“Which plates?”
Mrs. Griffin blinked, evidently considering the question odd. “An old book of verses by Joanna Molesey.”
“Oh, how marvelous! Which poem of hers is your favorite?”
Mrs. Griffin snorted. “I am far too busy to indulge in poetry.”
This answer stopped Penelope’s tongue dead as a landed fish.
She was saved from concocting an answer, however, as they were now mere steps from her house. She loaded a few things into a wheelbarrow, along with the everyday tools she’d already had in her pack, and turned down the road that led to the print-works.
The load made it more difficult to carry on a conversation, so Penelope clamped her mouth shut and told herself that if the other woman grew uncomfortable with the silence, that was no fault of Penelope’s.
But she felt guilty about it, all the same.
Mrs. Griffin frowned down at the wheelbarrow. “All that just to kill a few bees?”
Penelope stopped dead and dropped the wheelbarrow handles. The wooden legs hit the dirt of the road with an angrythunk. “We arenotkilling them.”
Mrs. Griffin slowed and halted, her gray skirts swirling around her ankles. “We aren’t?”
“No. We are rehiving them.” Penelope tapped meaningfully on the curve of the straw skep hive that filled most of the wheelbarrow—much easier to lift and tote around right now than it would be once it was full of comb and honey and slumbering brood. “If you want your bees killed, you will have to find someone else to do it.”
“I don’t necessarilywantthem killed,” Mrs. Griffin retorted. She jerked her head to toss a loose lock of hair out of her eyes. “I just assumed it would be necessary in order to get them out of the way.”
“It’s not.” Penelope took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the anger flaring up in her throat. She felt like Mr. Painter’s pipe, pouring out smoke and heat. It wasn’t Mrs. Griffin’s fault; she just didn’t know. “Some bees may die in the rehiving process—they might sting someone, or get crushed. It happens, no matter how careful a beekeeper tries to be. But thecolonywill survive. And that’s important.”
“If you say so.” Mrs. Griffin waited, then frowned harder. “Can we get on with it, then?”
Penelope folded her arms.Shewasn’t the one in a rush this fine summer’s day. “Not until you agree we’re not going to kill the bees.”
“Fine!” Mrs. Griffin threw her hands in the air. “Though I don’t see why it matters, one way or another.”
“It matters to me,” Penelope said quietly.
The woman shot her a look so searching that Penelope nearly stepped back from the force of it.
Then the anger seemed to go out of Mrs. Griffin all at once, like a lamp being blown out. “Alright,” she said, and blew out a long breath. “My apologies, Mrs. Flood. You know your business, of course.”
Penelope blinked. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Griffin nodded, Penelope lifted the wheelbarrow again, and together they walked the remaining three quarters of a mile to the print-works.
Penelope grabbed her smoker but left the rest of her tools in the wheelbarrow next to the fence, where it was immediately nosed at by a large sorrel horse, lured no doubt by the scent of honey. Penelope patted his neck by way of apology.
Mrs. Griffin waited by the door to the print-works, fidgeting. “If you’requiteready, Mrs. Flood.”
Penelope squashed the tempting urge to dawdle, just to be contrary. It was coming on noon, and she likely had two hours’ work ahead of her. “Show me what we’re dealing with, Mrs. Griffin.”
Heads snapped to attention when Mrs. Griffin walked in, and gazes sharpened in recognition when the employees noticed Penelope. She nodded to Mr. Jarden and shook the hand of the grinning Reggie Downes. “I hear you’ve been colonized, Mr. Downes.”
“Indeed we have, ma’am.”
“This way, Mrs. Flood.” Mrs. Griffin was already waiting at the door to the back of the warehouse—goodness, she didn’t waste any time, did she?
Reggie Downes rolled his eyes in apology where his employer couldn’t see.
Penelope winked at him, then followed the printer into the maze of shelves.
