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Elfreda’s nape hadn’t stopped prickling, even after the library door clicked. Her body registered Georgina’s continued presence, like a barometer registered atmospheric pressure. Georgina did something to the air. Charged it.

“The Barrow King.” Papa was chuckling softly beside her. “I’m not at all surprised. Oh, it must turn Clutterbuck green! When did you first hear it spoken? On that trip to the Chilterns? Mortimer himself could scarcely believe the number of Celtic ornaments I carried away. But even before that, the skulls I collected near Parsley Hay made quite a stir. It could have begun then.”

Elfreda smiled faintly, all the answer Papa required. He turned happily to his book. His mood had been foul the other day, when she’d limped into the library after the ram attack. He’d just received the letter from William Aubin-Aubrey changing the starting date of their tour, and the meeting place—no small inconvenience. Papa didn’t keep a carriage, and what with Aubin-Aubrey driving straight to the Peak, he’d no choice but to ask Sir Graham Tabor to take them in his. Sir Graham was an older friend even than Mr. Clutterbuck—in fact, he was Elfreda’s godfather—and Papa had nothing good to say about him. Elfreda listened to all of it, holding her notebook, too few of her grandmother’s crumpled papers shut inside. For her, meeting William Aubin-Aubrey in the Peak had been the final blow. She needed him here, in Twynham, where she could show him the note about the winter camp in The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, walk him to the wolf pit, and then to the bluff, to convince him with firsthand demonstrations that her surmise was sound, based in research and an understanding of the landscape.

Fifty miles to the north, she’d have to persuade him with her words alone. She was good with books, with ancient languages, with measurements, with a shovel, but she was bad with people. Not the long-dead ones. The living ones, who were charmed by vivacity, pleasing manners, an agreeable air and address, none of which came to her naturally. Artificial attempts always exacerbated her awkwardness. And God forbid there were witnesses. One too many and she could as soon speak as fly.

The situation was hopeless. Papa wouldn’t come to her aid—he wasn’t persuaded himself. Once he’d finished maligning Sir Graham, she’d launched on a halting, not entirely coherent account of recent events on the Redmayne estate, and he’d interrupted, dismissing the wolf pit with a twitch of his brows.

A pock in the earth, he’d said. From my wishing a pox on the Major. Let this be the last I hear of your setting foot on his side of Holywell Rock. You’ll embolden him to set foot on ours.

As it turned out—as Georgina had predicted—he didn’t mind Georgina’s feet going wherever they liked. All Georgina had to do was smile. Apparently, flattery was an effective substitute for character, if you happened to combine big blue eyes with shamelessness.

Where was Georgina now? Agnes wouldn’t have shown them out. Agnes craved company so badly, she waltzed with broomsticks. She wasn’t going to let Georgina go without a fight. Had she mentioned something about a banquet?

Papa turned a page of his book, smiling.

“Excuse me a moment,” she whispered, and tiptoed from the room. She was nearing the Great Hall when she heard voices.

A banquet was indeed underway.

Agnes and Georgina sat side by side near the head of the long plank table. Twelve places were laid, and every chair was filled, either with a suit of armor or a picture from the gallery. Grandpapa’s portrait of King Alfred presided.

“Miss Redmayne.” Agnes was speaking in her royal voice, loud and nasal. “His Majesty the King wants to know if you play the lute.”

“I wish I did, Your Majesty.” Georgina had removed their bonnet, and they inclined their bright head, addressing the portrait of King Alfred with deference. “The lute is my favorite instrument. Listening to its music is my chief pleasure in life.”

“Really?” Agnes spoke in her normal voice.

“Oh, not at all.” Georgina swirled an empty wineglass. “I was just saying the sort of thing you say in society.”

“Untrue things?”

“Courteous things that may or may not be true.” Georgina set down the wineglass. “It’s best to avoid outright falsehoods if they can be readily exposed as such. Note I didn’t claim to play the lute, only that I shared the king’s admiration. If I’d said I could play, he might next have asked me for a song.”

“This is exceedingly helpful. Now may we practice complimenting soup?” Agnes’s expression was so blatantly adoring that Elfreda cringed. Couldn’t she see that Georgina was dangerous?

Georgina deposited their reticule in Agnes’s empty bowl.

“Soup,” they said. “Turtle soup. Sing its praises.”

Agnes lifted her spoon. “I have long adored the tortoise!” She announced this to the table at large. “I kept a pet tortoise as a child. His name was Wamba, and I miss him every day.” She lowered her spoon, blushing with sudden uncertainty. “I did that wrong, didn’t I? I made it too melancholy. I could clarify that Wamba escaped, and that I believe he lives in a log somewhere, with a family of his own? Unless someone has caught him and put him in a soup.” Her lower lip started trembling.

“Less is more when it comes to complimenting soup.” Georgina sounded gently encouraging. “What you said was very heartfelt, but you could condense it to simply I adore the soup.”

“I adore the soup,” repeated Agnes, perking up.

“Very good.” Georgina nodded. “Now let’s try artichoke soup.”

“Let’s not.” Elfreda had witnessed enough. Georgina was toying with her sister, and she wouldn’t stand for it. She stomped over the stone flags. “Dinner is over.”

Agnes saw her and blanched. “We’re on the first course.”

Elfreda came to a halt at the head of the table, shoulder to shoulder with King Alfred. “I don’t care. It’s time for Georgina to go.”

“You go!” Agnes sank down in her chair. “You’re not invited.”

“We could speed things up,” suggested Georgina, glancing between them. “Skip the soup. The king is missing his spoon.”