Page 38 of A Deal with the Devil

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s not the way they usually operate. And if most of my books were tossed about instead of stolen and my money box is still intact, why bother rifling it in the first place?”

“A very good question.”

“Just to punish me, I suppose?” She sounded mournful even to her own ears. That would not do.

He glowered at that.

The tip of the knife she used to spread butter on the muffins she bought from the cart outside was impaled in the wall. It was vaguely menacing. But mostly puzzling. “As a threat, that needs work,” she decided.

“It’s threatening enough.”

“It’s unclear and not very informative.”

“I’m sorry, are you finding fault with how you’ve been attacked?”

“I’m used to better, if I’m honest.”

“I don’t think you realize just how terrifying that is.” He tilted her chin up, searching her face. “But at least you’ve color back in your cheeks.”

“This kind of thing usually makes me splotchy, not pale. Curse of the redheads.” Why had she said that? “I didn’t sleep well.” And why had she added that? He didn’t care. And it didn’t matter.

Honestly. A little break-in was no reason to abandon all of her wits.

Tell that to those very addled wits, currently fleeing the scene of the crime.

She made a small tower of books rescued from the floor, to give herself something to do that was not chattering. Or tearing up. Or wondering what he would do if she just leaned over and bit him. Just a little. Right there on his sullen bottom lip.

She was absolutely witless.

She gathered up a trinket box and a knot of the kind of ribbons people used as bookmarks sometimes, thick and velvet and clamped with gold beads. A stack of lace doilies. A book with a false cover: Etiquette and Decorum. Underneath: Ravished by the Rakehell by the Nightingale. Clara’s nom de plume.

It would take hours to set everything back to rights.

“This will take all day,” she said. “I am quite certain you have better things to do.”