were good . . .”
“How good?” interrupted Penelope Flood.
Mr. Downes wordlessly turned to the ledger on the table beside him, and pointed to the line in the book. Penelope whistled.
Agatha’s stomach twisted again. It was indeed a good amount of money. Giving it back would be difficult, especially if they were to replace the lost paper on top of that sum. And especially considering the Mendacity Society would only use it to do more harm, if Agatha returned the funds.
“No more such jobs in future, Mr. Downes,” she repeated. “On pain of dismissal.”
He blanched, but he nodded obedience.
Agatha and Penelope wrapped themselves up again, while all around them journeymen and apprentices whispered to one another and avoided making eye contact. Agatha knew the instant their employer was out of sight, the discussion would begin. There was nothing she could do to stop it. There would be people who agreed with Mr. Downes, and people who were glad to see him scolded because of the one time he’d scolded them. It was a moment that could poison the air of a workshop for months, even years to come.
Unless: she gave them something else to talk about.
She turned on her heel and strode back toward Mr. Downes. “May I see that ledger again, please?”
Pale as milk, he handed it over.
Agatha ran her eye down the columns, tallying silently in her head, and came to a conclusion. It was tight, but . . . “We’ve been doing so much better these past few months, even with the Wasp cancellation,” she said, and smiled. “I think a general pay raise is in order.”
It was as if the entire room was holding its breath.
Agatha’s smile widened. “Say, an extra shilling a month? And two shillings to you, Mr. Downes. For the overall excellence of your work, and that of the entire shop.”
Mr. Downes’ stiffness vanished, relief pouring off him like smoke. “Thank you, Mrs. Griffin,” he breathed.
Agatha nodded, took Penelope’s arm, and strode out into the winter world again. Just before the door snicked shut behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of voices raised in excitement.
So what if she was buying their loyalty and goodwill? What else were employers for? And the quicker Lady Summerville’s money left her hands, the better Agatha felt about not giving it back.
Her lover’s frown, however, grew and grew as they walked by the snow-decked houses of Melliton. “What’s wrong?” Agatha asked.
Penelope Flood, bless her, didn’t beat around the bush. “Where do you suppose Lady Summerville got all that money?”
Agatha blinked. “What do you mean?”
“That was a great deal of cash to spend for those handbills,” Penelope said, waving at one as they passed.
Agatha’s hands itched to tear it down from the post—but there were too many windows around them, staring like pupil-less eyes.
Penelope waved at the vicarage, new windows misted over from the warmth within and frost without. “Mr. Oliver’s new glass couldn’t have come cheaply, either—not as quickly as they were replaced. And that’s not even counting the bounties offered for information on—” her lips twisted painfully “—sedition, blasphemy, or obscenity.”
“It does sound like a lot, when you list it out,” Agatha muttered.
Penelope nodded sharply. “So where is she getting it all? Everyone knows Viscount Summerville’s never had two pennies to rub together.”
Agatha tucked Penelope closer against her side as they passed from the village and into the wood. “We know where the money comes from,” she said. “She sold all of Isabella’s statues.”
Penelope’s mouth gaped, then snapped almost audibly shut. “You’re right,” she said weakly—then cursed loudly enough to startle a raven into flight from a nearby tree. Both women flung their hands over their heads as snow flurries and icy droplets rained down on them both.
Penelope cursed again, low and bitter this time. “How dare she,” she hissed. “How dare she put Isabella’s work to such a use, when she knows Isabella herself would never have supported such—cruelty.” She was shaking, her hands clenching shut and then flying open again, so bloody furious that Agatha was surprised the snow around her feet didn’t melt and sublimate into steam.
“She’s sold off nearly all of them, you said,” Agatha murmured. She put a hand on Penelope’s elbow, soothing. “The funds will run out, too, soon enough.”
Penelope’s mouth went flat. “Unless she’s also sold the Napoleon snuffbox.”
Agatha gaped.
Penelope’s gaze was bleak and cold as the woods. “Her statues were not small, but the snuffbox was even more valuable. It had rings of diamonds, and the highest quality enamel,