Page 9 of The Trick of It

Those were the reasons she almost fell to her death at the ring of the bell. Certainly the only reasons.

Persephone Boswell was perfectly competent with a hammer, thank you very much.

She shambled down, grimacing, and moved toward the curtain on the front door, debating whether or not she ought to peek out.

The sign outside said Closed. Ferme.

It was not ambiguous.

But a lot of sailors couldn’t read.

So either it was an illiterate would-be customer. Or it was a friend.

Neither should really see her dressed as she was, but she could never abide a puzzle with no answer. And so, she peeked, and in doing so, gave away her presence behind the door.

Perhaps because it was Sunday, and that always put God in a friendly mood, it was indeed a friend. The only friend whose attire was frequently more scandalous than Seph’s trousers, in fact, and as such, she was able to wrench the door open a crack and usher the other woman inside.

“Seph!” Liberty Lennox declared, frowning at the darkened store. “The Devil are you doing in the shadows? Is that a ladder?”

“No,” lied Seph with a grin. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you,” Libba replied, raising her dark brows. She was a beautiful creature, her skin a gleaming hickory brown, her beauty marks drawing attention to her full cheeks. Even first thing in the morning, with not a speck of rouge and her hair twisted and stabbed into place by a brass fork, she looked ready for the stage.

Seph had always found Libba’s effortless glamour enviable, if exhausting. Inspirational, if unattainable. And deeply endearing besides.

“You had a circular at the door,” Libba told her, holding out a copy of Ackermann’s Repository of Arts.

“Ah! I’ve been waiting for that,” Seph said, brightening. “Thank you kindly.”

Libba hesitated, looking down at it. “Not the reading I’d have guessed for you.”

“Why not?” Seph said, raising her brows as Libba gave her trousers a smirk. “Are you saying my fashionable ensemble doesn’t belong within its pages?”

“Of course not,” Libba tittered.

“Flip to the back,” Seph suggested, turning and looking around for somewhere to deposit her hammer. “You’ll see its value to me there. Plenty of bizarre and delightful little things that I should either stock or seek out composites for.”

“Ah,” said the other woman, the pages ruffling as Seph wandered toward her till to drop the hammer next to it. “Yes, I see. Oh, thaumatropes! I like those.”

“Exactly,” said Seph, turning back around and dropping her hands on her hips. “It’s also just a bit of fun. I like fun, Libba.”

“Yes, yes,” said Libba, still squinting dubiously at the stepladder and at the sign, which was, just now, only hung on one side and dangling precariously over a stack of tinned cashews. “I can see that you do. Shall I help you with that?”

“With what?” Seph asked, blinking innocently. “Shouldn’t you be at home with that new husband of yours today? He practically had to carry you home from the Cauldron last night.”

Libba smirked, smoothing a hand down the bright-blue paisley of her dress. “Yes, I should,” she said haughtily. “And I would be, if you hadn’t sent Rhys into the vapors first thing. He accosted me at my flat before I’d even finished my first cup of tea. What have you done to him this time?”

Seph frowned, her hackles going up a little. “Not a damned thing,” she said with feeling. “I didn’t even breathe in his direction last night. I never do!”

“You always do,” Libba corrected with a titter. “As far as he is concerned.”

“Well, that must be it, then,” she replied, frowning and marching back to her ladder. “I can’t account for Rhys Caradoc’s piques of drama.”

“No, of course not,” Libba agreed, watching her as she wobbled the stepladder for a moment and then snatched up the paper Edible Oddities sign to fold into a leg bolster for the stupid thing. “But you did inspire one this morning, anyhow. More than the usual glitter and groaning.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea about it,” Seph said, setting her jaw as she bent down to wedge the folded sign under the ladder. “If he came to you ranting about it, surely he told you why.”

“Oh, please,” Libba said flatly. “You might not speak to him anymore, but you’ve known him half your life. Rhys is tenuously coherent at the best of times. Did you perhaps add to your stock of magic trick kits? Reveal another one of his precious secrets?”