Spellmaker (Spellbreaker Duology #2) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,90

wasn’t much to do with Ogden gone, and since the upcoming wedding was so simple, there wasn’t much left to plan. Elsie took to wiping down the counters in the studio and sweeping and mopping. She even took a putty knife to some paint drips on the floor. She had just finished when a dog barked outside. Opening the front door, she saw a post dog panting with a satchel hanging off its side, containing three letters. She took the envelopes and patted the dog’s head. Poor thing was probably sweltering in this July weather.

The dog trotted away, off to the next house, and Elsie stepped inside. The first letter was from Ogden’s mortgager, reminding him of the month’s upcoming payment. The second and third were addressed to Bacchus.

“Oh,” she said, turning the first letter about. It bore the seal of Seven Oaks. The second missive she didn’t recognize.

Setting the bill atop the counter, Elsie hurried upstairs, finding Bacchus drafting a letter of his own in the sitting room. He did that a lot—writing missives to establish himself in London, or sending instructions back home to Barbados. It was all very official sounding.

“You know you’re well and settled in Brookley when you get more mail than we do.” She offered a smile as she crossed the room, handing the mail to him.

Bacchus set down his pen and accepted it. He opened the unfamiliar letter first and read silently. A sigh escaped him.

Elsie took a seat beside him. “What is it?”

“Good news, we’re not homeless.” He handed the letter to her. “Our offer on that townhome in London was approved.”

Mice scurried about in Elsie’s stomach. “Oh.” It was official, then. They would be living somewhere else, together. It was a stark reminder that all of this was actually happening. Hopefully happening. Admittedly, she was sad to say goodbye to the stonemasonry shop. She couldn’t keep her job if she lived so deep in the capital, though without an occupation, she could fully dive into her pretend training as a spellbreaker and earn the official title that much faster. Still, she would miss not seeing Ogden and Emmeline every day. At least she would be closer to Reggie.

And much closer to Bacchus.

Ignoring the warmth climbing up her neck, she said, “The other is from Seven Oaks.”

Bacchus, his expression slack, turned the letter over and ran the pad of his thumb over its seal. “So it is.” He handed it to her.

“It’s addressed to you.”

“I know you’re curious.” He offered her a weak half smile.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Elsie broke the seal and opened the letter. It was brief, the penmanship fine. She glanced at the bottom. “It’s from the duchess.” Then she read slowly.

“Oh.”

Bacchus quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She read to the end of the letter, then set it on her lap. “The duke feels terrible about what happened.”

He leaned his chin on his fist. “So she’s said.”

“He took off the siphoning spell.”

Bacchus straightened in his seat. “What?”

She held out the letter to him, but he didn’t take it. “It says he canceled the new one. The one he got after I broke your end. She says they’re going to take what life will give them.”

Now Bacchus did take the letter, and looked it over. “I’m . . . surprised” was all he said.

Elsie drew a hand down the length of his back. “How are you doing?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

A scream pierced the air, and something shattered.

Elsie shot to her feet. “Emmeline!” She ran for the door, Bacchus close behind her. She nearly toppled down the stairs for how swiftly she took them.

She swung around into the kitchen, seeing first the broken pieces of a serving tray littering the floor, then Emmeline pressed up against the wall, wide eyes staring at the far corner. At a person. No, an astral projection. But the one casting it was so far away it was little more than a wisp of a ghost. No discernable facial features, smeared colors of brown, gray, black, and peach.

Elsie’s stomach hit the floor, and her throat constricted. She managed to croak, “M-Merton?”

“I’m not familiar with him,” a gravelly male voice replied, as though he were speaking through a wall. But more importantly, he spoke with an American accent.

A chill passed over Elsie’s everything.

He’d come.

Master Quinn Raven.

“It worked,” Elsie whispered.

The image shifted. “You’ll have to speak up.”

She stepped closer, and Bacchus’s hand found her shoulder, stopping her. Turning to him, she said, “A projection of