Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,69

someone had purposefully sabotaged him with that spell, but because of the emptiness of the carriage. He felt the lack of a woman who, he had to admit, was rather . . . amiable.

Amiable. Even he felt the wrongness of the word. Yes, she was amiable, but it was something else that drew him to her. He could still feel the cool touch of her fingers over his chest and stomach. It had dissipated his anxiety and stoked something even more maddening. Something he hadn’t wished to dwell on before, given their circumstances.

Now she was gone, and he couldn’t be more confused.

He no longer suspected Elsie of thievery, but she guarded her secrets so closely. She’d seemed so honest with him, so frank, on their trip to Ipswich, and just as quickly she’d shut down. Fled without reason. Abandoned a mission she’d seemed intent on seeing through.

What had been in that letter? A threat? Blackmail? Or was he letting his imagination get away from him? He’d wanted to ask her to explain herself. But her eyes had looked so worried, her mouth resolute, and she’d just broken the bonds he had unknowingly worn since adolescence. And so he’d let her go, leaving himself to simmer in unanswered questions.

Rather than head straight to London, he returned first to Kent, wanting to update the duke and see if Elsie’s promised telegram had arrived. He arrived on Sunday to find there was no telegram, and the duke had fallen into poor health while he was away. It was not the first time it had happened, but it concerned Bacchus, nonetheless. The duke’s entire family was at the end of their line, worrying over him. And so Bacchus had spent most of his Sunday pacing the long corridors of the estate, tormenting himself. He must have been a sight, for even Rainer and John kept their distance.

Early Monday morning, he returned to London, to the Physical Atheneum.

He’d written ahead to request an appointment regarding his advancement. But when he arrived, the first place he went was the library. The maze of books became an utter labyrinth once he began walking through the shelves. They hadn’t seemed so imposing in passing.

He spotted an elderly steward in one of the larger rooms and approached the man.

“You, are you employed here?” He sounded impatient. He tried to reel himself in, but the questions were boiling over. He could solve at least one of them now: What rune had marked his skin?

As for Elsie’s—Miss Camden’s—well-being, he was forced to wait.

The steward looked over his spectacles. He appeared to be frowning, but perhaps that was simply the way the loose skin of his face hung. “Never seen a Spaniard in these parts.”

Bacchus doubted he’d ever seen a Spaniard period, as Bacchus wasn’t one. He stuffed his impatience into his stomach and chose not to correct the man. “Do you know of any volumes depicting runes?”

He blinked, the spectacles making his eyes large and birdlike. “Runes? Those are spellbreaker books. Down in the basement. Why?”

“Thank you.” He stepped away. Paused. “Would you kindly point me in the direction of the stairs?”

The man did, with a crooked finger, and Bacchus crossed the floor with long strides. Bookshelves like sentinels stood in his way, but eventually he found a stairwell basked in shadow, thanks to a burned-out lamp. He took it carefully, the temperature lowering by the step. The smell of mildew snuck into his nose as he reached the bottom.

The area was poorly lit, so Bacchus took one of the lamps off the wall and brought it with him. Two others shared the space: a woman nearly as old as the steward, and a boy who could not have yet been twelve. The woman squinted at Bacchus; the boy, his hair mussed, pored over a book. Her apprentice, he suspected. Perhaps he was a spellbreaker in the making. Hopefully he did not have the tome Bacchus sought.

The man had not said where in the basement the books would be, and so Bacchus forced himself to slow down, to read spines and labels, which were severely lacking in information. He pulled out the folded paper in his pocket to again study Elsie’s drawing. The symbol looked almost Asian, but the curls on the edges lent it more of a French aesthetic. Not that it mattered. Magic was universal.

Tucking the paper away—thinking about Hadleigh, where Elsie claimed to have gone—he investigated one row of books, then another only a quarter full. On to