How do you like that, Milady?I thought. And I could tell she was listening, although she appeared to be deep in conversation.
Someone else had been listening, too. There was a low laugh from the other end of the table. I turned sharply. I could see a figure there, far enough from the candles that his face was in shadow, but close enough to eavesdrop, evidently.
No one else seemed to have heard the laugh—my companion, at least, kept talking, with no pause. I narrowed my eyes and tried to see the stranger’s features. He—for I could tell that the owner of the laugh was a he, at the very least—was a moth-like blur in the firefly lights around the table. However hard I tried, I found my eyes shivering over him, never quite settling, as if my gaze and mind found him too unremarkable to rest on even for a second.
Was it Patrick?
I tried harder. By keeping my gaze fixed and steady, I was able to catch a blurred glimpse of the man—dark haired, with a neatly trimmed beard, and a silver pin winking at his neck. Then the indifference descended again, feeling almost like nausea, and he had gone.
It had to be him—didn’t it?
“You find me tedious?”
I gathered my thoughts from the strange malaise that had overtaken them and tried once again to listen. The man beside me was smiling, lips pressed tightly together. I noticed that one of his canine teeth overlapped his lower lip very slightly.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
I turned my attention back to his mild questioning and passionless flattery, and did not look away again, although I desperately wanted to. Could Patrick really be here, in Milady’s house? My mind raced as I tried to think of a way to find out without Milady noticing.
When dinner was finished, Milady stood. This was the signal for all the others to stand, also.
“Shall we retire to the drawing room?” she said.
This transition would give me a chance to go back to my room—to breathe. I was turning politely to take my leave of the silver-haired gentleman—I had never asked his name—when I heard, “Netta. Won’t you fetch your book? I’m sure our guests would like to hear you read.”
So it was that time. Dread curled in my stomach. I looked from one impassive face to the other and then scrambled to gather my skirts and rise. Every movement was a production when you had this much fabric wrapping itself like an embroidered octopus about your legs.
“And, Netta?” Milady added.
A pause.
“Yes, Milady?”
“Gloves.”
My cheeks burned. I ran one sweating hand down my bare forearm.
“Yes, Milady.”
“It seems I shall have the pleasure of your company a little longer,” said the nameless gentleman, who would probably have to remain without a name forever, because I would never have the courage to ask for it after we had been talking all this time.
“Yes,” I said stupidly. “I mean, the pleasure is mine. Will be mine.”
His mouth didn’t move, but his eyes told me he was laughing at me. I pushed back my chair, letting my napkin fall to the floor, where it was scooped up immediately by one of the footmen.
I half tripped over my own feet as I walked—no, be honest, Netta. Scurried, I was scurrying—away. I could feel Milady’s gaze on my back, but the woman could hardly object to me urinating. At least, she could object, but not in front of the guests.
Several pairs of eyes watched me go, with tangible curiosity. Wonderful. Rather than lessening over the course of the evening, the attention beamed on me was just becoming more and more concentrated.
I felt my way through the door, fluttering my fingers and smiling stupidly at the people I passed, and then I was in the safety of the corridor. I hurried, as much as my voluminous skirts would allow, startling one of the maids who was seizing her brief opportunity to smoke a hand-rolled cigarette in a secluded corner. I almost wished I could take a gasp of it myself, to steady my nerves.
I had five minutes, ten at the very most. Enough to compose myself and arrange my face into an expression suitable for another hour or two of conversation and scrutiny.
In the room, Baldbeak was peering hopefully through the window.
Is it finished?
“No, she’s going to make me read. I have to get those gloves, though.” I rummaged through my drawer. “Baldbeak, I think Patrick is here.”
