Marjorie’s expression was amused. “How can I take offense when even you don’t believe your own words?”
“I definitely do,” Viv assured her. “I don’t lie.”
“Neither do your colors,” Marjorie said cryptically, then gestured toward an empty table and chair. “Sit down, stay awhile, copy a key. Perhaps it’ll unlock your future.”
“Er, no thank you,” Viv stammered. “I’m rubbish at art.”
Marjorie raised her brows. “Have you ever tried?”
“Exhaustively. Quentin and I took a week of cosmetics lessons at the Royal Theatre; I’ve seen clowns more fetching than the looks we designed. Later, we shared an art tutor for a full month. He left in tears. We were more likely to break the frame than to stretch a canvas properly, and when it came to mixing powders into paint…” Viv shuddered. “Some people are born artistic souls. And some people are me and Quentin.”
Marjorie hugged her.
Viv stood there and took it, frozen in place. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Comforting you. Not everything will come easy. You’ve got to keep trying.”
Viv snorted. “I gave up art a long time ago, and the world is better for it. If you’d seen those canvases—”
“Not the paintings. Don’t give up on Jacob.” Marjorie pulled back and gave Viv several pats on the shoulders. “Whatever you did—”
“Who says I’m the one in the wrong? Or that there’s a problem I’m avoiding at all?”
Marjorie looked at her in silence.
Viv swallowed. “You know what? A grumpy man recently told me to go and meddle in someone else’s life. I think I’ll do that now. Enjoy your forgeries. Good day!”
She raced down the stairs, fully cognizant that two dozen pairs of eyes were watching her flee in haste from a diminutive Wynchesterin a paint-flecked apron. Who’d got the better of Viv by hugging her when she wasn’t expecting it.
This family was devious indeed.
After checking Marjorie off the list, Viv arrived in Islington in time to see Graham and Kuni race each other around the garden, up the high stone walls, then leap from tree to tree.
They moved so quickly, Viv could barely jot down their current position in her log before they sprang to another spot. Both athletes kept up competitive chatter, teasing each other as they jumped and climbed and ran, as if doing so were no more strenuous than lifting a lemon cake to one’s mouth at teatime. Viv was out of breath just watching them.
This time, she knew better than to presume mischief was afoot. Even without considering her experience with Marjorie and Adrian, Viv could clearly recognize that Graham and Kuni were executing some sort of training routine.
At last, the duo collapsed onto the grass. Or at least, Viv would have collapsed. Fainted. Slept.
Kuni and Graham, on the other hand, rolled onto their stomachs for the barest of seconds before rising on their hands and toes, keeping their spines and legs straight as they pushed their chests up from the grass, shouting out numbers from one to ten… to fifty…
Only after one hundred press-ups did they flop onto their backs, side by side, their fingers entwined.
“Not going to join us?” Graham called out, eyes closed, his face tilted up to the sun.
“Um,” said Viv. “Good afternoon. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You absolutely meant to interrupt,” said Kuni, flipping a handful of long black braids out of her face. “You’re doing splendidly at it.”
“I meant to observe,” clarified Viv.
“Did you get what you came for?”
“Not really. I write stage directions for a living, and I don’t have enough words to describe what the two of you were just doing.”
“I thought you wrote letters for a living,” said Graham. “Do many people write in asking how best to scale walls and navigate rooftops?”
“I didn’t think you really did the roof bit,” Viv said. “I thought that rumor might have been greatly exaggerated.”
