand down, covering what he had written.
Elsie, of course, took immediate interest in the writing, but Mr. Parker’s wide hand successfully covered all of it. Surely he’d smeared the ink! What was so private that he felt the need to hide it? And so obviously?
It was as she lifted her gaze from the steward’s hand that she saw a stick of wax to one side of it. Her pulse quickened. It was a vivid orange wax.
Just like the wax the Cowls used to seal their letters.
Her lips parted, but no sound escaped them. Of course more than one person, or people, could have orange wax on hand. Elsie knew that. But the orange wax in addition to the covering of the letter . . . Was Mr. Parker trying to hide his handwriting?
She feared he’d hear her heart thundering in her chest. If it’s him, then he’s not ready to reveal himself. It took the bulk of her willpower not to launch herself at the desk and forcibly remove that note so she could read it, or simply blurt out, Are you the one who’s been directing me all this time?
It made sense. His age, the wax, his interest in and knowledge of her, the ease with which she’d landed that initial job in the squire’s home. It made sense, and yet Elsie could do nothing about it until he moved first.
All of these thoughts swept through her mind in a matter of seconds, leaving her fingers cold and head dumbfounded.
Mr. Parker snapped her to attention. “Miss Camden, thank you for coming on such short notice. Squire Hughes wished to add some stonework to an outer wall, and I understand Mr. Ogden has a process for that.”
Elsie met the steward’s blue-eyed gaze. Swallowed. “Um, yes, of course.” She pulled out the ledger, trying to keep her hand from shaking. Act normal. It’s just speculation. But the wax, the secrecy . . . and Mr. Parker had specifically mentioned Viscount Byron to her on her last visit. Because he knew something? Because he knew her?
It is my business to know, he’d said.
Clearing her throat, Elsie opened to the squire’s page in the ledger. “If I might borrow a pen and ink.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Mr. Parker slid whatever he’d been working on under the desk and pushed the pen and ink vial toward her. He gestured to a chair.
Elsie pulled it over and sat. She was so flustered, so excited, so confused, that she couldn’t stop the question from bubbling up her throat. “What was that you were working on? That is, I hope I didn’t intrude. I wouldn’t want you to have to rewrite it.”
Was she talking too fast? Slow down, Elsie. Or he’ll know you suspect.
Was it wrong for him to think she knew? But there must be a reason the Cowls kept their identities from her. Like they were waiting for something. Like she had to prove herself. They’d provided her with so much already; they’d saved her from the workhouse and from being discovered as an illegal spellbreaker, which she surely would have been severely punished for despite her age. They’d arranged for her to find a good job—what should have been a good job, at least. She’d always wondered if it had angered them when she left it for Ogden’s employ, but she’d still been a child. Certainly they couldn’t hold it against her!
They used to send follow-up letters, telling her of the good she’d done, the results of her clandestine activities, but they’d stopped the practice years ago. Likely because double the letters meant double the chance of getting caught, and besides, she’d grown from a child to a woman. Still, she yearned for their praise, and they gave it in the best way possible.
They kept her on. They gave her more complicated and more important work, more frequently. Something was about to bend. Elsie could feel it, and then she’d finally have the answers to the mystery she’d been living for half her life.
“Just a list.” Mr. Parker sounded cheery, but the tone wasn’t genuine. It piqued her interest all the more.