Elsie woke to a thumping chest. The tendrils of the strangest dream curled beneath her skull. She’d been trapped in a room full of kitchen supplies, all the exits blocked by stacks upon stacks of bowls. In her desperation to escape, she’d knocked over the largest stack—
Something clamored down the hallway.
Not a dream.
Leaping from bed, Elsie called, “Are you all right?” not knowing if it was Emmeline or Ogden. Practiced hands struck a match and lit a candle. “Emmeline, is that—”
“Help!” Ogden bellowed.
Something heavy hit the floor.
Gasping, Elsie ran for the door, nearly putting out the candle in her haste. “Who’s there?” she cried, nearly screamed. Ogden’s door was ajar at the end of the hallway. Something else fell over. A scuffle, broken glass—
Elsie swung into the room just as a shadow passed through the window. Her candle struggled to hold its light. Her heart leapt into her throat.
A moan sounded from the wall.
“Ogden!” she cried, rushing to his side. One of his eyes was starting to swell shut. She lifted the candle, searching for blood, but found none other than in the split on his brow.
“What’s happening?” Emmeline appeared in the doorway, her eyes huge.
Setting the candle down so forcefully she nearly sent it out of its holder, Elsie shouted, “Go wake the neighbors, and send Mr. Morgan for the constable! Hurry! He’s getting away!”
Emmeline froze for a full second before grabbing the skirt of her nightdress and barreling down the stairs.
CHAPTER 18
“The men are searching now.” Constable Wilson examined the window. The perpetrator had escaped that way, despite it being two stories above ground. He’d shattered a pane in his desperation to open it. “Seems you got off lucky.”
“I beg your pardon?” Elsie snapped, wrapping her shawl more tightly around herself. They had all taken up posts in Ogden’s bedroom, lit with candles and lamps. Ogden sat on the trunk at the foot of his bed, pressing a cold slice of meat to his eye, while the constable paced back and forth across the room, occasionally taking notes. Elsie lingered near the window, wanting to see everything the constable noticed or wrote. Emmeline fidgeted by the doorway.
“You’ve found nothing stolen yet—”
“We’ve only checked his cabinet!” Elsie interjected. His drops had not been touched.
“—and a black eye is better than what it could have been.” Constable Wilson looked pointedly at her.
Elsie pinched her lips together. He did have a point. It could have been much worse. Thank God it was not.
The constable squinted out the window. “Good, the lights are on.”
“Lights are coming on all over the town,” Elsie said.
He pointed his pen across the way. “I was referring to the post office. Mr. Morgan is sending a telegram to the High Court of Justice.”
Elsie’s stomach sank. “The High Court? Whatever for?”
“Mr. Ogden is an aspector.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though Elsie hadn’t known. “Her Majesty has sent out missives that the court is to be alerted of all life attempts and robberies involving aspectors.”
Life attempts. Had Elsie and Emmeline not woken, had Ogden not stirred and managed to fight back, would he be dead now? Would they be talking to a coroner instead of a constable? Would the London Physical Atheneum, to which Ogden was registered, be descending upon them like termites to take away his meager opus?
Shivers ran down her spine. “Do you truly believe there’s a connection to the other crimes?”
“I mean to follow orders, Miss Camden.”
Elsie shook her head. “You know him, Wilson. He wouldn’t be a target.” She glanced at Ogden, but he didn’t look offended.
The constable nodded. “Indeed. You are only novice level, correct, Mr. Ogden?”
He nodded. “Not for lack of trying.”
“What will happen?” Elsie asked, voice tight.
“I imagine they’ll send a team immediately, both to hunt the perpetrator and to interrogate you.”
From the doorway, Emmeline squeaked, “Truthseekers?”
Elsie clawed at her shawl as cold dread wound through her bones. Truthseeker was a fancy title for the spiritual aspectors who worked for the High Court of Justice, the highest court in England, which dealt with magic-related crimes the atheneums couldn’t handle on their own. The title had its origins in the fact that spiritual aspectors had tricks up their sleeves that lent greatly to investigation, the greatest being their ability to pull truth from even the most stubborn man’s throat.
Or woman’s.
One truth spell, and a spiritual aspector could pull every one of Elsie’s secrets into the light.
“We’re the victims,” she protested, already knowing it would do no good.
“You have nothing to worry about. But I will need you to return to your rooms until they arrive.”
Elsie’s fingers went cold. “Do you really think this is necessary?”
At least the man had enough feeling to give her a sympathetic look. “It’s protocol.”
Setting her jaw, Elsie pushed past him to Ogden and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re all right?”
“Just this.” He shifted to indicate his eye, then winced.
Turning, Elsie said, “You’ll call the doctor, too?”
Constable Wilson answered, “As soon as I have a man to spare.” He indicated the door.
Elsie dragged her feet on her way back to her bedroom.
Lightning danced beneath Elsie’s skin. They won’t ask about your abilities, she told herself as she paced the length of her room. Why would they? We’re the victims.
She heard a cacophony of shod horse hooves and wheels. Peeked out her window, but she couldn’t see the arriving carriage, only hear the exhaustion of the animals pulling it. Sweat slicked her palms. There were so many questions they could ask. So many, and Elsie wouldn’t be able to resist answering, unless she broke the spell before speaking. Would a truthseeker notice?
“Calm down,” she whispered. She drew in deep breaths, squared her shoulders. She had no reason to be fearful. If they noticed she was discomfited, they’d ask more questions. More questions meant more truths.
And she didn’t think she’d be able to barter free labor to keep a truthseeker quiet.
A pang stung her heart.
Footsteps came up the stairs. Elsie ran to her bedroom door and pressed her ear to it, listening. A few pleasantries were exchanged—she recognized the constable’s voice but not any words—and then a door shut. They were starting with Ogden.
More footsteps neared her door. Elsie leapt back from it, and a moment later, a knock sounded.
She opened it and looked at the constable.
“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Camden.” He again looked sympathetic. “It will be just a few moments now.”
Elsie stuck up her nose. “I don’t suppose I have time to get dressed.”
Fortunately, the man didn’t point out that she could have done so while waiting for the court carriage to arrive. “I’m afraid not.”
“Very well. And thank you for your help.”
He nodded. She closed the door. Opened it again, a few inches. Moved her chair over to the window and sat, looking down at the light-stippled shadows below. Half the town appeared to be awake. She thought she could make out the Wright sisters.
Were she a less refined woman, she would have shouted, Go home! out her window. But she didn’t.
She was too scared to unlock it.
She was still sitting there, wringing her hands, when the truthseeker knocked on her door ten minutes later. The man was about Ogden’s age, perhaps a little older, though fatigue might have aged his features. He was balding in a very unfortunate manner, losing the crest of his hair while the sides still clung on. He didn’t have an unkind face, but she suspected his nose had been broken before. She prayed it was from an accident and not violence.