Spellbreaker

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Elsie hadn’t meant to burn down the workhouse.

She hadn’t mentioned this to the constable when he’d come around to question her and the other children. She hadn’t said anything at all.

It wasn’t a matter of who had started the fire. Everyone knew it had been Old Wilson, whose knuckles ached when it rained and whose body trembled a little more every year. He’d dropped the lamp. Broken the glass. Spilled the kerosene. But that’s not why the rug and walls had lit up. It wasn’t why the big block of a building raged orange and yellow behind them, its smoke stinging Elsie’s eyes.

She hadn’t known the pretty rune on the wall was a fireguard. She hadn’t known it was important. She’d pointed it out to both Betsey and James, but neither of them could see it. She’d wanted only to touch it, trace it. And when she did, it had vanished beneath her fingertips. She hadn’t told a soul. Didn’t want to get into trouble. Didn’t want the workhouse to throw her away, too.

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