“Janeites?” Morrie’s lips curled back in a sneer.
“It’s the affectionate term for Jane Austen fans.” I directed his attention to a glossary on the back page of the brochure. “Apparently, Janeites walk, talk, dress, and live Austen. The only thing they hate more than movie adaptations with inaccurate costuming are Brontians – those are fans of the Brontë sisters—”
“I deduced that,” Morrie said snippily. “I don’t need you to explain every little thing. Sex lecture aside, you still haven’t convinced me why I should deign to attend.”
“Because I want you to. That used to be enough.”
“I’m not so blinded to your charms that I follow you like a puppy,” Morrie declared. “Or like a raven.”
Quoth, who sat cross-legged on the floor beside my chair, his head resting against my leg and a sketchbook open in his lap, stiffened at Morrie’s words. I resisted the urge to call him out. Morrie wouldn’t give ground and speak of his feelings in front of the other guys, and especially not in front of Lydia. If I wanted the truth from him about his recent rudeness, I’d need to get him alone. And resist his kisses for long enough to draw an answer from him. Neither of those things was going to be easy.
I tossed the newspaper in Morrie’s direction. “Fine. How about an appearance by the Argleton Jewel Thief? With all the rich guests, I bet you he’ll be tempted to show up. If you want something to engage your intellect, we might try to smoke him out, provided your ego hasn’t swelled so big you can no longer fit through the doors.”
From the desk, Lydia snorted. “That was a truly impressive slander, Mina. I shall have to remember it for future interactions.”
Morrie’s eyes scanned the article. “Intriguing.”
“So not your work, then?” Heathcliff’s eyes sparkled. “I was certain these jewels might soon adorn Lydia’s thin neck.”
“Not me.” Morrie tossed the paper on top of the empty cartons. “Okay, I’ll go. But I’m not dancing with Lydia.”
“Yes, you are!” Lydia shrieked. “I must show you off at the ball, or I won’t be able to make any of the other men jealous. You are integral to my plans.”
“Let Lydia show you off on the dance floor,” I grinned. “I can’t very well show up with more than one date, and I’m already taking Heathcliff.”
“What?” Heathcliff glowered. “No, you’re not.”
“I’ve a fourth ticket in my pocket that says otherwise.”
“Not doing it. I’d have to close the shop over the long weekend, and as you’ve helpfully pointed out, with all these Jane Austen freaks in town, business is booming. All that is beside the fact that there’s not a bribe on earth large enough to make me wear a cravat or listen to doddery old professors talk about stockings. Give the ticket to Quoth. He’s a bird. They love fanning their plumage and hopping around for ludicrous mating rituals.”
I glanced at Quoth, and he nodded. “Quoth and I already discussed it. He doesn’t feel comfortable with all the people that are going to be there. He’ll stay here and tend the shop, and Jo’s promised to come in and help as well. Quoth will visit us in our room at the Hall in the evening and he might join me for some of the lectures if one of you will lend out your lanyard. But I need a date for the ball and you’re it.”
“Is there any chance of me getting out of this?”
“Not a one.”
Heathcliff sighed, folding his arms. “Fine. But I’m not wearing a silly costume.”
I crossed my fingers behind my back as I recalled the ‘costumes mandatory, and will be supplied to any patron arriving without’ written on the back of the ticket. “Oh no, I’m sure that will be fine. Now, if we can move on to something more important—”
My phone beeped with a message. I glanced at the screen. Mum, demanding I come home and help her with her latest get-rich-quick-scheme. She’d had to give up on her pet dictionaries after the dictionary creator discovered he could make more money self-publishing them on The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Now she’d put together create-your-own-soap kits with her friend Sylvia Blume, which meant the kitchen had become a disaster zone and every surface in the house was coated in a layer of glittery soap scum.
But what she wasactuallydoing was trying to get me away from the clutches of Heathcliff. Because she couldn’t deal with the idea that I might choose the dirty gypsy over the rich and suave Morrie.
Because for some reason, when she looks at Heathcliff, she sees my dad.
The realization hit me like a freight train, slamming out all other thoughts. The words of my father’s letter blazed across my mind. If what he said was true, if he really was trying to protect both of us, then did my mother know about it?Everything in my life is a lie.I slipped the phone back in my pocket without replying.
“I’m ready for you guys to see this now.” I pulled the letter from my pocket and spread it over my knee. Morrie grabbed it, his eyes darting over the words before handing it over to Heathcliff. “What do you make of it?” I asked.
“This paper is unusual,” Morrie snatched the letter back, holding it up to the light. “It’s rougher than one would expect from Victoria’s stationery. The ink has an interesting patina.” He licked the tip of his finger and rubbed it against the edge of the letter, then tasted the ink. “As I suspected. This paper and ink predate 1896.”
“What else?”
“The drawings in the border support my assertion that the letter is older than when we received it. They look like the kind of drawings one would see on a medieval manuscript.”
Hmm…I dug around in the pile of books on the table and pulled out Herman Strepel’s volume of Homer’s Frog-Mouse War (It had a Greek name, but I still couldn’t pronounce it). Flipping through the pages, I stopped at one of the drawings of the mice attacking the frogs. “Like this?”
