He passed it to her with a frown.
It was not like the others, each a small piece of art Willa had requested from the person in her correspondence, representing the place from which they were writing. Many of them were only identified on back, where the message was penned.
This one did not have art on it, just a rough sketch of a shingle beach and the nameBrightonpenned in bold calligraphy on the front, as though it were created in a hurry.
Hattie flipped it over, her eyes moving over the back.
“Not much of a message. It just says, ‘Felicitations’ in the same calligraphy.”
Elias could only make a confused mumbling noise and shrug. “A jest, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” she said, still frowning, her damp fingers toying with the corner. “‘Felicitations.’ It can mean ‘good work’ or it can be an expression of congratulations, I suppose. Perhaps it is a well-wisher from our wedding or a person who approved of the showcase.”
He nodded, his spine giving a tingle. “That’s likely all it is.”
“Yes,” she said, her tone entirely unconvincing. “Most likely.”
Still, she did not stow it with the others, which she gathered up carefully and carried back to the salon.
This one, Elias noted, she lifted carefully and folded into a sheet of tissue that she withdrew from her bedside table before tucking it into the compartment within.
“Felicitations,” she said again, softly to herself, likely unaware she’d spoken at all, then she looked at him and smiled. “Elias, you should wash while the water is still warm. And then come to bed, while I still am.”
Chapter Thirty
As was customaryfollowing a showcase, Starling’s Rest had a day of nothing at all within its walls.
Breads and small bites were delivered from the bakery at dawn and laid out next to the leftover canapes on the dining room table, for anyone who wished to come and graze upon them throughout the hours of the day, whether they be performers, guests, or staff.
Beyond that, lights were only lit by the person who needed them, and all matters of service were to be delayed until everyone had enjoyed a proper sleep in and languished in the aftermath of such an ordeal.
Even Libba, who had derisively declared a few days prior, “For God’s sake, it isoneperformance!” had not emerged from her cocoon, save to retrieve two full carafes of water, a hot compress, and an ungodly amount of fruit.
As for Hattie and Elias, they had agreed to take turns going down into the house proper to retrieve repast and anything else they might need and had spent much of the day alternating between sleep, idle chatter, and fiddling with the tandem puzzle box they had been gifted at their wedding.
“Perhaps if you just hold that latch there with the hook of your finger, I can wiggle the other bit out,” Elias would say.
And Hattie would wish for death.
It was, in her estimation, an impossible task, and one he seemed hellbent on mastering regardless.
And it wasn’t until her husband had gone down for post-luncheon tea that she realized he had taken the cursed thing with him. It was suspicious, as he knew very well that it was designed in such a way that he could not solve it alone.
And so she was hardly surprised to come upon him with Errol and Malcolm, each holding a corner and arguing about what to try next.
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at the three guilty sets of eyes that had flown up to greet her in the dining room archway, “it appears you’ve found more brides.”
Rhys sidled in behind her, wearing what appeared to be a pair of Libba’s costume trousers from an old production ofOne Thousand and One Nightsand the tatty remains of Hattie’s tiger-striped dressing gown, his eyes now gray from lid to cheekbone from smudged kohl. “Afternoon,” he said obliviously. “Any bakewell left?”
And then he’d walked around the table, peered at the box, and plucked a little triangular wedge of wood out of the center, which had collapsed it into a new shape for solving.
This had thrilled the other three men—and deepened Hattie’s irritation considerably.
She had snatched up her tea and marched out, only to return for a refill to find both Lem and Monica now involved in the endeavor of the stupid, cursed puzzle boxes.
“You are holding it too tightly,” Lem told Errol with a frown. “Muscle does not solve everything.”
“It doesn’t?” Monica asked, eyeing Lem’s bulging biceps with skepticism. “Can we use tools? I’ve a knitting needle.”
