Chapter twenty-six
London
Theroomsmelledofrotting flowers.No, it wasn’t quite that.Eames couldn’t pinpoint what the scent was, but that might have something to do with the thick black hood over his head.He shifted his feet.The carpet was very thick and luxurious.It reminded him of the way ones shoes sank into grass in summer.
“Give your report, Harold,” said a voice.
To his dismay, he heard his own voice shake as he described how he’d been chased out of Ormdale by a small but deranged dragon.
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” the voice said, and he could have wept with relief.“The girl used your chivalrous instincts against you.She wounded you and set a dangerous animal on you.These sorts of women have no principles at all.But you will be all the more on your guard next time, won’t you?Now.Tell me about everyone you met there.”
“I already told—“
“I want to hear it again,” said the voice calmly.“I want to know everything.Everything you noticed, no matter how small.Especially the people, Harold.Exactly as if I were there.”
It was exhausting, but he followed the instructions as best he could.
When he had concluded, the Master prodded him once more, “Was there anyone who seemed at a loose end?Lost?Between?Hungry?”
Eames considered.He’d been surprised by the prosperous state of the village, which was full of new cottages, as well as a very presentable school.
“I don’t think… Wait.”
Between.
It hadn’t been at the abbey or the village, but between the two, on the little train that took the tourists up to the menagerie gate.
A young man with hungry eyes and restless hands.
“Yes,” he said, surprised.“There was someone.”
“Good,” the voice said, and Eames could tell he was pleased with him.Tears sprang to Eames’s eyes beneath the hood.“Tell me.”
Chapter twenty-seven
Ormdale
Unaspenttheeveningpractising.She couldn’t face Brahms’ Hungarian Dances, which was Janushek’s latest assignment.The jagged melodic line would bring out all of her inner disorder, she was sure, and the prospect appalled her.
She played Bach instead, and tried not to think what Janushek would have to say about that at her next lesson.At least Oolong appreciated Bach as much as she did.He curled up on her foot while she played to absorb as much of the music as possible.
As soon as she put her instrument away, there was a polite tap at the door.
Una sighed.The worst part about playing the violin was that it gave away one’s whereabouts.
To her relief, it was Uncle George who popped his head in.
“I wondered, my dear, if you might like to say the Thanksgiving collect with me?”he asked.
Una’s heart sank.She glanced at the little writing desk where her prayer book lay.“Of course, Uncle.Shall I call Violet?”
“You may, of course, if you wish, but it wasn’t Violet I was thinking of.”
Una looked at him in surprise.“It wasn’t?”
“No, my dear.It was to give thanks to God for preserving your life.”
Una swallowed over the lump in her throat.She slid her foot out from under Oolong, got the prayer book, and sat next to her uncle on the settee by the window, opening to the prayers for Thanksgiving—though she knew he had it all by heart.
