“Good morning,” she said in a somber tone.
“Good morning, my darling,” Alex replied, his Irish accent rolling like music out of sleep’s peace.
Charlotte blushed scarlet, powerless to stop the disintegration of her frown and the resultant smile. Mary Wollstonecraft would have turned over in her grave (depending on who was on it at the time, and what they were doing). Elizabeth Bennet and her authorial sisters smirked as their character choices were vindicated. Who was the ninny now?
Alex did not seem to notice her response. He clambered to his feet, taking his coat from her and putting it on. Charlotte sat up more slowly.
“It’s simply rude for you to have so much vigor after sleeping the night on a floor,” she said, rubbing her aching back.
“It’s less vigor than impatience,” he said, grasping her hand and pulling her up. She staggered against him, and he gave her a quick one-armed embrace. “I want breakfast. And my regular morning exercise.”His grin made her blush flare again. The accent was gone, taking with it the vulnerability in his eyes, but apparently his ardor remained.
“You might find yourself thwarted in both by the fact we are imprisoned,” Charlotte said. “And take it from me, there is no way out.”
He laughed. “There’s never any point in saying ‘Take it from me’ to a pirate.”
Charlotte stepped back, hands on her hips. “You saw me working last night. You know I found no means of escape.”
“I do know,” he said, striding across to the door and grasping its handle. “But you didn’t try—”
The door swung open.
“—shouting,” he finished numbly.
They exchanged a shocked stare. Then Alex laid a finger to his lips and, drawing the door open wider, peered out.
“Huh.”
Charlotte came up beside him. “Why is there a rose lying on the threshold?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said. “Perhaps Lady Armitage is playing some kind of game.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We play.” Taking her hand, he led her out of the dungeon, closing the door behind him. “Which way, magic girl?”
“Left,” she said, indicating where pink rose petals made a trail along the narrow corridor.
“Like sheep to the slaughter. Very well. Tally ho!”
“Really, that is such a daft phrase,” Charlotte muttered. “You would never hear a witch say something so ridiculous. We are far too sensible.”
“No, you are far too boring,” Alex corrected.
Charlotte refrained from arguing, partly due to the need for stealth, and partly because she agreed with him. They followed strewn petalsup a flight of uncarpeted stairs, around a corner, and halfway down another stretch of corridor. Whoever had created the trail must have run out of petals, for this could not be the actual destination. Several doors stood shut; the house was silent.
Charlotte judged from the faint light glimmering through a window that dawn had broken only recently. In Pettifer House, no one stirred until at least nine (except the cook, dishwashers, chambermaids, scullery maids, footmen, and butler). It appeared this was also the case in Lady Armitage’s household. Now if they could only locate the amulet before anyone woke, they could be out of there without further trouble, and home before the end of the day.
The realization lurched in her stomach. Convincing the League that she was going to marry a pirate would be the most difficult magic she’d ever attempted. Cleaning Alex’s house would come a close second. Perhaps best to simply crash it “accidentally” and seek new premises. She did not need a Pemberley per se, but there ought at least to be a decent bathroom and the certainty of no opossum living in the kitchen’s chimney.
“Which way now?” Alex whispered, drawing her out of visions of Georgian columns and marble floors.
“Down the aisle,” she replied. He looked at her oddly. “The corridor,” she amended, managing not to blush. “Down the corridor and up those stairs.”
She assumed Lady Armitage would keep her bedroom on an upper floor like a proper (albeit mad and murderous) lady. So they went up, wincing at every slight noise their boots made on the treads. Then they walked another corridor until they met a closed door, with no further passage available. Charlotte was about to suggest they turn around when a slight clattering came from within the room. Alex reached instinctively for his sword, then mouthed a curse as he remembered it had been taken from him. Despite this, he opened the door beforeCharlotte could supply him with one of a dozen excellent reasons not to do so.
Lady Armitage’s cockpit lay before them. Either that or a lounge in a brothel, but since the latter generally did not include large, spoked wheels, Charlotte felt confident in her initial assessment. (She might have been surprised had she actually visited such a place.) The room contained several pastel-colored fainting couches, statues of unclothed gentlemen who were more happily endowed than those in museums, the aforementioned wheel, and lying on the floor beneath that wheel, Miss Dearlove.
The traitorous maid sat up hurriedly as they entered. In her hand was a screwdriver.
