Spellmaker (Spellbreaker Duology #2) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,4
yes, I am.”
“Excellent.” He stopped suddenly, peering briefly at the house. “Forgive my intrusion, but I’m in need of your aid, Master Kelsey. I’ve neither the funds nor the standing to help her, and we need all the allies we can get.”
“Help her?” Bacchus repeated, stomach tightening. His voice dropped. “Has something happened to Elsie?”
Mr. Ogden’s jaw tensed. “She’s been arrested.”
Dropping his hands, Bacchus stepped back. “On what charges?”
“Illegal spellbreaking, what else?”
Mr. Ogden began walking again, and it took a moment for Bacchus’s thoughts to connect to his legs so he could follow. He did, half hissing, “You’re awfully calm about this.”
“I am calm because I have to be.” The words were hard as wrought iron. “Because even I can’t get into the minds of every bobby and magistrate and convince them that Elsie is innocent. We’d best be on our way; I’m not certain how to proceed, or how quickly she might be sentenced. You know far more about the workings of the atheneums than I.”
Bacchus’s heart thudded against his chest, and his spine grew stiff as marble. “I’ll call for a carriage right away.”
“No need. There’s one waiting for us. I convinced one of your servants it was of utmost importance on my way in.”
The thought of this man penetrating the staff’s minds, his mind, should have bothered him, but Bacchus couldn’t tear his thoughts from Elsie. “When did they take her?”
“This morning. I’ll explain everything I know on the way there.”
Sure enough, as they neared the front lane, one of the duke’s drivers came around with a carriage. The fastest in the fleet, if Bacchus wasn’t mistaken. Good, they couldn’t waste any time. Not when Elsie’s life was on the line.
To think, only two fortnights ago, Bacchus had been ready to throw her into a cell himself. Now he’d give his right arm to keep her out of one. She’d saved his life twice: first by detecting and removing the siphoning spell that had been draining his strength and energy since adolescence, and second by thwarting Abel Nash’s plan to shoot him through with a lightning bolt. But even without the acts of valor, she had startled him with her courage, her tenacity, the soft heart she kept tucked away in a vault of her own making. She made him laugh, made him think, made him feel, and envisioning a rope around her neck made Bacchus sick to his very core.
He quickened his pace, Mr. Ogden keeping up well enough. Before they reached the lane, however, Mr. Ogden asked, “You haven’t perchance seen Master Lily Merton this past week, have you?”
Bacchus slowed. “No, why?”
Mr. Ogden’s eyes stared dead ahead. “Because she’s the only one who could have turned Elsie in.”
Elsie didn’t know what to think. What to do. What to hope. So she just gazed at the crisscrossing bars of the door to her tiny cell, listening to occasional footsteps, blank and scared and cold.
The ride here had been long and hard, for the wagon they’d taken her in had lacked even a simple bench for sitting. She’d thought they’d take her directly to the London Physical Atheneum, but apparently the assembly did not want criminals of her ilk near their precious books. No, she’d been brought to Her Majesty’s Prison Oxford, a facility designed by the London atheneums to hold aspectors—men and women who could potentially melt their bars or sway their jailers to let them escape. There were spellbreakers among the patrol as well, she noticed, outfitted with violet badges that stood out from the color-coded badges of the spellmakers—blue for physical, red for rational, yellow for spiritual, and green for temporal.
They’d put her in a cell the size of a closet, protected only by bars and stones. For Elsie, they were all the precautions needed. While she could unwind any spell used to entrap her, she could cast nothing to get herself out. The cell was about five feet tall, five feet long, and three feet across. Not quite large enough for her to lie down without bending her knees, or stand without stooping her head. Perhaps that was the point. The centuries-old stone was mottled gray and white, the plaster chipping at the corners of the ceiling. No mattress, no straw, but she did have a rough blanket and a pot for excrement. No one stood outside the cage-like door, but even so, Elsie couldn’t imagine hiking up her dress to use the pot when someone might pass by at any time. She