“Never,” he replied.
They struggled for possession of the briefcase as the curator watched nervously. This was not how he expected doctors or architects to behave (although he had to admit it did resemble his own married life).
“I’m confused,” he said. “Just who here is Doctor Smith?”
“I am,” Alex said firmly. “Do I look like I’d lie to you?”
The curator considered. The masculinity alone suggested doctorship, but the lack of a tie, not to mention the collection of terrifying weapons, cast some doubt on the matter. He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if it feared someone might bite it.
“Doctor John Smith, at your service,” Alex insisted. “This lady is my wife.”
He had spoken normally, but a sudden gasp went through the gallery as if he had shouted. Charlotte looked around to see everyone staring.
“Knife!” she told them. “He said ‘knife,’ not ‘wife’!”
The pirates and witches glanced at each other, united in this moment under the thrill of a possible scandal. “But dear,” said a puff-haired little grandmother with a dragon tattoo up her arm, “how can you be his knife? Surely a blade is a gentlemanly metaphor?”
Several people snickered. Worse, Cecilia Bassingthwaite cringed sympathetically. Charlotte felt her stomach clench with shame. Only the fact her mother and Miss Plim were not present kept her from spontaneously combusting.
And then Alex winked at her, as if the situation were amusing, not horrifying, not appallingly messy, and not sure to feed gossip all over London for weeks. Suddenly, and for the second time since knowing him, Charlotte lost her temper and did something foolish.
“Miss Gloughenbury,” she called out in a charmingly pleasant voice. “Didn’t you tell me the other day that Mrs. Rotunder puts cream before jam on her scones?”
Another gasp shook the company. Charlotte’s marital status was promptly forgotten as half of the ladies turned toward Miss Gloughenbury in shock at a witch having knowledge of a pirate’s culinary habit, and the other half toward Mrs. Rotunder for the sin of that habit. Someone drew their sword.
“Clever,” Alex murmured.
Charlotte ignored him. She was going to get her plan back on course if it killed—well, not her, but someone. Preferably an Irish someone with dark hair and an unscrupulous sense of humor. Turning to the curator, she lifted her chin imperiously.
“I require you to ignore this man, sir. He’s lying, he is not my husband; he is a pirate.”
“Aeronautical entrepreneur,” Alex corrected.
There came the sound of metal clashing against metal as Mrs. Rotunder and her friends were called upon to defend her scone-spreading etiquette, but neither Charlotte nor Alex noticed, caught up as they were in a private war of their own.
“My love, you are getting overwrought,” Alex said. “See, there is a flush on your face.” He stroked the back of one finger across Charlotte’s cheek, and in doing so turned his lie into reality. “You need to come home for a nice cup of tea.”
She took a step away from him, struggling not to touch her face where it tingled. “I am not your love. I am a famous archae— I mean, architect.”
“You really should do as your husband says, missus,” the curator advised with a condescending smile.
“I will not!” Charlotte replied. “That is, I reiterate, he isn’t my husband. He’s a rogue, a thief, a buccaneer!”
“Aeronautical entrepreneur,” the curator corrected.
Charlotte inhaled sharply in an effort to repress her temper, which was why the man was able to leave work that evening in full possession of his hair. “This is insane,” she declared.
“It is indeed,” Alex agreed, patting her shoulder in a way no actual husband would dare with his wife. “I did warn you what would happen if you forgot to take your pills, darling.” He turned to the curator. “Mrs. Smith is quite unwell, I’m afraid. It’s a tragic tale. She hammeredin a nail to hang our wedding portrait last month and ever since has suffered an idée fixe about being an architect. I fear she wants to take your amulet to serve as our door knocker.”
“Goodness me.” The curator offered Charlotte a patronizingly sympathetic look that, if she was a pirate, she’d remove from his face through the energetic application of her knuckles. She was not a pirate, however; she was a witch. And witches were gentle, dignified people.
Suddenly the man’s eyes crossed and he began tugging as discreetly as possible at his underwear through the cloth of his trousers.
“Come dearest, let’s leave the poor man alone,” Alex said, trying to pull her away. “We’ll go get your medicine then tuck you up nice and cozy in bed. Wouldn’t you like that?”
They were briefly distracted by a woman shoving past, long knife blurring as she made a literal point about the need for clotted cream beneath jam. Her conversational partner replied with a barbed walking stick. From somewhere beyond them came a mild explosion, and feathers drifted down through the air.
“Allow me to inform you precisely what I would like, Captain O’Riley,” Charlotte replied, moving her feet apart and pressing them against the floor so he could not easily shift her. “By coincidence it also involves medicine—or should I say, poison!”
