“Come in,” the woman called as Alice knocked on the door. “You’re right on time.”
Alice entered the office and felt her calm instantly turn to the same color as Mrs. Kew’s walls—i.e., custard. Everywhere was white lace, cream lace, frothing pink lace, as if a maniacal bride had run amok with decorator tools. It framed the map of England on one wall. It wrapped around flower bouquets set on lace-clothed shelves. Even Mrs. Kew’s fluffy white cat wore a lace bow. Alice suspected one more delicate, finely spun ribbon set anywhere in the room would cause the whole place to collapse in a suffocating heap.
Tap tapwent her fingers in her pocket.
“Sit down, dear, have some tea,” Mrs. Kew urged from a plump lace-trimmed armchair at one end of the room. Alice turned to offer the Chief Servant a curtsy—
And froze.
Mr. Bixby sat on a sofa opposite Mrs. Kew, holding a teacup.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
He looked back at her with a stare so void of emotion, Alice struggled not to dreamily sigh. A woman could never drown in eyes like that! She could stand on safely dry ground while other women flailed about in swooning, adoring gazes. His posture within his dark suit and black overcoat was rigid. He wore no hat, and Alice observed that, although his hair was cut to regulation in a short, precise style, near the back of his neck a tattoo could be seen rising an inch above his collar, suggesting some uncouth mystery seared into the naked skin below...
Goodness, but the air in this room was even hotter than that in the broom factory.
Belatedly performing the curtsy, Alice crossed the room, her bootheels smacking hard against the floor. As she sat beside Bixby onthe plump, embroidered sofa, he blinked, and her heart blinked in response.Guard your tranquil layers, she chided herself.
“Remind me, dear,” Mrs. Kew said, leaning forward over an array of tea things, cakes, and roses on the low table before her. “Do you take sugar?”
Alice smiled politely at the Chief Servant—although not quite looking at her from sheer self-defense. Mrs. Kew was as decorative as her office, with lace and jewelry set upon every available surface of her soft, middle-aged person. But Alice had watched this same woman kill a man at ten paces with a Royal Jubilee commemoration plate and was not fooled.
“No, thank you, ma’am. Just milk. And please allow me to apologize for the disturbance on Bond Street yesterday—”
“I have already apologized for it,” Mr. Bixby interjected coolly. “It was entirely my fault.”
Alice bristled. “I beg your pardon, sir, but it was my fault. And furthermore—”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Kew said soothingly. “I’m sure everyone was to blame. I heard all about it from Lady Hassan’s butler. A fight in the street! Histrionic aristocrats! And a missed appointment with London’s most exclusive hairdresser! It sounds very dramatic. Really no sugar, dear?”
“None, thank you. I must insist on apologizing.”
“Oh good. After all, sugar makes one’s teeth sparkle.”
“I meant I am sorry about the Bond Street debacle.”
“Never mind, I was going to take you off that case anyway. Something more important has come up that requires your special skills.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, it’s—Goodness me, what is that?!”
Mrs. Kew gasped, staring wide-eyed over Alice’s shoulder. Aliceturned, reaching instinctively for the petite gun in her waistband, but saw nothing untoward. (Well, a statuette of Queen Victoria swathed in golden lace, but nothing else untoward.) As she turned back, she noticed a tiny, fleeting smile on Mr. Bixby’s mouth.
“Must have been just a shadow,” Mrs. Kew said, and handed Alice a delicate pink teacup.
“Thank you.” Alice took the cup and, lifting it from its saucer, sipped discreetly. Only years of training prevented her from spitting out the liquid.
“I went ahead and put just a speck of sugar in,” Mrs. Kew confessed. “For the sake of your health.”
“I see.” Clearly, her notion of a speck and Mrs. Kew’s diverged by several teaspoons’ worth.
“Now, regarding your new assignment,” Mrs. Kew said, easing back in her chair and smiling merrily at the agents. “A, I need you to—”
“Excuse me.” Mr. Bixby’s teacup went down in its saucer with a disapprovingclank. “Did you just address Miss Dearlove as A?”
Mrs. Kew’s smile widened. “Of course I did. A for Alice, since our dear Mr. Digglesby-God-rest-his-soul will forever be Agent D. I thought that you knew this, B. When you—”
