As Agatha gasped in outrage, he stomped down the hall and vanished into the dining room.
It was just past midnight, so farewell to Christmas Day. Penelope found herself fidgety—dinner had been a peculiar, tense affair, with half the guests at the table suddenly and inexplicably snappish and unsociable—and the first few hours of her sleep were punctuated by unsettling dreams. Running and running but going nowhere. Gravestones towering up as high as city buildings. Trying to write a letter, but watching the ink pour away from the paper as though it were blood being shed from a murdered body.
After this last, she decided a soothing drink was in order.
Apparently, she was not the only one in search of comfort. For when she stepped into the larder for milk, she found Agatha Griffin furiously slicing pieces of bread from a loaf. She wore a green robe and cream shawl, her salt-and-pepper hair hanging loose down her back and shaking with every movement. Penelope smiled at first—but her smile faltered, as she watched the abrupt, angry motions of Griffin’s hands, and saw the light of the single candle outline the tight lines at the corners of her mouth.
Penelope cleared her throat softly. “I’ve got something stronger than bread, if you want it.”
“Oh!” Griffin whirled around, knife raised—then fear and fury melted away when she saw it was only Penelope. “Yes, thank you—the stronger the better.”
Penelope strode to the shelves on the far wall. Mrs. Braintree usually kept a bottle near to hand—ah, yes, here it was. A short, slim bottle of deep amber. “I should give you fair warning,” she said, “this is quite possibly the most dangerous drink in all of Melliton.”
“What’s in it?”
“Honey. Well, mostly honey.” Penelope turned the bottle so its shoulders gleamed red in the candlelight.
A reluctant spark lit Griffin’s eyes. “Only you, Flood, would try to comfort someone by offering them something dangerous.”
“Is it working?”
“Give me a taste and we’ll find out.”
Penelope found two glasses, took a seat beside her friend at the long wooden table, and poured generous helpings for them both. Griffin sniffed at hers and reared back, blinking tears from her eyes.
Penelope grinned over the rim of her glass. “Warned you.”
Griffin shot her a defiant glare and swallowed half the drink in a single gulp.
“Steady!” Penelope said, alarm flaring up within her. “This stuff’s even stronger than that brandy you like.”
“Good,” Griffin wheezed around the alcohol fumes. She took one of the slices of bread and tore it apart with her hands, stuffing pieces into her mouth and chewing as if the bread had done her some grievous injury, and now she was finally taking vengeance.
Penelope sipped more cautiously at her mead, letting the fire of it roll over her tongue. She’d hoped it would sweeten her words, bring her something subtle and persuasive to say—but all she could find was a brief, blunt question: “What is it that’s troubling you?”
“Sydney and Eliza.” Griffin stared into her glass as if it could offer an oracle. “They’ve decided not to wed.”
“Oh dear,” Penelope murmured. “And they seemed to be getting on so well...”
“Oh,” Griffin responded dryly, “they are.”
Penelope frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Sydney assures me that if they have children, they will reconsider the situation then.”
For a moment she was puzzled—then Penelope gaped in horror. “Ohno.”
Griffin toasted with the last of her mead. “Now you see where my head’s been at all evening.”
“That damn... nineteen-year-old!”
Griffin chortled bitterly. “Just so, Flood.”
Penelope gravely poured another measure of mead for them both, and raised her glass in a toast. “To the follies of youth,” she said. “Long may they last.”
Griffin spun her glass round on the table, her shoulders bunched up tight, the gray in her hair turned molten silver by candlelight. “I was so ready to wish them joy,” she said mournfully. “It seemed such a likely match. And Eliza is bright and kind and everything I could ask for in a daughter-in-law.”
“Did they say why they aren’t getting married?”
