Penelope leaned against the wainscoting beside her friend Miss Virginia Underwood.From an unobtrusive corner, they watched guests wander in and out of the castle.Penelope was keeping tally-marks of which sorts of guests chose which biscuits.
Virginia was trying to impart an important lesson upon her.Or perhaps recounting a half-remembered fever dream.With Virginia, sometimes it was hard to tell.
“And although the noble turtledove can survive on its own,” she was saying, “it is with both its mate and the rest of its flock that it thrives.”
Penelope glanced at her sharply.“Are we talking about birds or about me?I have my flock.I don’t need a mate.”
Virginia sent her a sorrowful look.“You’re keeping tally-marks of biscuit selection.”
“That doesn’t negate the point,” Penelope muttered.“Observation is a key component of my methodology.The castle staff can report how many biscuits were consumed overall, but they won’t know which people ate which ones, or how many, or under what circumstances no biscuits were chosen at all.”
“Why do you need to know?”Virginia asked.“You provide the recipe and the kitchen bakes the biscuits.Whichever type is more popular, they will bake more of.Why must it be more complicated than that?”
“Aren’t you curious?”Penelope asked.“If I told you men old enough to grow beards were less likely to choose lemon, and that blond children in pairs tended to choose cinnamon over nutmeg, wouldn’t you want to know why?”
Virginia’s eyes widened.“Is that true?”
“I don’t know.”Penelope lifted up her notebook.“I must observe and tally in order to find out.”
Virginia harrumphed.“Is this your attempt to replace one obsession with another?”
“What?”Penelope stammered.
Virginia raised her brows.“Do you care a single fig about biscuit consumption, or are you hoping to spy a specific biscuit consumer?”
“What?”Penelope said again.
Virginia had an atrocious habit of being perceptive.
Penelope busied herself with her notebook.
“Spread your wings,” Virginia suggested.“Show your true colors.The turtledove—”
“He is not some bird-mate,” Penelope snapped.“He’s a very bad idea.”
“Ohh,” Virginia said knowingly, as if this slip had given away everything.It probably had.“I understand.You’re afraid he’ll return to his own nest.”
“Iknowhe’ll fly south.He’s a migratory bird.”Penelope slammed down her pencil and glared at her friend.“See what you did?Now I’m talking like you.”
Virginia crossed her arms.“What do the others say?”
“I have not asked anyone’s opinion,” Penelope enunciated clearly.
Virginia continued undaunted.“What do others say to women who do seek advice?”
“You’ve heard it all before.To attract a man, one must style one’s hair like this, commission a gown like that, flutter one’s eyes, swing one’s hips, speak in a breathy little baby voice, but only when spoken to.”Penelope snorted.“It’s hogwash.”
“Utter hogwash,” Virginia agreed.“You made the right choice by looking as drab as possible.”
Penelope blinked.“I look what?”
“After all,” Virginia continued, “It is the male who must attract his mate.The robin’s red breast, the peacock’s plumage, the lion’s mane.Beauty istheirrole.Your job is not to be desirable, but to be desired.”
“Well, it’s not working,” Penelope muttered.
She’d spent all day in her laboratory with the door cracked open in order to be able to hear any fortuitous raps upon the knocker outside.
None had come.
