Mr. Biswas twisted a section of his whiskers idly between his fingers.
Mr. Painter tapped the ash out of his pipe and refilled it, tamping the brown leaf down into a sturdy pack. Likely his own product, imports of which had bought him one of the finest houses in Melliton.
And still Mr. Koskinen considered. Lazily he raised one calloused finger and scratched his weather-reddened chin.
Penelope’s attention wandered, caught by the ripple of wind on water and pulled downriver by the speed of the current. So she happened to be looking in the direction of the print-works and the old military barracks when the woman appeared.
She was in close-tailored gray, with streaks of silver snaking through her dark hair and a flush of agitation blooming in her pale face. Her eyes sparkled with irritation; her mouth was a stern slash. Penelope knew at once that when she spoke, her tone would be sharp, and her patience with waywardness thin.
Beneath the collar of her shirt, Penelope felt her neck grow hot.
Oh. Oh, dear.
The woman came to a stop, hands on hips, eyes on Penelope. “Are you Mrs. Flood?”
Penelope knew what she must look like: a round, graying woman in trousers and a man’s coat, skin dusted with tan and freckles, hair cropped at her ears, battered old boots, rather plain and potato-shaped in all. Sitting—and drinking—with a group of weathered former sailors in the middle of the day. “That’s me,” she said cheerfully.
The woman narrowed her eyes. “I am Agatha Griffin. My husband’s mother said I might find you here.”
“I know plenty of husbands,” Penelope replied, and grinned. “Even more of their mothers.”
Mr. Biswas sputtered out a surprised laugh, but subsided under the blade of Mrs. Griffin’s gaze.
Penelope cocked her head. “It would be Mrs. Stowe who sent you?”
The woman’s gaze slid back to Penelope. It had lost none of its steel in the journey. “I need your help with some bees.”
All four beekeepers sobered. Penelope drained the last of the ale in her tankard and rose to her feet. “Gentlemen,” she said, with a nod of farewell. “Let me know what Mr. Koskinen’s answer was.”
Mr. Biswas chortled and Mr. Painter gestured regally with his pipe.
Mr. Koskinen swallowed his feelings along with another pull of his beer.
Penelope turned to Mrs. Griffin. “We’ll have to stop by my house first to gather a few things. I live on the edge of the wood, just west of town.”
Mrs. Griffin nodded, and Penelope shouldered her pack and began leading the way.
It was a fine day for a stroll, but no matter how sweet the breeze or how cheerfully the birds swooped and sang, Mrs. Griffin’s mouth stayed in that set, irritated line.
Penelope liked a friendly silence, but this was not that, and her nerves soon got the better of her and set her talking: “So, where is the swarm?”
Mrs. Griffin didn’t answer right away.
Penelope held her tongue and bided her time, step by step.
Wind rustled the grass at the edge of the road.
Finally the woman burst out: “How onearthdid you know?”
The mix of surprise and anger was deeply satisfying. Penelope wondered if magicians felt like this, after a particularly mystifying trick.
But unlike the magicians, she didn’t mind giving away her secret. She settled her pack more firmly on her shoulder and began to explain. “If it was advice you needed for a hive you kept, Mrs. Stowe could have given it. She’s a perfectly capable beekeeper. Not much of a walker, though, these days. And if someone had been stung badly enough to send you running—well, you’d have run for the physician, wouldn’t you? But you look vexed, like there’s something of an emergency. And you’ve been sent to find me by name. So that means there’s a swarm somewhere it shouldn’t be, and you need me to find a better home for it. Simple.” She whistled a little, to keep from grinning at the affronted look on the other woman’s face. “And you never answered my question.”
After a moment, Mrs. Griffin gave a decisive nod, and Penelope’s chest went allover warm at this tiny sign of approval. “Some bees have got into my warehouse,” Mrs. Griffin confessed.
Ah, yes, the print-works in what had been the old Huston mill. Penelope’s curiosity pricked up its ears. “There’s a swarm among your books?”
“No—among the printing plates.”
