Maddy crossed her arms. “With respect, Phillipa, the more people we involve, the greater the threat. Miller doesn’t know about us.”
“Dominic’s consulting business is fronting the case. He can very publicly consult anyone without even a hint of involvement of Everwell, aside from the tangential issue of being married to Elouise,” Phillipa continued. “Our primary job here is to keep Mr. da Silva safe until the real killer can be found, or at least until it can be proven unequivocally that he can’t be guilty.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we will have done what we can,” Phillipa said. “We work hard, but we are not magicians. Sometimes the jobs don’t work out.”
There was Phillipa’s never-failing pragmatism. The women of Everwell had managed to conjure the impossible more times than Maddy could count. It was a mix of preparation, hard work, and sometimes, dumb luck. And while they’d never been caught, and their secret seemed to remain secure, there were times when they hadn’t managed to get the ending for the client that they’d hoped. But they had to try. Those rumours had to be quelled. They were too close to the truth. A truth that could harm Everwell so deeply, it may never recover.
She had a debt to Everwell she would gladly spend her entire life repaying. This job was just another instalment.
After few fortifying sips of coffee, Maddy was in a far better mood. She was still upset that Mr. da Silva had left her ink bottle open, but at least now she didn’t want to dump the remainder of it over his head.
“Good morning Miss Murray, Mrs. Hartley.”
Lucy’s salutation grabbed both adults by surprise. She stood in the doorway, clutching a small sheaf of papers.
“Good morning Lucy,” Phillipa said, greeting the child with her customary warmth. “What do you have there?”
“I wrote a story!” she said, bounding into the kitchen, her small body vibrating with excitement.
“You did?” Phillipa asked, casting an eye to Maddy. “When?”
“Last night. It’s not quite done. I might like to change a few pieces yet,” Lucy replied. “If it’s good enough, I might ask Mrs. Ashe if we can use it for this year’s play.”
Lucy held up the pages to Phillipa, who examined the pages. “Did you write this?”
“I talked, and Mr. da Silva wrote it down. That way I could just think about my story,” she said.
“This is quite good, Lucy,” Phillipa said. Maddy looked over the pages Lucy laid in front of her. It was a fantastical story about a girl and a fox. She suspected Mr. da Silva may have, in some places, employed some editorial license to smooth the prose, but it was clear he took the job seriously.
Phillipa handed the pages back to Lucy. “Why don’t you take it to your room, and over tea we’ll look at it together with Mrs. Ashe?”
“I will,” the girl said, then bounded out of the room and up the stairs.
She turned away and disappeared up the back stairs.
“Well,” Phillipa said. “It seems our Mr. da Silva is not only a buyer of expensive books, but a scribe as well.”
Our Mr. da Silva. Maddy wanted to brush off the moniker. He’d arrived a little more than twelve hours ago. He was nothing more than a beautiful interloper. A ruiner of pens.
And a willing scribe to a budding storyteller.
Maddy fought her own urge to soften at that last descriptor.
“I’ll go and rouse him,” Phillipa said, interrupting Maddy’s thoughts. “He might like a cup of coffee after a night in that chair.”
“I’ll do it,” Maddy said, almost before she knew what she was saying. Phillipa, famous for her unflinching demeanour under the most trying of circumstances, arched a brow.
“He’s in my library unattended,” Maddy grumbled, satisfied with the perfectly rational explanation for her rather irrational response. “He’s no doubt already ruined one of my pens. I don’t want him doing any more damage.”
She picked up the small tray Phillipa had assembled with the coffee, a small sugar bowl, and some cream from the icebox and let out a low breath before marching across the hall.
The snoring had stopped and Mr. da Silva was out of his chair and at her desk. Again.
“What are you doing?” she asked, gripping the handles of the small tray.
“Good morning.” He looked up and flashed her a smile that was probably meant to disarm her. Instead, it flared something deep inside. A phantom pain, from a time when a man had used just such a smile to win her heart, only to sacrifice it to sate his desire for a piece of her family’s wealth. Of course, Mr. da Silva didn’t know that. No one did.
