He jogged across the wide grass to the house. Vivian was in the sitting room, calmly answering her correspondence.
“How the devil did you do that?” Jacob blurted out.
“Hm?” she murmured without looking up.
“You grabbed a knife from the air and hit a bull’s-eye without looking!”
She held up an unfolded sheet of paper. “I needed to open my letter.”
“But you…” he stammered. “We have letter openers! There was no need put yourself in harm’s way—”
“Kuni can hit targets without looking at them,” said Tommy. “Why shouldn’t Vivian?”
Jacob goggled at his sister. Kuni was a Balcovian warrior who had been trained in armed combat since she could toddle. Vivian was an unpublished playwright who wrote rude comments to idiots in the newspaper.
“Kuni relies on her muscles’ instinctive memory, gleaned from thousands or millions of past throws,” said Philippa. “I imagine Vivian uses mathematics.”
“Mathematics,” Jacob repeated.
Philippa nodded. “It’s theoretically possible to hit a target every time. All you have to do is take into consideration the weight, dimensions, and balance of the blade and its handle… the distance to and material of the target… the humidity and any associated wind resistance—”
“In less than a second?” Jacob demanded. “Instant calculations in the blink of an eye?”
“Just because you can’t do sums doesn’t mean Vivian can’t,” Tommy murmured.
The other three filed into the room from outside, Marjorie and Adrian with their arms full of wriggling shrews, and Kuni with a pile of razor-sharp daggers.
“Write faster,” Kuni told Vivian. “You’ve got to come back outside to throw daggers with me before I have to leave for Kensington.”
As much as Jacob wanted to watch over Vivian, he took advantage of his family’s distraction to edge toward the door. Perhaps tonight, for the first time in years, no one would needle him about—
“Are you going to read your poetry to your friends?” Philippa asked.
He sighed. “No. Stop asking.”
“Jacob says the only way he’d consider sharing his work is anonymously,” Vivian murmured.
He sent her a repressive glance. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“If another identity makes you feel more comfortable in your own skin, then you should use it,” said Tommy. “But if any disguise makes you feel worse, you should take it off right away.”
Marjorie touched Jacob’s shoulder. “Consider just for a moment how it might feel to have others appreciate your efforts.”
Jacob grimaced. He didn’t have to wonder what having avidreaders might be like. He was England’s most celebrated reclusive poet… and no one knew it. Not his publisher, not the Dreamers Guild poetry group, and not even his own family.
Vivian followed him to the front door. “Don’t be a coward.”
He whirled to face her. “Whatdid you just say?”
“You’re so used to being Wynchester royalty, you’ve forgotten what reality is like for everyone else,” she shot back unapologetically. “It’s easy for you lot to take chances with other people’s lives. Have you considered taking a risk of your own?”
He clenched his teeth. As it happened, hedidimagine unveiling the truth. Often. Of shouting out to the world “Sir Gareth Jallow is Jacob Wynchester!”
And then what? Most likely, he wouldn’t even be believed. Not by the Dreamers Guild, and definitely not by the world at large.
“You?” the public would sneer. “You’re not a ‘sir’ anything. What makes you think your words are worth reading?”
“It’s not that simple,” he ground out.
