Gwyneth held a hand to her forehead and swept her gaze across the horizon, taking in the disappointing view. “It’s the principle, I suppose.”
Bran snorted as she lowered to a seat on the stone beside him. She dug inside her rucksack, her hand emerging a few seconds later holding a letter.
“Have you become an employee of the royal mail?” He intentionally kept his tone nonchalant. He recognized that letter—a letter he’d been avoiding like the plague.
She held up the missive, a determined light in her eye. “Have you seen this?”
“I have.”
“Yet you didn’t open it.”
“I didn’t need to.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s from Sir Abstrupus.”
He was in no mood for Sir Abstrupus.
“Well,” said Gwyneth, “I opened it.”
“Aye.” He could see the broken seal.
She huffed with irritation. “It’s an invitation.”
“Dear sister,” said Bran. He tried his best to keep the condescension from his voice—and was most likely failing. “The first thing one learns about Sir Abstrupus is that his commands are always disguised as invitations.”
Gwyneth had that glint in her eye that said she wouldn’t be dissuaded. “It’s for his Annual Autumn Harvest Ball.”
Bran grunted. One should never underestimate the quelling power of a grunt.
“It’s on All Hallows Eve.”
“All Hallows Eve for a harvest ball?” asked Bran. “That’s eccentric, even for Sir Abstrupus.”
“And it’s fancy dress,” continued Gwyneth.
Bran snorted. “It would be.”
“Shall we attend?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because—”
He clamped his mouth shut.
Artemis is sure to be there.
He couldn’t say that.
Instead he said, “Yorkshire is rather a long way to go for a fancy-dress ball.”
Gwyneth’s eyes narrowed. Bran realized this was the very point she’d been angling the conversation toward. He braced himself.
“But,” she said, “is Sir Abstrupus’s fancy-dress ball the only reason you would be going to Yorkshire? Mayhap there’s a better, more pressing reason?”
