She chewed on her lip and paced the floor as tiny flames ate up the letter. It would be too suspicious, she decided, to repeat the ruse of being a saleswoman. She raked her mind for a better excuse. Looking for a job? The cook would recognize her, but that wouldn’t be so bad. A bigger stumbling block was the need for a letter of reference. She could forge one. But what happened if someone recognized it as a forgery? If there was one thing Elsie needed to avoid, it was the law. Unregistered aspectors, spellbreakers included, faced harsh and unsavory penalties. The most common was the noose.
Think, think. She could just walk right up, disenchant the thing, and walk away. She might not be noticed. But that was trespassing, wasn’t it? Was it permissible only if she had a basket of goods on her arm?
She’d have to go at night. She’d done missions for the Cowls at night before, but rarely. Yes, she’d go at night, and if she was caught . . .
She thought of Miss Wright, arm in arm with the mystery man. Elsie could claim a romantic tryst with one of the footmen. She was there to see him. If they asked for his name, she could deny the request, insist on protecting him. Or realize she’d come to the wrong estate. Or that her beau had lied about his employment. She could feign heartbreak and cry. Surely she’d be sent away without penalty if she cried!
Then again, this was a household that imprisoned their own staff, so perhaps not. But Elsie didn’t have any other ideas.
She’d sneak away just after dinner. Return before dawn. Maybe Ogden wouldn’t notice her absence—
A knock on the door startled a squeak from her throat. Glancing to the fireplace and seeing her pathetic flames had already died, she marched to the door and opened it with more force than was necessary.
Emmeline blinked at her in surprise. “Mr. Ogden is requesting you.”
Elsie whirled toward the window. The day was nearly over—had so much time passed already? Ogden must have just gotten home from the squire’s.
“Thank you, Em.” She snatched up the basket by the door and hurried downstairs, the maid calling “The studio!” behind her.
Ogden leaned against the countertop near the front entrance to the studio, hovering over a sketch pad. He still had his work trousers on, stained with plaster. “Ah, there you are,” he said as she approached.
“Thom Thomas stopped me in town.” She tried to relax her body so her nerves wouldn’t creep into her speech. She set the Christus in front of him and dug out the two shillings. “Asked for it to be repaired by next week.”
Ogden paused a moment before setting down his pencil and studying the statue. “Easily done.” He eyed her. “Are you quite all right?”
Elsie felt herself blush. “Just fine. The walk exhilarated me, is all.”
Ogden set the statue on a shelf below the counter. “Do you remember that little supply store in Westerham?”
Elsie rubbed her eyes, forcing her brain to switch from one channel to another. “Yes, the one with the cherry trees?”
Ogden grinned. “That’s the one. I’m in need of that metallic paint they have. I was hoping you’d venture down there to fetch some. It’s quicker than requesting delivery.” He shook his head, and for the first time Elsie noticed how tired he looked. “The squire is a persistent man, but I need that paint for another client. Now, Elsie, hold your tongue.”
He knew her so well. She swallowed the words The squire is a ratbag and nodded. Then straightened.
Westerham was south of Brookley, and Kent was southeast . . . Couldn’t she swing by the duke’s estate on her way back?
“I can go tonight, if you’d like.” She stretched her mouth into a cheerful smile. “I have a friend in”—think—“Knockholt. Since it’s a bit of a trip, perhaps I could dine with her tonight and come back in the morning?”
“You’re welcome to hire a cab,” he said. “But yes, that should be fine, so long as you’re back in the morning to assist customers. I won’t be here most of the day. Let Emmeline know. Did you get those chops?”
“I will and I did.”
Ogden gave her a paternal smile. “You’re a treasure, Elsie.” He turned back to his sketchbook.
And you have impeccable timing, she thought, assembling her darkest outfit in her head for tonight’s venture. She tagged it with a little prayer—she’d need all the extra help she could get.
She’d stashed the paint behind the woodpile of a bakery.
A few stars gleamed overhead as Elsie approached the duke’s estate. It seemed so much larger and more ominous in the dark. It had a heavy stone wall that faced the road, but the back of it opened up onto woodland. Land only the duke and his guests could hunt on, though that was a gripe for another evening.
Elsie did not much like ambling through the woods in the dark, yet her choices were limited. She could only pray no one mistook her for a poacher.
She stepped quietly, holding her skirts in her hands. Modern fashion did not take into account a woman’s need to be stealthy amidst brambles. There was decent moonlight, but the trees and clouds played peekaboo with it, forcing Elsie to move very slowly or risk falling. Wouldn’t that be something, stranded in the Duke of Kent’s wood with a twisted ankle?
Would her tale of secret love wriggle her out of that predicament?
Fortunately, the excursion through the wood proved uneventful. The trees thinned, the ground evened, and a manicured lawn sprawled ahead. She stepped onto the hunting path leading from the back of the estate with a sigh of relief.
She made it only a few steps before her foot was sucked into the path. Not mud—it hadn’t rained the last few days. No roots or holes, either. The glimmer of a rune revealed the truth, its feeble gleam highlighting the earth that popped up around her shoe, grabbing it in an iron-like grasp. It was not unlike the one she’d disenchanted on the doorknob, but it was more complex, with several tight, interlocking loops.
More spells to keep your servants in their place? she wondered, making a half-hearted attempt to tug her leg free. Crouching, watching her surroundings, Elsie touched the spell. She didn’t recognize this one—a physical spell, but not one she’d disenchanted previously. She tugged at the knot one way, then another, before finding a loose end and unraveling the rune bit by bit. The spell flashed—she almost thought it pouted—before vanishing, and the earth holding her in place crumbled back to dust.
Elsie shook off her shoe and proceeded carefully. Runes weren’t bold things; she couldn’t merely glance down the path ahead of her to see where any copycats lay. They would reveal themselves only as she got closer. Sometimes close enough to touch, for more masterful spells. Stepping just off the path, Elsie tiptoed carefully, catching sight of another foot trap several yards ahead. She searched the shadows, waiting for movement. Listening for sound. She smelled the stables but didn’t hear horses. Seemed all was well and proper. Good.
The servants’ door loomed ahead. Elsie might have missed it had she not made the Madeira delivery two days ago; the shadows hid it well. Heart pounding in her ears, she snuck closer, closer, and pressed her back against the cool wall of the mansion. She wasn’t terribly far from the woods. Perhaps she could run back to safety without being caught. She’d been quite a climber in her youth. If anything gave chase, she could ball her skirts between her knees and hide up a tree.
Her palms sweated, and her mouth grew dry. Get it done and get out. The Cowls will know you did it this time.
The door seemed so far away. Elsie sidestepped, cursing the moonlight when it peeked between its misty curtains. She reached for the doorknob, the spell of heat licking at her fingers. It was activated; Elsie snatched her hand away as the metal singed her fingertips. How many servants in this household had blister scars from this damnable thing?