Page 93
His face says he hates every word. Still, he nods. Lazarus points down the hall. “Second door on the left. If you reach the portrait of the naked duke, you have gone too far.”
I stare at him.
“He came with the house,” he says.
“Of course he did,” Alcott remarks softly. The hallway is cooler than the library. The carpet muffles my steps as I move past portraits, sconces, and one truly unfortunate marble bust of a man with no chin.
I find the lavatory, splash water on my wrists, and stare at myself in the mirror. My face is too pale, my eyes too bright. The panic sits under my skin, waiting for a reason to rise again. I hate that knowledge can become a hand around the throat.
I hate that there are children somewhere in the world trapped inside ledgers and ships and rooms where men laugh. I hate that one small piece of cookie has done absolutely nothing. On the small table beside the washstand sits the tin. Lazarus must have set it there earlier or perhaps every room in this ridiculous manor contains emergency biscuits. With him, that is entirely possible.
I open it. The cookies sit inside, round and dark and fragrant. I frown, the little bite he gave me was nothing. A crumb, a symbolic suggestion of dessert. Perhaps he meant for me to eat more once I was alone.
That sounds reasonable.
Mostly, I take one cookie. Then another. The chocolate melts beautifully, the orange lingers and the spice warms the back of my tongue and by the time I realize I have eaten two entire cookies, I am licking melted chocolate from my thumb.
The door opens. Lazarus freezes in the doorway. His eyes drop to the tin. Then to my hand. Then to my mouth. For the first time since I have known him, all theatrical charm drains from his face. “Olive.”
I swallow. “What?”
“How many did you eat?” he asks slowly, alarmed.
I look at the tin. Then at him. “Two.”
His face goes blank. “Two bites?”
“Two cookies,” I answer. The silence that follows is profoundly discouraging. I lift my chin, “they are delicious.”
Lazarus closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, God.”
“What?”
He opens them slowly. “Darling.”
“I hate when you say that in a frightened voice.”
“You were only meant to have a piece,” he explains.
“I had a piece.”
“And then?” He crouches next to me.
“I was still anxious,” I state.
“So you ate two entire special cookies?” His question is pained.
“They are not working!” I exclaim, shrugging my shoulders.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens once more, “They can take time.”
“How much time?”
“A while.” He cracks his knuckles between his palms.
“Define ‘a while,’” I ask.
He looks toward the ceiling as though appealing to whatever god oversees reckless women and poorly secured baked goods. “Up to two hours.”
