Mrs. Drake stood directly on the threshold, so close that Olive had to step back to avoid colliding with her. The dragon jolted upright, as if she hadn't expected the door to open. A brief flash of alarm crossed her face before it was replaced by her usual sneer. Olive’s indignation rose like a tide, stiffening her spine. Was the woman eavesdropping on them now? She swallowed the sharp retort burning on her tongue and instead met Mrs. Drake’s eyes. That she could do so without flinching was a small victory in and of itself.
“May I help you?”
Mrs. Drake bristled at her coolness. “You’ve been receiving a lot of packages.”
Olive waited, but Mrs. Drake seemed to think the statement warranted a reply. “We have received a few, yes.”
“Must have come into a tidy source of money, if one can send out for packages.”
Ice prickled over Olive’s skin. It hadn’t occurred to her that a package would draw the landlord’s opinion, but it should have. Mrs. Drake was no ordinary landlord. She was a greedy, mean-spirited dragon. In hindsight, it made perfect sense that she’d be monitoring anything going in or out of her building. Especially anything of monetary value she could get her claws on.
“They’re gifts from a friend.”
“A friend?” Mrs. Drake’s gaze grew talon-sharp. “Or that man who came here the other day?”
Olive’s stomach sank. They were being spied on. A man as handsome as Emil would be noticed anywhere, but in this building? His coat buttons had probably been assessed for their worth the moment he’d set foot in the door. She tilted her chin as she debated her answer, and as she did so, she caught sight of her mother inside the apartment.
Already wringing her hands together. Already cowering. Already tearful.
Could her mother not have one day where she was optimistic about the world? Their future? Why did Mrs. Drake have to snatch it away with no regard for anyone other than herself?
“A friend,” she insisted, refusing to back down. “Will that be all?”
“I’ve got my eye on you, Miss Becket. Best make sure you don’t behave untowardly in my respectable home.”
“I haven’t the time, the energy, or the money—” she said meaningfully “—to manage anything untoward. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have errands to run.”
Mrs. Drake sniffed, then moved down the hall toward the staircase leading to her apartment. Olive waited until she was gone before giving her mother an incredulous look.
“Insufferable,” she whispered.
Anna nodded miserably. “Be careful, Olive.”
“I will, Mama.”
She had no choice. Courted or not, she wasn’t yet a wife. And that left her vulnerable. Charm and generosity aside, Emil couldn’t shield her from everything. There were still too many risks, too many fragile threads holding her family’s future together. One wrong move could unravel it all.
Still, for all the uncertainty, there was one small comfort. Today, she had a lead to follow. She hurried down the steps, eager to see what Emil had discovered about Leland Wingate.
“Oh, good, you’re here. Come in, come in.”
Olive stepped over the threshold of the Anderson floating home, staring at Emil with some surprise. He was utterly disheveled—wrinkled clothing, floppy hair, and at least two days’ growth of beard. He leaned in to give her cheek a distracted kiss, then turned and exited without another word. Brows raising, she took off her hat and gloves, unwound her scarf, and hung her coat on a row of pegs beside the door.
Plunking her hands on her hips, she took in the scene. The kitchen was a disaster. Plates were piled high in the sink, and the amount of crumbs sprinkled on the counter led her to believe he’d been subsisting entirely on bread. Shaking her head with a smile, she followed him into the dining room.
“Emil, what’s going on? Have you taken leave of your?—"
Her eyes widened. The table was strewn with messy piles of paper, a mountain of old newspapers took up an entire corner of the room, and stained mugs dotted every surface. Emil was already leaning over one bulky stack of paper, scanning figures with a pen and circling something.
It was the workspace of a man obsessed.
“My word,” she said faintly. She took a step forward and picked up the nearest piece of paper. It was a facsimile of a property deed, the real estate agency’s name underlined three times. She picked up a second. Another name was underlined, beneath that a scrawled note: Wingate’s associate? Confirm with Post, Nov. ‘07. She set it down and examined the piles more closely.
“Is this all about Mr. Wingate?”
“Partially.” He sat back and rubbed his chin absently. “I’ve been a bit busy the last few days.”
“So I see.”
