Cora lets out a shrill laugh, startling the knife out of Alice’s hand.
Alice draws a deep breath. “What has gotten into you today? Are you really that jittery over all this? Of all potential liabilities, I did not predict in you a nervous disposition—”
“Nor should you.” Cora leans back in awkward imitation of a lady at ease, but Alice can see her gray skin breaking into a sweat. “I’ve had some time to think, and it’s a fine plan, as you said. All of this is going brilliantly. It’s all going to work out. It has to.”
Alice’s frown deepens into an incredulous grimace when the bell rings in the front entry, sending her rising from her seat.
“We’re not expecting Ward,” she murmurs to Béatrice, who turns to meet her eye at long last.
“Perhaps a message boy,” Béa says.
But when Béa opens the door, the person waiting there cuts rather a larger figure.
Cal Archer at least has the courtesy to remove his derby hat before barging inside.
Alice lets out a cry of outrage as the young man breezes past her into the parlor—as if he pays rent here.
“What are you doing?” she cries, trailing him closely.
“Warming up,” he says, rubbing his hands together by the lit stove. “Warming up to what I have to say toyou, that is.”
Alice can feel her face purpling with anger. She lowers her voice to a fervent whisper, her eyes darting to the hall, assuring herself no one is approaching. “How many times must I tell you not to come here? Anyone could have seen you come inside!”
Cal turns to face her, his own expression thunderous. “Oh, I was careful. Which is more than I can say for you.”
“You’re being thoughtless,” Alice hisses. “And keep your voice down.”
Cal doesn’t bother to whisper. “And you’re being heartless. How could you possibly sanction this? An actual marriage? Against her will, against common decency—”
“How doyouknow it’s against her will?” Alice snaps. “How is this any business of yours?”
He waggles a finger at her. “Oh, don’t you play the ‘stay in your lane, I’ll stay in mine’ line with me. That might work on some downtown fence or forger. Hell, it might even work with old McAllister, but not me. I know you far too well for that.”
Alice scoffs. “You say you know me? That is a bold claim.”
Cal points. “There. That’s it. This isn’t about clean lanes, not completely. You are punishing me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Alice turns away, waving her hand in exasperation.
“Maybe I deserve it. Hell, I know I do. But if you would only let me atone, Alice—let me in at all. Letanyonein!”
“I...” A hollow voice echoes from the hall. “You...” Cora stands on wobbling legs, staring between the two of them from the doorway as if waking from a dream. “I think this time I’m actually going to...”
Cal rushes past Alice to Cora’s side, just as Béa steps into the room, ready to drag an armchair near. Between the two of them, they ease Cora into a seat before a legitimate swoon can overtake her.
“Hiya, Béatrice.” Cal offers the maid a rueful smile. “Sorry to barge in without a proper hello.”
“A proper hello to you too.” Béatrice laughs. “Cup of tea?”
“I’d kill for one. You’re asaint,” he drawls, the idiot, then has the gall to call after her, “And I don’t suppose Dagmar’s made any of those spice cookies lately?”
Alice turns away, pressing a finger against her temple to stave off the stress headache she can already feel building.
“He called you Alice,” Cora murmurs. “And your accent... You’re not... doing the accent.”
She shakes her head as if trying to clear it of dust.
Alice glares at Cal. He shrugs.
