His valet Carruthers had chosen to sit on the outside with the driver and the footman, so Henry was alone. He shifted in his seat. Perhaps he’d bring Mina here someday to see the Wrecknot and the mill and the elephant gargoyle on the church-cum-castle. He was certain Mina would find even more traces of Tommy’sTalesandFurther Adventuresthan he had.
But, no. Henry had been reckless here. And he’d told the enchantress she’d never see him again, and he was a man of his word.
It had been odd what she’d said back to him.No, you’ll never see me again.
She had said exactly the same thing he had, but when she had said it, the words had twisted and tightened to a sharp point and stabbed Henry through the chest.
He rubbed at his chest where his cravat dipped into his waistcoat. Still a strange ache there.
What was this? The carriage was slowing, and they’d barely left the drive. He stuck his head out the window.
“Martin,” he shouted to the driver.
The horses came to a stop, and Martin leaned down and over and back and said, “There’s a woman standing in the lane, m’lord.”
Henry got out of the carriage. More recklessness, perhaps. Or it could be he’d become determined to prove he had a curiosity.
Or it could be he knew it washer.
It was.
She stood in the middle of the road, wearing a pelisse and holding a sack in one hand, the other hand outstretched, palmtowards the carriage. Wisps of her hair escaped her bonnet and danced around her face in the morning breeze.
“Careful, my lord,” Martin said as Henry drew even with the front of the carriage. “She might be mad.”
“She isn’t,” he said and walked towards her.
She lowered her arm as he approached. Before he could say anything, before he could make a dry remark about how they were both breaking their words, she spoke as quickly as she could, so fast that all the words ran together and what came out sounded like, “Howmutchyewlpayforthebuk?”
Then she took a deep breath and spoke more slowly.
“How much are you offering to pay me to write this book you want?”
“I’m not offering you anyth—” A dawning realization.
She spread her feet wide, put her fists on her waist with elbows akimbo. “Yes. I am Augustus Puddlewick.”
He folded his arms in front of his chest.
“I am,” she insisted. “My brothers sold the books to Mr. Manwaring the younger, but they’re my stories.”
“You didn’t tell me yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t. Butyou still haven’t even told me your name.” She looked at him expectantly.
“Delamere. Henry Delamere.”
His own name sounded strange to his ears. He was Ashthorpe, he had been Ashthorpe for years, he would die Ashthorpe. Yet, here, with her, he wanted to be Henry Delamere.
She had been quite fierce up until this moment, but now she beamed at him.
“My name amuses you,” he said.
A burst of laughter from her. “I amuse myself, Mr. Delamere. I did your trick.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Of getting an answer without asking a question,” she said. “You never ask questions.”
