Miss Priscilla Fellowes transferred the dog leash to one hand so she could loosen the scarf around her neck with the other. “Gah,” she muttered. It still felt like it was strangling her.
A sensation she ought to be accustomed to.
She really ought to return to Miss Primm’s. She and Fiddlesticks had been meandering in the park for nearly an hour now, and the bitter cold penetrated her woolen coat despite the bright sun and unusually blue sky—for January.
And yet…
She delayed returning to the warmth of the school. Which, in fact, allowed her to delay facing the troubles awaiting her there.
Tucking her chin into her coat, she sighed.
As she reasoned that no one would be missing her yet, the leading string tightened around her hand. “Oh no you don’t,” she warned when Fiddlesticks strained toward the partially frozen lake. He’d, of course, taken notice of the birds there, preening like debutantes waiting to be presented at court.
“I may be subject to your mistress’s whims, Fiddlesticks, but I refuse to succumb to yours.” Priscilla tugged fondly on the leash to prevent her student’s small dog from seeking out trouble.
The water was only partly frozen. Furthermore, with such a long body and short legs, Little Fiddle had proven more than once that he wasn’t much of a swimmer.
A second flock of birds lifted off the nearby trees. Then, with a flourish and moving as one, they just as quickly landed, settling their webbed feet on the thin ice to join the others.
Fiddlesticks broke free.
With his ears flapping and his tongue hanging out, he dragged the leadings string behind him as he dashed toward the birds.
“Come back here!” Priscilla took chase, her half-boots digging into the frozen dirt. “Fiddlesticks! Come back here right now!”
Although Priscilla wasn’t officially Fiddlestick’s mistress, she never minded tending to him. In fact, she loved the little red pup who had taken to sleeping with her last fall when the weather turned cold.
“Stay off that lake!” But it was no use. Oblivious to anything but the birds, with short legs, he nonetheless galloped onto the ice. “Fiddlesticks!”
The pup slid to a stop as though rethinking the wisdom of his hunt—he even swiveled his head around to stare at Priscilla.
“Come back Liddle Fiddle,” Priscilla cooed from where she balanced on her haunches, hovering over a concoction of ice and mud. If only she’d thought to bring a treat along, she could lure him with it… “That’s a good boy, Fiddlesticks. Come here now.”
“Caw!” One of the birds called out, and Fiddlesticks forgot that Priscilla—the person who fed and cared for him most of the time—existed.
She worried not only for Allison Meadowbrook’s sake, but because she, Priscilla, would be devastated if anything happened to that little dog. He loved her.
And he trusted her to keep him safe.
Priscilla studied the surface. Was the ice thick enough that she could go after him? A thought drifted through her mind. Standing in the center of the lake, and then the ice breaking beneath her. The water would be cold, and dark… so quiet. And how would that help Fiddlesticks?
Aside from the snowstorm that came through over Christmas, the weather had been unusually mild for January. The ice would not be safe.
Confounded and growing frantic, she removed her gloves and then rummaged through her pockets. She must have something to offer that would be of more interest to Fiddlesticks than those dratted birds!
Lint. Her shopping list. More lint—and a half-penny. Discovering the last item to be no more than a short pencil, she made a small cry of despair.
“What’s his name?” a reassuring voice asked from behind her.
She spun around, and even in her distress, the gentleman’s inordinately good looks stole her breath. “His name…?” The person attached to that deep voice had silky black hair that was perhaps a tad too long, light green eyes, and she guessed his build to be slim and elegant beneath the layers of his greatcoat.
“Fiddlesticks,” she finally answered.
The gentleman tilted his head, two tiny lines forming between his eyes. “Pardon?”
“His name,” she clarified. “My dog’s name is Fiddlesticks.”
Which had her turning back around to make sure her little darling hadn’t fallen through the thin surface. “He can’t swim,” Priscilla moaned. If he were to fall through, he’d sink like a stone.
