Double drat. His explanation had rendered her dumb. Protective?
“Trust me, I know,” he said, his voice glum. “Well, let’s get this over with. Where are you taking me today?”
Just then, her stomach gurgled loudly. She winced under the cover of her veil. Of all the days she’d had to skip breakfast! Hopefully, the rattle of a passing wagon masked the embarrassing sound. She licked her lips and forced herself to continue. “I heard about an underground printing shop.”
“The one on Skid Row? Or the basement shop on Pine?”
How many were there in Seattle? “Neither. This one is new.”
“Sounds promising. What’s the catch?”
“Well, the woman who runs it caters to a particular crowd. For those who wish to see beyond.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “A spiritualist?”
“A well-respected medium and mystic,” she countered. “Rumor has it she knows things about the upcoming vote. Many a suffragist has visited her in the past year, so it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if this is where the songster was printed.”
Mostly because Olive had watched Madame Celestia—otherwise known as Ms. Abigail Finch, Mrs. Godfrey’s sister—make the copies herself. For the first time, Olive regretted the veil. She would have liked to see Emil’s expression as he processed her new ploy. But as time stretched, she grew nervous.
“Emil? Are you…?”
“I’m still here.” Her hand was lifted into the crook of his arm. “You’d better let me lead.”
“I can do—” She took one step forward, but Emil yanked her back just as a rush of air swept past, rippling her veil. The sharp clang of a streetcar bell rang out, echoing down the street. “Maybe that’s a good idea,” she amended shakily.
“Hallelujah, she sees reason.”
She rolled her eyes, then caught the veil between her fingers, pulling it outward to clear her view of the street and find her footing. Emil’s scent invaded at once, the familiar combination of musk and leather now mixed with something different—citrus, sharp and clean, like oranges left to dry in the sun. She quickly dropped the veil, but not before her mouth watered.
And she doubted whether any of this was a good idea at all.
“Oh, what joy. Another creepy-crawly basement.”
Olive choked back a giggle. He wasn’t wrong. Madame Celestia’s quarters were strange on any occasion—artifacts of the occult tended to put one at unease. But she knew without asking that he wasn’t referring to the Ouija board resting in plain sight. Or the cabinet overflowing with tea jars and a metal tray piled high with what she hoped were chicken bones. Or even the stuffed crow perched on top of the cabinet, overseeing the room with its one glass eye.
It was the dolls.
The creepy-crawly army of dolls.
Rag dolls in gingham pinafores, cloth dolls dressed as southern gentlewomen, wax dolls with clumps of human hair, porcelain dolls in taffeta and lace—they were all present. Crowded on tabletops, perched on two armchairs, propped against the wall. Watching. Judging. Olive gripped her lace veil and tried not to shudder. This had not been part of the plan.
“Won’t you have a seat?” Madame Celestia asked brightly as she hung up their coats.
Emil looked at the dolls with alarm. “With them?”
The older woman trilled out a laugh. “They don’t bite. Go on, now, while I start the tea.” She didn’t wait for a response, but flounced across the room, her long shawl dragging lightly on the ground.
Olive quickly examined her choices. The only unadorned surface was the camel-back loveseat. She quickly dismissed it—not only was it too small for two people, but the middle clearly sagged. The armchair, currently occupied by a matte porcelain doll with glass eyes, looked sturdy. More importantly, it would give her a much-needed respite from Emil’s hovering. She made a beeline for the chair.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, grasping her hand when she’d only taken two steps. “You’ve got to protect me.”
“But I?—”
Her objection turned into a squeak as she was unrelentingly nudged onto the loveseat. She barely managed to stuff her scarf into the crevice at her side and lift her skirts out of the way before Emil was wedging his way in beside her. Even gripping the arm with both hands, she couldn’t help but list toward the middle. Her heartbeat doubled as Emil’s hard thigh plastered against hers. He took his time getting comfortable, his elbow knocking her shoulder before he draped an arm over the back of the loveseat.
“Sorry,” he said, but he certainly didn’t sound like it.
That annoyed her enough to see to her own comfort. There wasn’t much she could do, but she made sure to get at least two jabs to his ribs before folding her hands placidly across her lap. A low snort told her he wasn’t unaware of her retaliation, but she decided she didn’t care. She needed all her faculties to ignore his pleasant warmth?—
