“Cholera?” Daniel asked anxiously.
Alex rolled his eyes. “No, Bixby, not cholera. You look rather unwell yourself. Why are you here at my door, coatless, in the rain?” He paused, his eyes narrowing, his expression becoming deadly serious—which was not something one generally liked to experience with a notorious pirate, but Daniel felt his breath ease at the sight. Alex took in his wet shirt, dirty shoes, the green stain around his ringless finger. The deadly expression softened into concern.
Damn it, Daniel thought.Don’t look concerned. I have no desire to stand on your doorstep weeping.
“Can I help you?” Alex asked, gruff and tender, frowning and worried.
Daniel straightened his shoulders even more than they already were. “It is possible I may... require... need...” He stopped hard against the limit of his vulnerability. Swords and bombs rattled inside him, demanding stoicism. Insisting on isolation. He clenched his jaw, blinked to focus his vision... and a tear slipped down his face.
“Bixby,”Alex said in a tone Daniel did not recognize, never having heard it used with him before. The pirate stepped aside. “Come in. Come in. We’ll figure this out, whatever it is, together. Come in, my friend.”
“I—” Daniel said, overwhelmed. He’d not been surprised by what A.U.N.T. had done. All his life, they’d said he could have no heart and he’d agreed—all of them sure it would be like Snodgrass’s bomb, set to explode at the first grounding. But he’d found that heart, and they’d taken it from him. They’d taken Alice. He’d been surprised every second since by the grief and fear and desperate wishing.
But nothing surprised him more than Alex O’Riley putting a hand on his shoulder, holding him steady while he faced the threshold between service and love.
“Tell him to hurry up!” Charlotte called out grumpily from the interior. “These pickled onions aren’t going to fry themselves!”
It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness. Miss Agapantha Ketlew moved between white shirtwaists and deep plum dresses, yellow scarves and black stockings, overwhelmed by choice. She had everything before her! It was a feast of fashion, and her heart sprang with hope! She had nothing before her! It was a wasteland, and she despaired.
“If I don’t find the perfect ensemble for attending Lady Mellard’s soiree, my life will beutterlyruined!” she declared.
“Yes, miss,” Alice said tonelessly from behind a stacked load of shoeboxes.
“I’m sure you don’t understand!” Agapantha gave a loud, prolonged sigh. “You probably don’t evenknowthe difference between cerise and pink!”
“No, miss,” Alice replied.
Agapantha turned to share a smirk with her other servant, Mr. Olliver, but he just stared into the middle distance with all the blank professionalism of asecret agent for an underground governmentvalet. His hands were occupied with various shopping bags, but Alice imagined the speed with which he might produce a gun from a concealed holster in the event that she threw the shoeboxes at him and ran for her life.
Which of course would not happen. She was a good, obedient servant. No reasonable person could point to her and say she looked like she was planning an escape (by distracting Mr. Olliver, dashing out the door, jamming it shut with her hair slide, scaling the front wall of the boutique with the help of the grips she had hidden in a secret pocket, then making her getaway across the rooftops. For example).
Certainly no one could produce a map drawn in her hand, detailing how to leave Bath without being caught by any of the agents who shadowed her (heading south to the train station, then doubling back and stealing a horse from the public mews—hypothetically speaking).
Indeed, so tranquil was she, Mrs. Kew must be getting rather bored with the daily reports about Agent A’s dedication to A.U.N.T. duty.
Which is exactly what Alice was counting on.
Nobody stole her books (and her Mr. Bixby) and got away with it.
“Dearlove!” Agapantha snapped, reclaiming her attention. “What do you think?”
Alice blinked at the orange dress held up before her. “Ma’am,” she said without inflection.
“Uuughh!” Agapantha sighed explosively. “This isimpossible! I need proper advice from someone who understands fashion!”
Tinkle tinkle.
Alice glanced around at the opening door. She caught her breath.
Ned Lightbourne walked in.
“I do love Bath,” he was saying to someone behind him.
“I am rather fond of the place myself,” came an elegant voice in reply.
Agapantha stared wide-eyed as Cecilia Bassingthwaite entered. Beautiful, refined, the pirate woman moved with the quiet grace of someone who knew that all she beheld could be hers at the merest flick of a finger (which is to say, a finger set against a gun’s trigger). She was outfitted in a gown of deep amber stolen from the very best haute couture provider, and it made the dress Agapantha held up look like a sunburned squirrel in comparison. Her hat was a work of sculptural art.
“One meets the most interesting people in Bath,” she said, smiling sweetly at Ned. He grinned in response.
