The whole world thundered.
And then shuddered.
They pulled apart, their eyes glazed with passion, realizing a moment too late that something was wrong. The Fairweather house had collided with Alex’s cottage. It jerked away, then back again, brick smashing against stone with a screeching crash.
“Hell!” Alex swore, wrapping his arms around Charlotte in futile protection. The cottage rocked violently, tipped to port, and before either could think of what to do they were thrown off the roof.
9
everything turns to custard—a horde of barbarians—witches explain that witches do not exist—cecilia creates an explosion—the difference between pirates and witches
If there is anything disagreeable going on, mothers are always sure to get into it—even when at several miles’ distance. Mrs. Pettifer, sitting to afternoon tea with Miss Plim, jolted suddenly in her chair. The tea she had been about to sip shook in its cup, and she set it down in the saucer with a slight clink that immediately alerted Miss Plim to trouble.
“What is it, Delphine?” she demanded, peering over the rim of her spectacles. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s Lottie,” Mrs. Pettifer gasped. “Oh my dear girl.” She pressed a hand against her pearl-swathed bosom, in which her heart was suffering tremors of anxiety (or too much tea).
“What about Charlotte?” Miss Plim asked impatiently.
“I fear— Oh, Judith, I fear she went forth this morning without a parasol, and that she will come home most dreadfully suntanned!”
“Nonsense,” Miss Plim declared. She proceeded with the custard slice from which Mrs. Pettifer had distracted her. “Charlotte is far toosensible to tan. Never in all my life have I known a girl more cautious and circumspect. She will stay out of the weather, you mark my words.”
“Perhaps you are right.” Mrs. Pettifer sighed, then murmured a short phrase. A shawl floated across from the sofa to her outstretched hand; Mrs. Pettifer wrapped it around herself comfortingly. “Lottie is down-to-earth,” she said, trying to convince herself. “And she is an adult, I must remember. She can be trusted not to be flighty, and to keep in the shade. Although I must confess, I thought she would be home by now.” She sighed again, to Miss Plim’s aggravation. “No doubt she has taken up with one of her jolly friends and lost track of the time.”
Miss Plim almost choked on custard slice. She did not know what was more amusing—the idea that Charlotte had friends, or that Mrs. Pettifer actually believed it. Unfortunately, the opportunity to mock her sister was lost as at that moment Woollery appeared.
“A Miss Bassingthwaite is at the door, madam,” he announced.
“Good heavens!” Mrs. Pettifer ejaculated in astonishment. Miss Plim actually choked on custard slice. “A flying bicyclist come to visit! The shame!”
“And Captain Lightbourne,” Woollery continued.
“Not the Dreaded Lightbourne of Leeds? I’ve heard he threw his own house off a cliff because he didn’t like the wallpaper anymore! Pirates, Judith, at our very door! Quick, hide the silver!”
Alas, Miss Plim, busily engaged with smacking herself on the chest and trying to breathe, left the silver to its doom.
But Woollery had not finished. “Also, Mrs. Rotunder.”
“No!” Mrs. Pettifer gasped. “Revolting Rotunder! Are we goners, Judith?”
The only reply she got was a wordless, wheezing cough.
“And Miss Constantinopla Brown, madam.”
Mrs. Pettifer frowned. “Who?”
A fragment of patisserie shot across the room and splatted against Woollery’s face. He blinked. “Shall I say you are not at home, madam?” he asked as half-digested custard dripped from his cheek.
“Gracious, no,” Mrs. Pettifer said, more alarmed than ever. “That would be rude. Let the barbarians in.”
The butler turned to perform this task.
“Wait! Woollery!” Mrs. Pettifer recalled him urgently. He turned back, inexpressive. “Bring more tea for our guests. And cake.”
“Madam,” he intoned, and departed. Mrs. Pettifer looked pale-faced at her sister.
“What a disaster. Four visitors and not enough tea to offer them! Thank heavens I remembered in time!”
