Daniel gave Alice a dry look. She rolled her eyes.
“I think we shall manage, Dr. Snodgrass,” she said.
“But my technical expertise is imperative to the success—”
The rest of his sentence was lost in a loud clap of noise as another explosion occurred, sending pink feathers through the air.
“Thank you all the same,” Daniel said.
They walked back through the laboratory, weaving carefully away from small fires and shuddering mechanical devices, Snodgrassbut-ing andI-say-ing behind them all the way. Daniel was glad to shut him out of the closet.
“I like to consider myself an accepting kind of fellow,” he said as the closet slowly rose, “but that is one man I cannot abide.”
“I detest him,” Alice said, although her mild tone suggested she was less interested in Snodgrass than in surpassing Daniel at even this. Propping the umbrella against a wall, she took a fitted sheet from the shelf and began to fold it.
“Other corner first,” Daniel instructed.
She speared him with a quelling look. Undeterred, he stepped forward, reaching for the sheet. “No, really—”
“I beg your pardon.” She pulled it closer to herself. “I know what I am doing.”
“Clearly not, since that is the wrong corner.” He took another step.
“Touch this sheet and you die,” she advised calmly.
He stared at her for a moment, then shot out his arm sideways and slammed the heel of his hand against the emergency button. The closet shuddered to a halt.
Alice raised one eyebrow.
And Daniel loosened his collar for the battle ahead.
On the floor above, several people stood waiting for the closet. And waiting. And still waiting, so that a number of them drew watches from pockets restively. Others tapped repeatedly on the button as if that might hasten the closet’s arrival.
Suddenly, a crash echoed up the shaft. The group exchanged alarmed glances. Then the floor began to shudder, and a series of rapid bangs vibrated through the wall. Everyone stepped back from the closet door, murmuring worriedly.
Ping!The button lit, and the group moved back even farther. The door swung open.
Daniel Bixby stepped out, brushing an invisible speck from the lapel of his long black overcoat. He appeared to not even see the group—for which they were grateful, since even those who didn’t know he’d spent three years working with a pirate could sense he possessed an energy about as unbending as a sword and equally dangerous. Behind him came Alice Dearlove, who was reputed to have informed the Queen to her royal face that it wastry to, nottry and. She was carrying a furled umbrella under her arm and the group cringed, half expecting her to jab them with it. But without a word the two agents strode off along the corridor, allowing the group to breathe again. They cautiously approached the closet and peered in.
Several people gasped.
Never before had the little room been so clean. Every item on itsshelves was not only folded to perfection but organized according to color and purpose. Spiderwebs were gone from corners; scuffmarks on the floor had vanished. The group looked at one another nervously, then turned away and took the stairs.
Alice was bemused to find Mr. Bixby following her out of A.U.N.T. headquarters, into the gloom between rain showers. She felt all-peopled-out after the morning and wanted to go home, close the curtains, and hug a book until her nerves settled. She certainly wanted some distance from this particular man. Agent B attracted her in a way that was (1) entirely unprofessional, (2) physically daunting, and (3) holding one edge of her tranquility and smiling with a suggestion that any moment now it might tug.
“Forgive me, sir,” she said, glancing at him. “But you do understand we are not in fact married?”
“I do,” he said, ironically enough. “However, I thought I might escort you home and along the way we could develop our cover story—share about our hobbies, for example, our favorite foods, our family histories.”
Alice huffed a small, dry laugh at that last suggestion. Surely the man was joking. A.U.N.T. never promoted anyone with family to their elite force. The risk of emotional conflict, blackmail threats, or people wanting to take Christmas holidays was simply too great.
“I do not think my orphanage childhood is an appropriate subject for decent conversation,” she said. “Perhaps, if needed, I could invent jolly, red-cheeked parents who live in the countryside and send me knitted goods on my birthday.”
Daniel frowned. “I doubt that would work.”
“Why not?”
“Well, granted I was raised in an orphanage too, so have little knowledge of families outside of novels, but jolly parents who acknowledge one’s birthday sounds dubious to me.”
