“I am a fan of well-written adventures,” Athena replied drily, as they drifted down the hall, “but the man himself must be quite boring at family dinners.”
Olive wanted to object. Anyone who’d lived half the adventures of Aberdeen Jones must be riveting to listen to in person. His adventures certainly made for some fascinating topics of conversation.
I wonder if Phi—Phinea—Oh, for heaven’s sakes,Athena’s brother, there, that wasn’t that hard. I wonder ifheis a fan of Mr. Jones’s exploits.
When they stepped from the sitting room, Athena gave them a cheery wave. “Have fun tonight.” She winked at Olive. “Especially ye.” She turned and strode—yes,strode, as if she didn’t care about taking the dainty steps Grandmama had always preached about—toward the back entrance.
Meanwhile, a pit had opened in Olive’s stomach, and promptly been inhabited by butterflies. Or moths. Something with more legs than proper, that was for certain.
She was expected to blithely float toward the dining room and greet her hostess without gibbering like a monkey. Then she was supposed to take Phineas Oliphant’s arm, sit beside him, without making a fool of herself, speaking of avian copulatory organs or ancient South American sacrificial customs, or Roman architectural details or?—
Actually, perhaps we should best stick to that. You have studied the topic, after all, and Mr. Oliphant proved interested when we toured the ruins.
There. That was simple. She’d speak of Roman architecture, and as long as she remembered not to gettooexcited and dribble wine down her gown or something, she’d be able to make it through the dinner and perhaps even the obligatory dance afterward.
Dancing.
Oh dear. That was even harder than making conversation with an attractive man, wasn’t it?
The rest of her friends had already started down the stairs, chattering happily together. Trying to tamp down the panic once more, Olive turned to find Willow smiling broadly at her.
“Would you like me to take your journal to your room? I need to stop by mine before dinner.”
That was when Olive realized she was still clutching the Journal of the Society of Archaeology to her chest. Flushing, she thrust it toward her sister, stammering her appreciation.
Straightening her shoulders, she turned to the stairs and grasped the banister.
Right.
An evening in Mr. Phineas Oliphant’s exclusive company.
She could do this.
Shewoulddo this.
