Her son folded his arms, looking every inch of nineteen. “I’m not afraid.”
“Well, I bloody well am!” Agatha shouted.
Everyone froze.
Agatha sucked in a deep breath, but she was too far gone to stop now. “I am frightened for you, and for myself, and Eliza, and for every single person who works here. I’m scared for the shop—what your father and I worked our entire lives to build—but above everything else I’m deathly afraid that you’re so selfish you wouldchooseto put all of that—all ofusin peril, just for a few moments’ acclaim from your reckless, radical friends!”
Sydney stepped forward. Agatha realized with a bit of a shock that he was a good six inches taller than her. She’d known that, of course, but somehow it constantly slipped her mind. His voice was low and furious and the unshakeable conviction there nearly splintered her heart to pieces. “Mum, you’ve run Griffin’s for nearly three decades, in the heart of one of the greatest cities in the world. Aren’t you angry when rich, powerful men try to tell you what you are and aren’t allowed to print?”
“That kind of anger is a luxury I do not have,” Agatha said bitterly. “Not when I am trying to ensure that we still have food and shelter and clothing. I want us to besafe.”
Sydney scoffed. “There are greater things than mere safety, Mum. Happiness. Liberty. Justice.”
Agatha yearned to shake sense into him. “But all those thingsstartwith safety—don’t you see? How can you be happy if you aren’t certain where your next meal is coming from? How can you fight for justice if your hands are trapped in chains?”
Sydney only shook his head. “How can you fix a broken world if you can’t talk about where it’s broken?”
“Talk all you like,” Agatha said, “so long you print none of it on my presses.” She slung her gaze around, pinning every single person in place so they understood this edict applied to all of them.
“You’re making a mistake,” Sydney insisted.
“It’s my mistake to make, because it’s my press,” Agatha returned. “That’s what liberty gets you.”
“That’s what cowardice gets you!”
Agatha gasped, then snapped her mouth closed. Hurt and fury raged like two wolves within her, tearing at each other.
Sydney huffed, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the store. Walter and Crompton looked grim; Eliza was twisting her hands and biting her lip; Jane the apprentice looked to be on the verge of tears.
All those eyes, reflecting Agatha’s own pain and frustration back to her, multiplied...
Now the anger overwhelmed her, surging up and overflowing the banks of her soul. “Whatever’s next in the queue, get it done,” Agatha snapped.
Everyone leaped into motion, some hurrying back to the press or worktable, others moving more slowly as if unsure of the very floorboards beneath their feet.
Soon only Eliza was left in the shop, still wringing her hands. “We only wanted to help,” she murmured.
“You can help by doing what you’re told,” Agatha said. “Why don’t you catch me up on the music reviews for next month’sMenagerie?”
Eliza whispered an inaudibleyes ma’amand hurried out to get the latest letters. Agatha was truly alone now, as the gray rain murmured worries against the windowpanes, and the large central table stood bare and glaring in the middle of all of it.
The shop bell jangled suddenly as the door opened and a customer came in, beaver hat shining and kid gloves protecting his hands. His face was all excitement—until he took one look at Agatha’s face, blanched, turned around, and strode right out again into the wet.
The printer snarled silently at his back, but it did nothing to relieve her feelings.
Chapter Sixteen
Penelope was too anxious to sleep. Normally this would have been a cause for frustration—but it was autumn, and time to prepare the hives for the winter’s rest. Which meant making sure both the skep hives and the glass observation hive were free from the depredations of wax moths, who devoured the comb.
Andthatmeant staying up several nights with the light traps. So, for once, a little anxiety was more helpful than otherwise.
After weeks when she’d demurred and remained in London, Griffin was finally returning to Melliton, and had promised to sit up and keep Penelope company during one of the long watches. Griffin had written Penelope about the Widow Wasp, and about the soldiers’ visit to the shop, and in addition to all Penelope’s worries for her friend’s livelihood and safety, well...
She also worried Griffin would blame Penelope for the ugliness. It was a selfish little worry, a miniscule flaw she ought to have been able to ignore, like a hangnail of the soul. She worried at it until it was raw and red and angry.
After all, Penelope was the one who’d introduced Agatha to Joanna Molesey in the first place. Penelope’s failure had therefore directly led to the catastrophe: if things with Mr. Oliver and Lady Summerville had been properly sorted out in Melliton, there would have been no need for Joanna to remove to London, and she would have never started writing those ballads with Sydney and Eliza.
Penelope felt like she’d failed everyone, and they were simply too kind to mention it.
