Alex caught his breath, but she spun with practiced ease and came down on a sideboard. Its display of dodo bones went flying in a bittersweet moment that had Lady Armitage squealing, and Alex took advantage of her distraction to snatch back the amulet. Lady Armitage immediately lunged for him. He stepped away, holding the amulet high out of reach, but the woman kept coming, heedless fury blazing in her small dark eyes. Every instinct in him suggested drawing a dagger or sword and ridding the world of her wickedness once and for all. But in front of every instinct stood a nun in a black habit, smacking a ruler against her hand and frowning.Do we hurt frail, elderly ladies?each demanded in a strident Irish accent.No,he answered obediently—and winced as they whacked him anyway with their rulers for the inconvenience of having had to ask the question. So he retreated until his back met the sofa, and then realizing himself trapped between a rogue and a hard place, he drew a breath—
And without further thought threw the amulet to Charlotte.
She was so astonished by his trust in her, she missed the catch. Asthe amulet fell to the floor, their eyes met, and the wry humor in his countered the wonder in hers. Before either of them could blink, Miss Dearlove had appeared between them, calm and quiet as if strolling in a rose garden. She gave one efficient sidelong kick, and the amulet scooted across the floor to disappear beneath the sofa.
“Ha!” shouted Lady Armitage and punched Alex hard.
Then winced as her bones shuddered against his abdominal muscles.
He pushed her away and turned to shove at the sofa even as he heard Charlotte’s voice crackling through the room.
“Proximare!”
She pointed to the sofa, presumably aiming her magic at the amulet beneath. But the sofa, already in motion, responded instead. It lurched violently into the air, rocking back and forth as its sedentary nature vied with the magic, and then shot toward Charlotte. Instinct had Alex running for her even though he knew he could not outpace speeding furniture.
Charlotte jumped from the sideboard just as the sofa smashed into the wall above, and Alex grabbed her, throwing them both aside. The sofa tumbled to earth with a bone-shaking thud.
Clinging to each other, they inhaled shakily, and Alex rolled so they could more easily get to their—
“Stop right there.”
Looking up, he saw a gun barrel, and behind it the sharp red smile of Lady Armitage. His arms tightened around Charlotte.
“It has been a long and tiring week,” the pirate complained, “between organizing my trousseau, blowing up the church, and kidnapping the vicar. I appreciate the entertainment you have provided here, but that’s enough now. Time to bring an end.”
“There are no bullets in that gun,” Charlotte reminded her.
Lady Armitage’s smile quirked. She pulled the trigger.
Alex hunched over Charlotte protectively as the floor next to them exploded in a screaming shower of sparks and wood chips.
“I am a pirate,” Lady Armitage said coolly. “You didn’t think I was telling the truth, did you? Dearlove, kindly go and dust the torture chamber. I do believe I shall give myself a hen’s party before my wedding tomorrow.” She chuckled as she kicked Alex with her booted toe. “Although these two will be the ones squawking.”
19
(spoiler alert) miss plim is discontent—mr. rotunder’s unfurnishing—the wisteria society arrives—assault with a deadly compliment—battle stations—mrs. ogden has an interesting day—bangers and mash—assorted explosions
Miss Plim was the unhappiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such justice. She was unhappier than even Miss Darlington; that lady only grumbled, Miss Plim grouched. Everyone could tell what she suffered! But no one cared, for those who complain are never pitied. It would be enough to bring Miss Plim to despair, did she not already live there permanently, with a drafty house, a perpetually withered garden, and a holiday home at the edge of melancholia when she felt like a change of view.
Charlotte’s behavior had left her so unhappy indeed, she did not even kneel on Mrs. Rotunder’s drawing room carpet to pick out unsightly fluff, as had become her habit since traveling with the pirate. The memory of Charlotte running away from her, hand in hand with a pirate, lurked at the edge of her consciousness, clutching its portfolio of images and chewing on its lower lip, too nervous to venture into Miss Plim’s immediate awareness. The last time it tried, it got beatenback by fury and dissociation. It still had the scars: Charlotte had reverted to a young girl and the pirate’s face was a snarling shadow flashing with teeth. The memory was taking no further risks, and nudged onto the field instead a gaggle of shivery, high-pitched little complaints about Mrs. Rotunder’s weak tea.
Miss Plim set her cup back on its saucer with an expressiveclink. But no one else in the drawing room noticed. Mrs. Rotunder was busy chastising Mr. Rotunder for taking his arm off in company (it was a wooden arm, fashioned from a leg of a mahogany bedside table, and yes, sadly, Mr. Rotunder did tend to joke about his arm that was a leg). Mrs. Chuke paced with as much agitation as is possible in a heavily bustled dress, fretting about her absent maid, Miss Dearlove. Had the girl been mugged? Murdered? Stolen away to be the bride of a half-mad baron in the Scottish highlands? Or indeed, all three?
Miss Plim lost patience. A sigh exploded from her mouth, followed by atsk tskthat rolled away from it like a burning wheel.
But no one noticed that either, for just then Mrs. Rotunder’s butler appeared at the door.
“Visitors, madam,” he announced. “Miss Fairweather, Miss Fairweather, Mr. Bassingthwaite; Miss Brown, Miss Brown, Mrs. Eames.” He paused, swallowing nervously. “And Miss Jones.”
The pirates trooped in like a sentence full of adjectives, adverbs, and exclamation marks, punctuated finally by the tiny black full stop of Verisimilitude Jones, who was generally called, or more precisely, screamed, “Millie the Monster.” Even Miss Plim felt rather overwhelmed by it all. She stood, forced another quarter inch of height out of her already straining spine, and glared superciliously at the newcomers.
But since pirates are composed entirely of superciliousness and sweetened tea, no one paid her any notice.
Miss Brown senior stepped forward to greet Mrs. Rotunder.“Gertrude, I love what you’ve done with your hair! It suits you so much better now!”
“Anne,” Mrs. Rotunder replied, smiling. “That dress! You always inspire me with your fashion choices—I wish I too didn’t care about what other people thought of me.”
Before Miss Brown could counterattack with another brutal compliment, Mr. Frederick Bassingthwaite imposed himself upon the conversation. “Ladies, how magnificent that we are unified here today on this momentous occasion of togetherness, pirate and witch, our hearts singing with the sublime harmonies of true and courageous—”
