John Flood had been taken by the special constables.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mr. Oliver’s difficulty was this: to properly charge someone with theft, one had to bring evidence he’d stolen something. And while the Abington hives were certainly gone, and Mr. Flood had been apprehended in the neighborhood at the time they vanished, nobody seemed to be able to find any of the hives at all.
They certainly weren’t at Fern Hall, which the special constables and Mr. Oliver had walked around no fewer than three times, eyes peeled for stolen beehives tucked into an empty stall in the stables or hidden beneath a draping of canvas. But Penelope’s leaf hive and her glass-topped skeps were the only bees present, and not even Mr. Oliver’s palpable suspicion could make the stolen swarms appear out of thin air.
But John was not to be let off entirely. Mr. Oliver couldn’t charge him with the felony—and six full hives’ worth of bees and wax and honey would have doubtlessly earned a sentence of transportation—but since John’s shouting had roused fully half the town from the sweet slumber of their beds, the vicar could certainly bring the full wrath of the law (or rather, the full wrath of Mr. Oliver) down on him for a breach of the peace.
To the horror of his captain and his wife, John was sentenced to spend an afternoon in the stocks. It was an archaic punishment, not much used in these more enlightened times—but Mr. Oliver was keen to make of John Flood an example in whatever way he could.
“This is all my fault,” Penelope whispered.
She and Agatha were at Fern Hall. Mrs. Braintree had brought them some of her latest distilling to pour into their tea, but it hadn’t stopped Penelope’s hands from shaking. Agatha had wrapped her in blankets and cozied up beside her in the window seat—but Penelope couldn’t shake the guilty feeling that had haunted her since she’d returned from visiting the jail with Harry.
“Nonsense,” Agatha said, staunch and loyal. Not that Penelope had expected anything less. How could anyone be so lovely even when glaring? “They’re being terrible, simply because they can. It is not in the least your fault.”
It was shameful that this made Penelope feel better. Her feeling better was useless, because it did nothing whatsoever for John. The stocks were better than the pillory—if only just—but they were still dangerous. People died in the stocks. “Mr. Scriven says that some of the Mendacity subscribers plan to bring bushels of vegetables for the people to throw at him.” Her mouth twisted. “For entertainment.”
Because of who he is. Because of who he loves.They didn’t have to say it aloud. It was written in Harry’s unwonted silence, and the anxious clasp of Penelope’s hands.
Mr. Oliver couldn’t prove that, either—but he’d sent Harry away for the same reason, so many years ago. And now, with John, he had an excuse for a punishment he thought the man deserved—even if it wasn’t what he’d been convicted of in the records.
Agatha’s hands closed around hers. “They’ll run out of vegetables eventually.”
“Then they’ll turn to bricks and stones,” Penelope said grimly. “Whatever’s handy. Because by then they’ll be in a mood for throwing.” She gulped at her tea, feeling the bite of hot alcohol burn down her throat. “And that’s when it becomes dangerous. My god—I wish I could justdosomething!”
Agatha cocked a head. “Like what?”
“Like... like throw something back. Stand there facing them down, and defend my friend. My family.” Penelope stared out the window. From here she could just see the edge of the red tile roof that sheltered her leaf hive. Worker bees clouded the hive entrance, guarding it against intruders and thieves, anyone who would threaten their queen and their colony.
What wouldn’t Penelope give for a stinger of her own?
“The Romans used to use bees in war,” she said grimly. “I read the accounts in Isabella’s library. They’d throw whole hives over the walls of besieged cities before they attacked.”
“I imagine that was very effective,” Agatha said.
Penelope grimaced. “I wish we could do the same to anyone who dares show up tomorrow, while John is in the stocks.”
Agatha sat up straight. “Can’t we?”
Penelope snorted. “We could, but someone would be sure to get stung—John, most likely, and that would defeat the whole purpose of defending him. And people have been known to die from being stung.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t live with myself.”
“And you call yourself a beekeeper.” Penelope’s head whipped up, but the shock of the insult melted away when Agatha went on: “All you need, my dear, is bees without stingers.”
“Bees without—” Penelope snapped her mouth shut, as the full force of the idea washed over her, brilliant as the dawn. “Griffin,” she breathed, “you genius. If Pompey’d had you by his side, he’d never have lost to Caesar.”
“I’ll have to take your word on that.”
Penelope laughed and dragged her into the apiary.
They did the circuit at record speed, hurrying through the twilight woods and across fields turned blue-green by the coming night. By the time they returned to Fern Hall they had half a dozen clay jars, with a little comb for sustenance, the jar mouths closed over with net to allow for airflow in and out overnight while the bees were sleeping.
Penelope herself lay awake until nearly dawn, clutching Agatha’s arms against her waist, the warmth and strength of the woman like armor against Penelope’s back. Penelope had a husband, if in name only, and she’d had lovers before—but this was the first time she’d had someone who felt like... What was the word?
Ahelpmeet, that was it. She’d always thought love was about feelings, and feelings were very fine things—but a helpmeet was all aboutdoingsomething for someone. Putting in work, and effort, and support.
Until Agatha, Penelope had never had someone offer her that. And now she wondered that she’d managed to live so long without it. She smiled against the darkness in self-deprecation: clearly her greediness knew no bounds. Once she would have given everything just to love and be loved. Now she wanted love, and something more besides.
