Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,5
dinner. Ogden said to leave his plate for him.”
Emmeline nodded, but fear tightened her face. She was always uneasy around Ogden’s messenger boy. Why, Elsie didn’t know. He was a tall man, yes, but so slight a strong wind might snap his torso like a twig. That, and he was an abundantly pleasant fellow; he always had a grin on his face and a bounce to his step. He wasn’t crude or cruel—indeed, although he rarely spoke to Elsie and Emmeline, he was unfailingly kind when he did so.
Emmeline shifted, and the stair creaked underfoot. “Would you set the table with me?”
Elsie let out a long breath through her nose. “Really, Emmeline.”
“Why does he always come at night?” she asked, defensive.
“Because he has other clients? Because that’s when Ogden is ready for him? And he doesn’t always.”
“Often,” the maid countered. “Often at night. There’s a look to him, Els. I don’t like it.”
Oh, Elsie knew it well. Emmeline had always been wary of Abel Nash, from her first day in Ogden’s household. It was an odd reaction to a man who was reasonably attractive and had a rather cheery disposition.
Elsie had teased her about it, once, asking if the true reason for her interest in the blond errand boy was a hidden affection, but Emmeline had responded so coldly that Elsie dared not mention it again. Ogden was more likely to court the man than Emmeline was.
Elsie’s shoulders drooped. “Yes, I’ll help you.”
Emmeline looked so relieved she might have fainted. “Thank you. I’ll serve you breakfast first tomorrow.”
Elsie snorted. “We’ll see how Ogden likes that.” Climbing a few steps, she took the girl’s arm in hers and walked her to the kitchen, noting how Emmeline gave the hall to the studio a nervous glance. The action made her feel like something of an older sister. The thought niggled something painful in her gut, however, and she pushed the notion away.
The two set the table and ate together. Emmeline listened intently as Elsie regurgitated the story of the baron from her novel reader, and together they speculated what his fate might be. Ogden still hadn’t come in for his plate when they finished, but that wasn’t unlike him. Like most artists, he could be a little absent at times.
Grabbing a candleholder, Elsie ventured toward the stairs, but voices in the studio caught her attention. Nash was quiet even in motion—she’d never heard the front door open.
She peeked in. Nash looked fragile next to Ogden, who had the broad, stout, muscular build of a stonemason—work he still did on occasion, when commissions from his paintings and sculptures grew sparse. Nash was taller, his hair dandelion yellow, his face young and narrow. He was in his midtwenties, dressed simply. Pale. Completely unthreatening.
Elsie couldn’t overhear their discussion, not that it mattered. Nothing interesting ever passed her employer’s lips, and she’d spied on them enough to know they were strictly business partners and nothing else. No, Elsie had to depend on Emmeline and the local merchants for good gossip. Not that she ever spread it herself. But the vicar didn’t preach against listening to gossip.
And yet, as Elsie turned away to venture to bed, Abel Nash looked over Ogden’s shoulder, his light eyes finding her for only a moment before refocusing on the man before him. In that brief moment, Elsie felt a chill course down her spine.
CHAPTER 2
After three weeks aboard a merchant ship, Bacchus’s head ached for land almost as much as his legs did. He swore he could feel his sanity slipping. He’d made the trip more times than he could count in his twenty-seven years, and yet he never had accustomed himself to it. The Atlantic always felt so much broader than he remembered it. On a voyage that long, he craved solid ground. And oranges. These merchant ships abounded in good food, but all of it was for profit, not for crewmen or passengers.
As Bacchus looked up at accumulating rain clouds and listened to the English lilt of the sailors hurrying to dock, his home in Barbados felt very far away. He’d spent just as many years in England with his father as he had on the island, but he’d never truly felt he belonged anywhere but the Caribbean. He’d visited his mother’s homeland, the Algarve, only twice. His poor grasp of Portuguese had always made him feel like he stood on the outside looking in. He had no desire to return.