“It’s always a good day to see you, miss.” She squinted, and a bouquet of little creases fanned out at the corners of her eyes. “Though I wonder if others will be of the same opinion.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Rising, Polly reached for Ami’s hat. “For one, your boater is on all knurly. The bow goes on the side, goose, not the front. And then there’s the whole matter of what some might consider an indecency.”
Ami snapped a look downward. Sure enough, her bodice bulged out most unseemly where she’d missed putting a button into a hole, and her white shift showed through the gap. Bosh! With quick fingers, she righted the wrong, then tipped her head triumphantly. “There we are. All shipshape.”
“True,” Polly drawled, a flash of mischief lightening the deep blue in her eyes. “Yet I cannot help but wonder if you dressed in the dark.”
Ami scrunched her nose. Either Polly was making a jest she couldn’t understand, or there really was something wrong with her garments. “What could possibly make you say such a thing?”
“This.” Polly circled her hand in the air, indicating Ami’s figure from collar to hem. “Your bodice is embroidered with yellow and purple thread, that chemisette is red and green plaid, you’ve embellished it all with a striped chartreuse overskirt, and—” She narrowed her eyes on Ami’s feet. “Ami Dalton, are you wearing one brown boot and the other black?”
Huh. How had she not detected such a faux pas when she’d taken note of her wobbly heel? “Unfortunately, yes.” She smoothed her hands along her skirt. “But it’s a matter soon to be righted. The black boot and its mate are going to the cobbler the moment I can manage it.”
“Oh, my friend, what is the world to do with you?” Laughter, light as a summer rain, bubbled out of Polly while she doubled back to her desk chair. She plopped down, then planted her elbow on the tabletop and her chin on the heel of her hand. “Just imagine the man you could catch if you took a care with your looks.”
What fiddle-faddle. If a man cared only about her outward appearance, then she most decidedly did not want him. And she had yet to meet a man who didn’t. How her mother had managed to find her father had truly been a miracle, for as far as she knew, he was the only exception to the rule. It would have to be a very special man indeed to not only put up with her eccentricities but value them as well. She doubted such a fellow even existed, and as such, marriage seemed a distant prospect, overshadowed by the grandeur of someday leading a dig of her own.
But even so, she straightened her sleeve hems, now overly conscious about every aspect of her attire. “Actually, Polly, what I want is a particular journal of my father’s to price a recent find.”
The cluck of Polly’s tongue echoed from stack to stack in the big room. “So you’ve been at it again, have you? It was an ill-fated day when you met Mr. Dandrae at that art auction, I tell you. He ought not be enticing you from your home while your father is out of the country. Speaking of which, what will your father say about you taking such risks in his absence?”
“He needn’t know. Besides”—she shrugged—“I am always careful.”
“Not careful enough with your face paint, though. That’s quite the bruise you’ve got there.” The slim little clerk aimed a finger at Ami’s cheek.
Unbidden, her hand flew to her face, adding to the indictment. Evidently all the pains she’d taken with cosmetics before she’d left the house hadn’t hidden last night’s blow. And she still had a bit of a headache to contend with.
Polly shook her head. “Your fascination with ancient artifacts is turning into quite the star-crossed love affair. It’s consuming you, goose, to your detriment. If Miss Grimbel sees that blemish, you’ll be dismissed, and then what will you do?”
Ami dropped her hand, her lips twisting wryly. “Too late.”
A snort riffled Polly’s lips. “What did you do now?”
It was a fair question—if not a familiar one. Polly knew herlong history of disappointing the headmistress of Grimbel’s School of Conduct and Comportment. Ami tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted my girls to understand there’s more to life than knowing which fork to use or how to execute a perfect royal curtsey. History is so rich, you know?” She spread her hands. “I merely wished to impart a curiosity about it, that’s all.”
“I see.” A prosecuting barrister couldn’t have sounded more imposing—which was quite the feat for the petite clerk. “And how exactly did you do so?”
Ami smiled at the memory, a perfectly wicked thing to do, but oh how satisfying the girls’ natural curiosity had been. “Easy enough. As a volunteer at the museum, I borrowed a mummified cat.”
Polly’s eyes rounded. “You didn’t!”
“I did. Oh, Pol, you should have been there. The girls were wholly enthralled, asking loads of questions, but now that I think on it, perhaps I might have overdone fanning the flames of their curiosity. They simply couldn’t stop talking about the experience. I still can’t figure out if it was Lucy or Alice whom Miss Grimbel overheard.” Ami tapped her lower lip for a moment. “But let us dwell on happier topics, hmm? I’ve brought you a little something.” She shoved her hand into her pocket and retrieved a small white box, then pushed it across the desktop.
“Is it . . . ?” Polly’s voice fairly squealed with anticipation.
“It is.”
A green-sleeved arm shot out, and before Ami could say another word, Polly ripped off the cover and popped a piece of Turkish delight into her mouth. And a second. Followed by a third. “Mmm,” she purred. A kitten with a dish of cream couldn’t have showed more enthusiasm.
“Care to revise your opinion of my working with Mr. Dandrae? It does have its benefits, does it not?” Ami grinned. “Now then, while I hate to interrupt your obvious bliss, I should like to see an old journal of my father’s. 1867 to ’68, I believe. At least I hope that’s the correct one. Can you give it a look, Pol?”
The clerk shoved one more candy into her mouth before dashing down an aisle to the right of her desk.
Minutes later, however, Polly returned empty-handed. “Sorry, Ami. That particular portfolio seems to be missing. The folders jump from ’66 to ’69.”
Ami cocked her head. “Did someone else check it out?”
