The Queen’s Larder pub on the corner was in full carouse when they returned, but inside the print-shop all was peaceful and still as they undressed for bed. Penelope settled back against the pillows, frowning up at the ceiling. “Did Mr. Loveney tell you which art-broker he purchased the statue from?”
“He did not. Sydney introduced us, though, so I’m sure it wouldn’t be difficult to find it out.” Griffin had pulled a nightdress on first thing, and was wrestling her stockings off underneath the skirts.
It was charmingly prudish of her, especially after all the mutual unlacing they’d just done, and it made Penelope instantly begin wondering what else was underneath that billow of fabric. She knew she oughtn’t let herself think of it—but it had been such a long and trying day, she simply didn’t have the strength to keep her imagination in check.
She’d be more virtuous tomorrow, she promised herself, and fixed the sight of Agatha Griffin’s ankles in her memory.
Griffin put her stockings to be washed before she lay down carefully on the other half of the bed. Blankets pulled up to her underarms. Hands folded over her chest like a funeral figure on a monument.
It made Penelope feel half-feral by way of contrast, so she made a bit of a show of nestling into the pillows and blankets, like a creature burrowing in for a long winter’s hibernation.
Griffin peered down her long nose at Penelope. The stern effect of this was rather softened by the long black-and-silver braid of her hair, which looked temptingly soft and strokeable. “Why do you want to talk to the art broker?”
Beneath the mounds of bedclothes, Penelope attempted a shrug. “Only curious.”
“You aren’t going to talk him out of buying the other statues, are you?”
“Certainly not,” Penelope said loftily. “I’m just happy to know they aren’t being smashed or broken or burned, or anything like that. It’s actually a relief to see one making its way through to an appreciative collector.”
“You might buy one or two yourself, you know.”
“Ha—I couldn’t afford them. Not even one of the smaller satyrs.”
Griffin winced. “None of those satyrs was particularlysmall, Flood.”
“Besides, where on earth would I put him?”
“Where would he fit?”
Penelope chortled, and Griffin went red. Her eyes slid away toward the wall, her mouth tightening.
Penelope’s amusement faded. “Thank you again for letting me stay. I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble for you.”
“No trouble,” Griffin said, still looking at the wall.
Penelope screwed up her courage. “I’d like to return the favor, next time you come to Melliton.”
Griffin glanced at her then—a swift, piercing look that dried any other words on Penelope’s tongue. The printer’s gaze slipped down to Penelope’s mouth, then away. Penelope worried she’d erred somehow, but then...
“I’d like that,” Griffin said, and some of Penelope’s anxiety eased away. “I’ve worried I’m intruding too much on Mrs. Stowe and Miss Coningsby’s privacy. They each prefer a bit more solitude than my visits have been giving them.” She yawned, working her shoulders deeper into the pillow behind her as her eyes fell shut once more.
Penelope settled cozily onto her side, her blanket-burrow warming slow and steady as an oven. “Then it’s settled,” she said. “You can stay with me and Joanna and give us advice on how best to approach the vicar about the snuffbox. She’s frustrated enough that she’s concocting... plans. Or rather, schemes, the more dramatic the better. Bribing the household staff to filch the item. Sneaking into Abington Hall when the family’s away and rifling through cabinets until she finds it. Hiring a brilliant thief from the great criminal underbelly of the metropolis, who arrives in Melliton in disguise.” Her lips quirked. “And who then ends up murdered, forcing Joanna to unmask the real killer to clear herself of the crime.”
Penelope paused, waiting for Griffin to snort or scoff or otherwise comment on the absurdity of this.
A light snore was the printer’s only response. Her lips were slightly parted, her hands still folded tight on her chest. As though if she didn’t keep them there, her heart would escape clean out of her breast.
Or maybe that was just Penelope’s imagination again. She buried her face in the pillow, and told her own heart to behave.
Chapter Fourteen
The print of Penelope Flood at Brandenburg sold through two printings before the public’s attention moved on. Agatha found this immensely gratifying—not only for her skill as an artist, but also for the way Flood blushed whenever Agatha gently teased her about it.
Summer became fall, and the drones began dying.
“Typical,” said Joanna Molesey. She was wearing black striped with red, which seemed to help her feel more herself again. “The men perish young, and the ladies trudge on toward winter.”
“Plenty of women die too young.” Agatha swirled her glass so the last drops of wine chased each other around and around in the bottom of the bowl.
