The casket was far deeper than the others, at least four feet, and it was entirely empty, even of bones.
Merton had already been here, and none of the dead could tell him where she’d gone.
Elsie had dozed off again. She startled awake, her stomach cramping as she did so. The jailer kept her fed, but it was food she wasn’t used to, as the bucket in the far corner could attest. She wasn’t sure if it was a lucky rotation or pity from one of the guards, but they’d let her bathe last night. The water hadn’t been fresh, but it had been a bath. She wore the same dress she’d been arrested in, and the hair at the center of her simple braid was still damp.
It was her third day in prison. She hadn’t seen either Ogden or Bacchus in a day and a half, although she could have sworn Merton had returned to her cell in the dead of night. She couldn’t remember anything else about it—just a fleeting impression—so it may have been a dream. She’d had lots of those here. Snippets of things not quite real, sometimes in the darkness, sometimes in the daylight. She wondered if that was how madness started. Either way, it would make a great plot for a novel reader. Perhaps, if she ever got out of this horrid place, she could sell it to someone.
If she ever got out.
Looking at the bars longingly, Elsie touched her neck, wondering what it would feel like to have it snap. Would she die right away, or just hang there, broken and hurting, until blood stopped flowing to her brain?
Footsteps sounded, and while Elsie longed for company, her heart dropped to her hips and her fingers turned to ice. She stood up slowly, not wanting to upset her stomach, as one of the guards approached the door. He pulled a key ring from his belt and looked up at her through dark eyelashes.
“Miss Camden.” He unlocked the door. Her name sounded so final on his lips, like it was the only polite thing he could think to say. Pulling the door open, he gestured for her to follow him.
God help her, it was time for her trial. What was she supposed to say? Should she lie and hope, or be completely truthful and pray for a sentence of hard labor instead of death? But not completely truthful. She couldn’t mention her involvement with the Cowls. That would see her hanged for certain.
Clasping quivering fingers in front of her, Elsie allowed the guard to cuff her before following him out of the cell. Part of her thought she should try to look dignified, but she didn’t have the stamina for it. His footsteps were loud in the stone halls; hers were silent. As though she were already a ghost.
Gooseflesh prickled her arms and back. They descended a narrow set of stairs, the air growing even cooler as they did, and wound through massive, ancient stone pillars. Around a corner, down another corridor. Elsie was already lost. Through an open window she saw a small wooden stage, a pole standing just off center. No rope, but she knew death when she saw it.
She tried to swallow and found she couldn’t.
Finally, the guard took her up another flight of stairs, past two others in uniform, before shoving open a heavy door with his shoulder. Brilliant sunlight stung Elsie’s eyes, and she stumbled blindly for a moment, trying to gain her bearings. She nearly toppled down a set of steps.
She blinked several times, eyes tearing, before the old castle bailey came into view. A few guards walked its perimeter. And there, standing at the base of the steps, was—
“Bacchus?” His name was more breath than voice.
The guard took her wrists and began uncuffing her.
Her pulse sped like a wild horse. “I don’t understand.”
Bacchus took a step closer. “I spoke with the magistrate about your case and provided him with witness documents. He’s released you.”
Elsie stared at him, the news taking too long to register in her thoughts. It wasn’t until the second cuff dropped from her skin that she understood.
“I’m free to go?” she squeaked.
Bacchus nodded.
In an abrupt burst of anger, she wheeled on her guard and said, “For heaven’s sake, you could have said something!”
The man shrugged indifferently before heading back inside.
Suddenly weary, Elsie’s knees buckled. She sat on the steps, landing hard. Bacchus, bless him, tried to catch her, but he wasn’t quite quick enough. Instead, he sat beside her.
“I-I don’t believe it.” She rubbed her wrists, studied her hands. Was very aware of Bacchus’s closeness, for that side of her grew almost uncomfortably warm. “Wh-What did you say? I mean, thank you.” She let out a short, heavy breath. “Thank you. But what did you say? Has Ogden . . . ?”
“I haven’t heard from him.” His tone was low and measured, careful. “First, I want to ensure you can easily reach me if anything like this happens again.” He reached into the pocket in the lining of his jacket and pulled out two pencils. As he turned one over in his fingers, the wood glimmered and turned a warm shade of green. He focused on the pencils only for a second before handing the green one to her.
Elsie accepted the strange gift hesitantly. Had he known green was her favorite color? She turned it over in her hands, noting that when she did so, the other pencil jerked in his fingers in a similar fashion.
“They’re connected by a spell,” he explained, carefully returning his pencil to his jacket pocket. Elsie’s shifted slightly as he did so. “Leave it home on a piece of paper. If you need to contact me, whatever you write down will transfer to my end.”
She blinked. “How smart. And much less expensive than a telegram.” She would have to be careful with it so she didn’t accidentally stab Bacchus or scribble graphite all over his clothing. There was something reassuring about the gift, about the connection it gave her to him. She ran her thumb over the tiny blue rune only a spellbreaker could see, and a smile touched her lips.
“Second . . . there were some caveats to your release.”
She straightened. “I’m listening.”
“You’ll be required to register.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“And train under another spellbreaker.”
Elsie paused. Opened her mouth, closed it. She’d been spellbreaking for ten years. She’d broken spells as they were conjured, even! To submit to training . . .
There was a strain in Bacchus’s eyes, and her resistance immediately evaporated. “Yes, that makes sense.”
Softer, he said, “I convinced the magistrate you discovered your abilities only a month ago. You’ll need to act the part.”
Only a month ago. “I can play along.” A shiver coursed up her spine and tickled her hair. She slouched. “Oh, Bacchus, thank you.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I don’t know . . . I was so afraid.”
His lip quirked in the semblance of a smile, but there was something about his expression that made her uneasy. “What?” she asked, then blanched. “Bacchus, what did you do? Did you pay some unlordly fine?” She would get a second job to pay him back if she had to. Sell anything she had of value . . .
He shook his head and stood, taking her elbow to help her up as well. The delight she felt when he strung her arm through his didn’t fully banish her fear. He still hadn’t answered her. As he began walking through the bailey, toward the exit, she tried again, quieter. “Bacchus?”