Page 43 of The Trick of It

“Miss Boswell?” the innkeeper called, huffing over to the table with his bushy, gray curls askew. “Missive arrived for you this morn. Urgent, they said.”

“Oh,” she replied, accepting a green envelope with a white seal. “Thank you.”

“Why’s it always addressed to you?” Rhys complained, doing his level best not to pout at the envelope. “I can read.”

“Debatable,” she said, breaking the seal and retrieving the folded paper from inside. She paused, halfway through the motion of unfolding it, then glanced at him across the table, holding the letter aloft. “Do you want to prove it?”

“Go on, then,” he said, snatching it from her and clearing his throat, straightening his posture in the wobbly, wooden chair. “Ahem. ‘To the Changelings’”—here he paused to wince—“‘Persephone Boswell and Rhys Caradoc. As promised, an extended invitation to my home for the duration of the month of October. Enclosed, find directions to my estate and correspondence particulars, should you choose to stay. Further instructions to follow.’”

There was a pause, during which Seph watched him over the rim of her mug, those odd blue-and-brown eyes of hers wide and expectant. She blinked three times, frowned, and set her cup down. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he said, digging in the envelope and withdrawing a message in differing handwriting with a map sketched onto it and forwarding instructions for the Royal Mail. “Do you want to stay here?”

“I can’t,” she replied, her expression still troubled. “I’ve the shop. It’s slow, but it’s not dead.”

“I can’t, either,” he said, making a bit of a mess of stuffing everything back in the envelope. “Least I don’t think I can. I’m supposed to stay in Brighton for a full calendar year or I lose my pavilion and other bits and bobs from my inheritance. I had to check with Harcourt just to make sure staying overnight in Lewes wasn’t going to douse me.”

“Well, that’s that, then,” she said, though she didn’t look happy about it. “I suppose we’ll have to come back for the … What did that fraud woman call it? ‘A concert’?”

“‘Recital,’” he answered, chuckling. “How do you know she’s a fraud?”

Seph cut her eyes to him, her expression stony, which got a laugh out of his throat before he’d even had time to process it.

“Fair enough,” he said, sliding the envelope back to her as their food came out. “But the others might be genuine. A priest? The little lady is very impressive. She’s one of the star attractions of that American circus that’s been set up in London for a few years.”

“What about the one who moves things with his mind?” she prompted, raising her eyebrows. “Not curious about him?”

“Lodestones,” Rhys said with a dismissive shrug. “Has to be. An old hat like Merlin should know better, honestly.”

“Which is what makes me think it’s not magnet foolery,” she answered, raising her brows as she unfolded her cutlery from the scratchy, brown cloth in which they were bundled and floated the scrap down into her lap like a proper lady. “He said we were the few who’d succeeded in stumping him, didn’t he? Who’s to say?”

“Me,” Rhys said. “I’m to say.”

“Oh, naturally,” she demurred, her attention completely focused on her eggs and toast now. “Well, it said, ‘information to follow.’ Presumably some will follow.”

“Yes, I suppose,” he said, taking up a sausage link and biting into it, still dissatisfied.

How were they meant to make decisions about this request, much less plan it, with so little to go on?

“We’ll have to come up with something to perform for him, I reckon,” Rhys said between bites. “Maybe the ropes? The one over the tub of water?”

“Hm?” she said, glancing up at him like he’d interrupted her mid-conversation. “Oh. Right. Yes, we’ll have to talk about that.”

“Unless you want to attempt the—” he began.

“I don’t,” she said quickly, sending both of them back into silence for several more bites. “God knows if I’d even remember it anymore,” she added finally, giving him a little shrug. “It’s been a long time.”

“I remember it,” he said, careful with each consonant, so as not to spook her off the table. “In detail.”

“Do you, indeed?” she said, tilting her head at an angle that flashed the sunlight across her hair, a thousand shades of molten gold by the strand. “I thought you struggled to remember much at all around that time.”

“That isn’t what I said,” he corrected her, shifting in his seat. “I said I can never find anything specific about that day, aside from the obvious.”

“Of course,” she answered, mild and soft. “Do you remember my cousin Sarah, Rhys? From the caravan?”

He paused, egg dripping off the edge of his fork, and frowned at her. “Not sure,” he said. “You’ve got a hundred cousins.”

“Sarah,” she said again, pointedly. “She was the one everyone thought looked just like me. People mistook us for twins. We even talked about using her as a decoy once or twice in a new trick. Is your memory good or isn’t it?”