“Which spell is this?”
“Temperature change.” Ogden held his painted arm out straight in front of him. “Would make some of my work easier. Maybe help with pottery.”
Elsie stepped back, and Ogden chanted Latin. Elsie understood only a few words of the old language, and none of the ones passing her employer’s lips. She tried to follow the words on his arms, for that was what he read, but Ogden’s body hair was thick, and he had turned the top of his forearm away from her. When he finished, his fist closed around the drops. They brightened slightly, then dulled.
Ogden sighed. The spell hadn’t taken.
“Maybe try again,” Elsie suggested. “I can check your handwriting; the brush could have slipped.”
“It’s an intermediate spell.” Ogden lowered his arm, looking fatigued. “It was a long shot to begin with. Seems I must appease myself with novice learning only.”
Elsie rested her hand on his shoulder. “You still know more magic than I do.” It was both a truth and a lie.
He offered a weak smile and patted her hand. “It’s fine. I am an artist, not an aspector. This is really just a hobby.”
“At least you’ll only ever have to buy white paint.” Ogden’s most-used spell was the color-changing one, although he couldn’t mimic the metallic glints in the paint Elsie had retrieved for him last night. “I put the new paint in your studio.”
“Thank you. Mind getting me a tea cloth so I can wash this off? Emmeline hates scrubbing ink from my shirts.”
She nodded and turned, but paused. “Did you read the paper already?”
“I have.”
“What do you think . . . of the murders? And the opuses?” The opuses that had been stolen were from master magicians, people who knew the most powerful of spells. The spellbooks’ value went far beyond money, and in the wrong hands, they could be incredibly dangerous. In the riots of the late seventeenth century, opus spells had been used to make a general forget which side he fought for and attack his own king. Another had set an atheneum on fire.
Ogden frowned. “I hope they are merely stories sensationalized by journalists to sell more papers. Let’s pray the viscount is the last we hear of.”
Elsie nodded before hurrying downstairs to do as asked, her thoughts flitting between murders, opuses, and Kent.
When the door to the studio opened, Elsie jumped and dropped the paintbrushes she’d been organizing. She half expected a large, shadowy man to be standing there. He would say, I meant dawn today, and then step aside, revealing the police force assembled behind him, ready to drag her to the nearest atheneum for punishment.
To her relief, it was merely a lad no older than fourteen. Small in stature, dressed in gray servants’ clothing. Completely harmless.
She craned to check the road behind him just in case, but it seemed God did not mean for her to meet her reckoning today.
Letting out a long breath, Elsie scooped up the paintbrushes and headed over to the counter, where the boy waited. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Elsie Camden?” He scratched the side of his freckled nose.
She set the brush down. “I’m she. What can I do for you?”
His eyes darted around the studio, though it seemed to be more from curiosity than nervousness. Remembering himself, he shot his gaze back to her. “Oh. Uh, Mr. Parker sent me. From Squire Hughes’s estate. Said . . .” He paused, trying to remember. “Needs your assistance with an addition, and Mr. Ogden ’asn’t got the paperwork.”
Mr. Parker. Her pulse quickened at the name. Why send for her when he could simply wait until tomorrow and have Ogden bring the paperwork himself? Why was a man who had so pointedly not been in her life—almost as though he’d been trying to conceal himself—now suddenly popping up again and again?
Could she be right about his connection to the Cowls? And if so, did this mean they were finally preparing to bring her into the fold? She’d been waiting so long . . .
The boy was watching her, so she pushed out a confirmative “Ah.” The metallic paint would not be needed yet after all. If the squire meant to add more work to Ogden’s plate, he wouldn’t have time for it. Not today. Leave it to a nobleman to assume he was the only one worth serving. “Wait for me one moment, will you?”
The boy nodded, and Elsie retrieved the ledger used to record Ogden’s open orders, trying not to let excitement shake her hands. The ledger chronicled names, dates, the type of work, estimates, and final prices. Squire Hughes had a page all to himself. Ogden, being a wise man, wanted the extra requests recorded now so they’d be charged properly when the time came. Elsie would even make Mr. Parker sign the page. She wouldn’t put it past Squire Rat to shortchange them.
Maybe she could get Mr. Parker to print his name as well. See if it matched the handwriting in the letters she received. Although she always promptly destroyed them, they were all written in the same hand. She felt certain she’d recognize it.
After retrieving her hat, she tucked the ledger under her arm and gestured for the lad to lead the way. He did so without word, and walked too slow for Elsie’s liking. She wanted to arrive straightaway. She needed to know.
It was a bit too cloudy today, but the sun peeked out just often enough to keep the air warm. The Wright sisters hunched together outside the saddler. They were gossiping, no doubt, which made Elsie both roll her eyes and wish to get closer to see what garnered their interest. Levi Morgan, her closest neighbor, passed by with a bundle under his arm, tipping his hat to her. Elsie nodded in turn.
They crossed the street and passed the dressmaker, the courthouse, and the constable’s home. Continued down the road until it narrowed and grew dusty, past a stream, and through a smattering of woods, all the way to the squire’s home. Elsie was quite out of breath when she arrived. Her guide was gracious enough to lead her to Mr. Parker’s study before continuing on his way. The door was ajar, and Mr. Parker sat at his desk, a dainty pair of spectacles resting at the end of his nose, making him look quite old. He scrawled something on a piece of paper. Elsie let herself in. She wasn’t quiet about it, and when the steward glanced up and saw her, he immediately slammed his left hand down, covering what he had written.
Elsie, of course, took immediate interest in the writing, but Mr. Parker’s wide hand successfully covered all of it. Surely he’d smeared the ink! What was so private that he felt the need to hide it? And so obviously?
It was as she lifted her gaze from the steward’s hand that she saw a stick of wax to one side of it. Her pulse quickened. It was a vivid orange wax.
Just like the wax the Cowls used to seal their letters.
Her lips parted, but no sound escaped them. Of course more than one person, or people, could have orange wax on hand. Elsie knew that. But the orange wax in addition to the covering of the letter . . . Was Mr. Parker trying to hide his handwriting?
She feared he’d hear her heart thundering in her chest. If it’s him, then he’s not ready to reveal himself. It took the bulk of her willpower not to launch herself at the desk and forcibly remove that note so she could read it, or simply blurt out, Are you the one who’s been directing me all this time?
It made sense. His age, the wax, his interest in and knowledge of her, the ease with which she’d landed that initial job in the squire’s home. It made sense, and yet Elsie could do nothing about it until he moved first.
All of these thoughts swept through her mind in a matter of seconds, leaving her fingers cold and head dumbfounded.
Mr. Parker snapped her to attention. “Miss Camden, thank you for coming on such short notice. Squire Hughes wished to add some stonework to an outer wall, and I understand Mr. Ogden has a process for that.”