Brookley was just south and a little east of London, wedged almost equidistant between Croydon and Orpington. It was an old town well kept by those who lived there. The main road spiraled through the center like a river of cobblestone, a thoroughfare that led south to Clunwood and farmland before continuing on to Edenbridge. It was small and quaint, yet had everything a reasonable person could need—a bank, a post office, a dressmaker, a church. Granted, if one wanted a millinery, they’d have to head into either London or Kent, but seeing as Elsie was set on hatwear, that didn’t bother her particularly much.
One of the best things about Brookley was that the stonemasonry shop sat on its northern side, down a small road curving off the main one, so it was a fairly private affair to walk to and from the direction of London.
Elsie kicked dirt from her shoes before letting herself in through the back door of the house attached to the studio. There were a few shirts hanging on a clothing line overhead. The smell of mutton wafted through the air. In the kitchen, Emmeline, the maid, stirred a pot on the stove. Elsie had been in that position for several years after escaping the squire’s household, until Ogden had promoted her to his assistant and brought in a new employee.
After hanging up her hat and setting her chatelaine bag on a table, Elsie waved to Emmeline before venturing down the hallway, around the corner, and into the studio, which was by far the largest room in the house. The counter by the door served as a storefront, and the rest of the space was filled with tarps, uncarved and half-carved stone, easels, canvases, blankets, and an array of shelves holding a collection of tools and utensils in every shape a person could imagine, as well as a great deal of white paint; a man who could change the color of anything with a simple touch needn’t spend money on pigments. Cuthbert Ogden hunched on a stool just shy of the center of the room, surrounded by two lamps and three candles, delicately placing snow on the tiles of a manor he’d painted on a canvas half as tall as he was. There was something comforting about seeing him working like that, something familiar, something safe. Elsie needed those kinds of somethings in her life.
“You’ll need glasses if you keep squinting by candlelight.” She picked up a nearly extinguished candle and set it closer to his work.
“I am young and hale yet.” His low voice seemed to creep along the floorboards.
“Hale, yes,” Elsie said, and her employer glanced over to her, his turquoise eyes sparkling in the light. His dark brows crooked in a mock disapproving manner.
“Fifty-four is not old,” he quipped.
“Fifty-five is.”
Ogden paused, nearly touching his paintbrush to his lips in thought. “I’m not fifty-five, am I?”
“You turned fifty-five in February.”
“I turned fifty-four.”
Elsie sighed and tried to hide the smile on her lips. “Mr. Ogden. You were born in 1840, the same day the queen married Prince Albert. You brag about it to everyone.”
Ogden’s lip quirked. “I’m sure they married in 1841.”
“Now you’re just being difficult.” She stepped up behind him, avoiding a lamp, and surveyed the painting. Ogden had managed to make a gray winter sky look cheery. A heavy wreath with red ribbon on the front door denoted Christmas. Snow at the top of the house, the chimney, the bottom two corners. Ogden had a strange thing about adding details at the edges of the canvas first before moving in toward the center.
“Does it snow often in Manchester?”
Ogden shook his head. “No, but it was the client’s request.”
“Christmas is seven months away yet. Seven and a half.”
“But I will need to put this away and look at it again in a few weeks.” Ogden’s eyes stayed on the painting, squinting and scrutinizing. “And then have you take it to the framer’s. That will take up another month, and then if they request corrections . . . you know how it goes. How was your evening?”
Elsie shrugged. “Uneventful. A long walk and some window browsing.”
Ogden stuck his pinky finger in the white paint on the palette in his off-hand. Elsie felt the spell as it sparked out of him, and the white brightened until it nearly glowed. He was a physical aspector, but not a very strong one. Strength in aspecting varied from person to person, although it seemed to be bestowed at random, not by genetics. The spells Ogden knew were all novice level. Spells that made only slight changes to the physical world around him—like changing the color of paint. Ogden didn’t seem to mind, though. Enough for an artist to get by. He’d told her that himself on more than one occasion.
Elsie watched him dip his brush and touch its fine tip to the eaves of the manor and the leaves of a tree on the grounds. It looked like real snow. With artistic talent such as his, Ogden didn’t need powerful magic.
He worked for a few more minutes before putting the brush down. “Would you help me clean up?”
Elsie picked up one of the candles, shielding its flame with her cupped hand.
“I’m expecting Nash,” he added.
“Is he staying for dinner?” Elsie asked.
Ogden shook his head. “Have Emmeline set a plate aside for me, would you?”
Nodding, Elsie carried the candle to a nearby table, then gathered the lamps and stuck them on the counter. She blew out the remaining candles—no point in wasting them. Ogden rinsed his brush and carefully carried the easel holding his latest work to the corner; Elsie rolled up the stained tarp underfoot. Even as she did so, she knew it was pointless. First thing tomorrow Ogden would be in the same spot, doing the same work, but she strived to make herself useful. Had strived for it these last nine years, ever since she’d advanced from being a scullery maid for a pompous jackanapes.
Elsie brushed off her hands and took the still-lit candle down the hall with her. Movement on the stairs made her gasp and set her heart racing.
“Emmeline!” Her whisper was nearly a hiss. “Why are you skulking about in the shadows?”
The maid, four years younger than Elsie at seventeen, darted her dark eyes over the railing. “Is he here yet?”
“Who?”
She licked her lips. “Nash.”
The name was barely audible.
Elsie rolled her eyes. “Not yet, and don’t worry, he’s not staying for dinner. Ogden said to leave his plate for him.”
Emmeline nodded, but fear tightened her face. She was always uneasy around Ogden’s messenger boy. Why, Elsie didn’t know. He was a tall man, yes, but so slight a strong wind might snap his torso like a twig. That, and he was an abundantly pleasant fellow; he always had a grin on his face and a bounce to his step. He wasn’t crude or cruel—indeed, although he rarely spoke to Elsie and Emmeline, he was unfailingly kind when he did so.
Emmeline shifted, and the stair creaked underfoot. “Would you set the table with me?”
Elsie let out a long breath through her nose. “Really, Emmeline.”
“Why does he always come at night?” she asked, defensive.
“Because he has other clients? Because that’s when Ogden is ready for him? And he doesn’t always.”
“Often,” the maid countered. “Often at night. There’s a look to him, Els. I don’t like it.”
Oh, Elsie knew it well. Emmeline had always been wary of Abel Nash, from her first day in Ogden’s household. It was an odd reaction to a man who was reasonably attractive and had a rather cheery disposition.