Griffin
It was broad daylight when Penelope read those lines, but she shivered like it was a starlit evening and the invitation had been purred into her ear. Of course Griffin hadn’t meant it likethat—but Penelope couldn’t resist wishing that she had. And imagining what Griffin might ask her to do next.
There was no use even thinking about such impossibilities. But they haunted her dreams for the next three nights, until the afternoon she packed her things, marched up to Abington Hall, and spent a rough and rackety hour bumping over the roads and into the heart of England’s capital city while making the smallest of talk with Lady Summerville and Mrs. Midson, who was far too eager to entertain them both with tales of her great-nieces and -nephews. Penelope suffered through several amusing childhood traumas and was grateful to be let off with her luggage outside a gemlike building a-glitter with windows, where a sign proclaimed Griffin’s Print-Shop in stern, sober letters.
Even just standing outside was making Penelope’s heart race—or maybe that was just the proximity of so many people, moving so quickly, through narrow streets with buildings that towered far higher than the ones in Melliton did. If she craned her neck, she could see a sort of park around the corner; the sight of trees steadied her and reminded her to breathe.
She regretted it almost instantly: London certainly lived up to its reputation where smells were concerned.
Thus braced, she shouldered her bag, opened the door, and stepped into the shop.
The odors here were a distinct improvement from the street outside: books and ink and the crispness of paper. Griffin’s storefront was a light and airy space, full of color and creamy paper and picturesque prints. Tables full of leather-bound books and urgent-looking pamphlets, stacks of manuscripts ready for binding, sheets of the latest ballads—she spotted “Inexpressibles” straight away—the richly hued latest issue of Griffin’sMenageriedisplayed to advantage, and high skylights letting in what brave sunlight managed to make it this far.
Surveying it all from behind a sturdy cherrywood counter was a boy the very image of Agatha Griffin. Same dark hair, same hawklike stubborn nose, same rich brown eyes. Those eyes lit as he smiled and hurried out from behind the counter to greet her. “You must be Mrs. Flood! I’m Sydney Griffin—it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“And you as well, Mr. Griffin,” Penelope said.
“Please, call me Sydney.” They shook hands, his pumping eagerly up and down. Penelope hid a smile. He had all of Agatha’s energy, but had yet to acquire her wariness. “Mum tells me you’re in town to present an address to the Queen?”
“Along with quite a few of the women of Melliton, yes.”
“That’s marvelous! I hope I’m still so active in support of reform when I’m as old as you are.”
Penelope blinked.
Sydney Griffin went on: “Oh, but where are my manners? That bag must be weighing you down—let me take that upstairs to Mum’s room for you. She’s in the back, of course, but I’m sure she won’t mind if you go right on in. It’s through that door.”
Before Penelope could gather her scattered wits, the boy had relieved her of her bag, hefted it as though it were nothing, and vanished up the stairs. To his mother’s bedroom, as he’d said.
Which, apparently, Penelope would be sharing with Griffin.
She hadn’t considered that, when she’d invited herself to stay. She’d imagined she would be displacing Sidney, or one of the apprentices. But Griffin had told her to come, anyway...
Maybe there was some misunderstanding. She hadn’t left Melliton in so long, her nerves couldn’t settle. Nothing was familiar, so nothing was trustworthy. Penelope brushed her hands anxiously over her skirts, then told herself not to be such a ninny and went through the door Sydney had pointed out.
She’d been in the Melliton print-works, so she knew something of what to expect. But just as the city was more densely packed and compressed than the countryside, the London branch of Griffin’s enterprise was a busy, cozy center of perpetual motion. There seemed to be far more people and prints and presses than the small size of the room could hold. It was barely possible to breathe; not even the tall windows at the back, thrown open to let in as much air as possible, could banish the industrial smells of metal and sweat and a persistent chemical tang.
“Mrs. Flood?” A girl with brown hair pulled tight into a knot at her neck sat at a table punching musical notes into a block lined with staves. She smiled shyly. “I’m Eliza Brinkworth. Her apprentice. Mrs. Griffin’s just finishing up outside.” She waved at a door that let out to a small yard in the back.
Penelope followed this direction and found herself on a small patch of a yard: hard-packed ground, high walls all around, yellow-green moss lurking in the corners and on the shadier stretches of stone. And, against the far wall, a table for the etching and cleaning of plates. Agatha Griffin was wrestling with one of these: wiping the plate with a cloth, buffing it clean of ground and mordant with turpentine, then a water wash. A thick leather apron marked with scrapes and scores was tied around her neck. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and her hands were strong and work-roughened. For a moment the copper in her hands caught the afternoon sun with a flash.
Penelope was dazzled, and drifted forward helplessly.
She didn’t think she’d made a sound, but Griffin must have heard something, because her head snapped up and those brown eyes drank in Penelope, standing there gaping. Creases folded the soft skin at the corners of Griffin’s eyes and mouth as she smiled. “Welcome to London, Flood. How was the journey?”
“Worth it,” Penelope replied.
Griffin laughed, set the plate on the table to dry, and rolled her sleeves properly back down to her wrists. Penelope squelched a sigh to see forearms vanish behind cotton again.
Griffin frowned lightly down at the gleaming metal. “I had hoped to get one more plate finished before you arrived—and there’s two more jobs to proof, and another set of Thisburton caricatures to color...”
“Oh,” said Penelope, and swallowed hard against a wave of dismay. “I understand. I’ll just wander a bit on my own then, and then meet you back here later?” She twisted one hand around the other, the fine leather of her traveling gloves so much thinner and less protective than what she wore for beekeeping. “Is there somewhere nearby you recommend for an early supper? I was too excited to eat much before setting out.”
Griffin cocked her head, her expression turning from frustrated to wry. “Flood, how long has it been since you visited London? You mentioned it had been a while. How longprecisely?”
Penelope thought for a moment. “1804? During the war, certainly—I came to spend Christmas with Edward, and I distinctly recall he insisted on reading battle reports aloud over breakfast every morning.”
Griffin shook her head. “So many years? The city might as well be an entirely new place to you.” She untied the apron from around her neck, and hung it on a peg beneath an overhang of roof. There was a mischievous gleam brightening her eyes, and a sly tilt blooming on her lips. “Letting you wander around like a babe in the wood would be downright irresponsible. After all, I have a duty as a hostess, do I not?”
