“It’s from a poem, apparently,” Mrs. Rotunder said, and the resulting laughter dwindled away.
Daniel exhaled just as Alice did the same. He closed the door, and noticing a chest of drawers nearby, they hauled it over to serve as a barricade. Then leaning back against it, they stared wearily into the middle distance.
“I am just so shocked,” Alice murmured.
“Oh?” Daniel asked, wondering which of the screaming women with a torch, terrifying pirate horde, exploding ceiling, or further terrifying pirate horde had troubled her in particular.
“ ‘It’s a secret room, therefore it must have a secret exit,’ ” she said, and shook her head. “Have you read no Aristotle at all?”
“Therewasa secret exit,” he pointed out.
“That is beside the point.” She shook her head again, as if trying to settle the thoughts therein. “I also cannot believe Jane blew up the library ceiling in an effort to kill Cecilia Bassingthwaite, and everyoneapplaudedher. Even Cecilia.”
“Pirates,” he said.
“And they keep tigers in their bedrooms.”
“Just one tiger,” he pointed out reasonably.
She impaled him with a look that ought to have been given its own entry in the A.U.N.T. index of weaponry. “They are... are...” She cast about for the worst insult possible. “Utterly inexplicable.At least we can now leave this place, since the weapon does not exist. Our mission is complete. We can take the cottage and be back in London before dawn.”
“I’m not flying that alleged building at night,” Daniel countered. “We’re safe here; we should take a break.”
That idea perked Alice up at once. “Good idea! Break what, though? Frederick’s bones? Windows?” She looked around the room. “Where exactly are we?”
“The castle nursery, I think,” Daniel said. “But it seems someone has turned it into an art studio.”
Drifting over to one of the easels, Alice tilted her head as she contemplated the large charcoal sketch on display. Then she tilted it in the other direction.
“The artist appears to have a poor understanding of gravity,” she commented.
Daniel went to stand beside her. One glance at the sketch and he swallowed dryly, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “No, I think they understand altogether too well.”
Alice peered closer. “Is that supposed to be Jane?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Why is she wrestling that gentleman? He—wait, that’s one of the Bassingthwaites’ footmen, isn’t it? Why is he not wearing trousers?”
Daniel raised his eyes heavenward. “Miss Dearlove, I cannot believe you arethatinnocent.”
She jumped back as if the sketch had tried to assault her. “Oh. Well, goodness me. Of course I am worldly to the correct, ladylike degree. It’s only...” She tilted her head again. “Surely that is not normal practice?”
Daniel regarded the image thoughtfully. “Actually, it’s not abnormal, as such. Just not very safe for her neck, I should think.”
“Well. Fiddlesticks.” A delicate flush warmed the frown on her face, making her practically luminous with disapproval. Daniel’s brain informed him tersely that he was staring at her and, if he did not stop, it would send an official complaint to his nerves. He ignored it.
Was there a more exquisite woman in all the world than the one standing before him? If so, Daniel had not met her, and never expected to. Alice Dearlove defied even his ability to find a suitable quote from literature; he could only say she wase∧(iπ) + 1 = 0in feminine physical form. Her mouth shaped a general, silent reproof with gorgeousperfection. Her eyes were so opulent they might have inspired any amount of poetry were Daniel’s imagination capable of bending further than “dark brown.” And the memory of her soft, creamy skin pressed against his body as she attempted to strangle him made him ache with longing. He moved unthinkingly, helplessly, toward her.
She took a step back.
“I have questions about how Jane effected the ceiling collapse,” she said. “We must debrief.”
“Tomorrow.” He took another step, and although she did not retreat this time, her fingers tapped a staccato beat against her thigh. Daniel stopped at once, swallowing disappointment.
Then she broke his world apart and pieced it back together with molten gold: she took a step toward him. He drew in a breath he hadn’t known he’d been inhaling, and almost choked.
“Tomorrow it’s over,” he said, his voice gritty. “We go back to headquarters, get reassigned.” Gathering all his courage, he offered a dream in disguise: “We could use tonight to professionally expend our residual marital energy, as a way of transitioning out of the mission roles of husband and—”
