Page 3

She’d barely finished speaking before another deafening explosion clamored overhead, and vivid blue light flashed beyond the windows.

Even the cat, Fluffer-Muffer, flicked her long silvery tail and twitched her black-tipped ears, though she didn’t deign to bother opening her bottle-green eyes. It would take something much more catastrophic than thunder and lightning to stir her from her comfortable snooze.

Arabelle had wanted to name the cat—acquired four years ago as a fat, wriggling spitfire of a kitten—Fluffy. Bellamy, however, had insisted the feline should be named Muffin. Hence, after much discussion, a few unkind words, and more than one bout of frustrated tears, a compromise of Fluffer-Muffer had been reached.

As much as the pampered puss enjoyed the girls’ doting attention, the cat’s heart had belonged to the lieutenant. More often than was comfortable, some unfortunate vermin or bird—and, God forbid, the occasional snake—had been laid proudly at his booted feet as the feline blinked adoring green eyes up at him.

Whenever Lieutenant Masterson was away, a broken-hearted Fluffer-Muffer prowled the house yowling for him. Often, she could be found curled atop his bed, awaiting his return.

A half-smile edged the corner of Mercy’s mouth upward.

Countless times she had searched the house looking for the naughty puss so Mercy could deposit the cat in the nursery for the night.

Lieutenant Masterson had never been able to quite get the cat’s unusual—clever—name right—or so he repeatedly exclaimed. He’d lower his chin to his chest and deepen his voice to a theatrical rumble while reciting an assortment of ridiculous names.

Fluffingmuff? Flutter-Mitten? Mossy-Muffin? Moldy-Muffin?

Of course, he’d been jesting.

Nevertheless, his silly antics had sent his daughters into fits of giggles, as was his intent. He’d been a good father—patient, kind, and loving. And fun. That he’d picked a stranger, a man unknown to the girls, to act as their guardian came as a surprise to everyone.

In fairness, Mercy reasoned, what other option did the lieutenant have?

“Miss Mercy?” Bellamy’s muffled voice came from the vicinity of Mercy’s underarm. “Please keep singing,” she begged in a watery, quavering voice pitched higher than usual. “It’s not so awfully scary when you sing.”

“Of course, darling.” Mercy resumed singing the lullaby where she’d left off.

“Cares you know not, therefore sleep,

“While over you a watch I’ll keep,

“Sleep, pretty darlings, do not cry,

“And I shall sing a lullaby.”

Mercy had slightly altered the song to include both girls rather than a singular child as the serenade was written.

Storms had terrified the sisters before Mercy, at nineteen years of age, had become their governess five years ago and moved into the chamber next to the nursery. Many were the nights the girls had clambered uninvited into her bed. Then, as they did now, the three of them snuggled together, and Mercy sang lullabies and hymns while a tempest seethed outside.

This might very well be the last time she comforted Arabelle and Bellamy during a storm.

How can I bear it, God?

Joy wrote me about your unfortunate circumstance, Mercy Please accept my deepest

condolences, my dear. We, women, are at the mercy of providence,are we not?

I’ve discreetly inquired of Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies if there is a

need for another instructor. Your French and dancing were always far superior to

every other girl at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young women.

Sadly, at this time, there are no openings. I shall not give up, however.

~ Miss Chasity Noble in a letter to Miss Mercy Feathers

Still the residence of Lieutenant Masterson