Page 95

This, meaning them, the Harcourt family, but also this newfound closeness. This friend.

16

Smash Therapy

After Simon was done reading to the dowager and had given her into Archie’s care—he wondered where Diantha was, for he hadn’t seen her since breakfast—he made his way into the kitchen.

“Christine, I have an odd question for you.”

“I shall endeavor to have an odd answer for you, my lord,” she said as she passed him a blob of dough to knead.

“Do you know a place I could purchase some plates?”

“Dining plates?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve several dozen here, various kinds. You may help yourself.” She opened a hutch. “These are the everyday ones we use to eat here in the kitchen.” She opened a different cupboard. “And these are the ones we serve you and your friends on.”

“Yes.” How was he going to explain this? “While I thank you for your generosity, I can’t use the household plates. I wouldn’t want them to break.”

“What are you going to be doing with these plates, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“I don’t mind you asking, but I can’t answer.”

“You are a curious one.” She shook her head at him, but her eyes were bright. “There is a potter in town. On a little lane off the high street. There’s a house with a blue door at the corner.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he set off to purchase some plates.

“I beg your pardon? You want me to what?”

“Break these plates,” said Simon, who had made a successful shopping expedition to town.

“Have you lost your wits?”

Simon might very well have lost his wits. It was early evening, and he and Diantha were standing behind the gentlemen’s cave, the back of which, because Archie had had it built quickly, was a solid wall of brick.

He gestured at the stack of crockery he had placed a half dozen yards from the wall. “They aren’t the household plates. I bought them specially.”

Diantha swung around from looking at the plates. “I repeat: Have you lost your wits?”

Yes. I have entirely lost my wits. It is not enough to give you a ribbon; I must give you plates to smash. Love and rage are the same thing, remember?

“Not at all,” he said. “You said you sometimes grew angry enough to scream into your pillow. You may recall that I suggested hurling things at other things.” He gestured, serially, to the stack of plates, and to the wall.

“You want me to throw those plates. At that wall.”

“Yes. Well, only if you want to. I got some teacups, too. The potter gave them to me for free because they’re failed teacups.”

“Failed teacups?”

“Yes, they have mistakes.” He held one up. “This one is much thicker on one side than the other.” He held up another. “And the handle on this one is attached only on one end. He apparently usually sells them at a steep discount, but since I bought so many plates, he gave them to me.”

“You are … extraordinary.”

“Well, so are you.”

She laughed. She picked up a plate. She retracted her arm. She lowered her arm. “I cannot summon the necessary anger.”