and a portrait of the emperor himself.” She kicked at a particularly grimy chink of ice. “She could fund the Mendacity Society for a decade with that kind of money.”
“Damn,” Agatha breathed.
Penelope wheeled to face her. “Do you still recall the name of that barrister you met? The one who told you where to find the dryad statue?”
“I can do better than that,” Agatha promised. “I’ve already written to a few London art brokers about the Napoleon. They’re sure to know who’s been arranging those sales—it’s a small, gossipy world and they’ll be thrilled to be able to share what they know.”
“Thank you,” Penelope said. One corner of her lip tilted upward.
They walked on, but after three steps Agatha felt her heart sink as something else occurred to her: Joanna Molesey would be bloody furious if Lady Summerville had sold that snuffbox. And a furious Joanna was a dangerous Joanna.
Bad enough that the Wasp’s popularity had caught the attention of the law in London. It wasn’t fair, Agatha knew—but that had been little comfort when she’d been facing down soldiers in her own storefront.
Agatha had paid the price for Joanna Molesey’s anger last time.
Who in Melliton would suffer, if she decided to sting again?
It was bound to happen: the Christmas holidays came to a close. Agatha and her family returned to London; Penelope yearned to claim a farewell kiss, but had to be content to squeeze her beloved’s hand as she and the young folk climbed up into the stage.
After the coach had trundled off through the slush, Penelope trudged back to Fern Hall, where Harry and John flirted cozily as they sprawled on the hearth like two great mastiffs. Penelope sat in the armchair, tucked her legs beneath her, and began counting the hours until Agatha’s next letter.
Bless the woman, it came swiftly.
My dear Flood,
My bed is far too big now for just one person. We must get you to London sometime—I’ll be visiting Melliton next week, of course, but that’s seven whole nights from now.
Imagine what we could get up to in seven entire nights . . .
And then followed a page of such dazzling and specific lechery that Penelope flushed head to heel. She was briefly worried the letter itself would burst into flame, or the chair beneath her catch fire from the heat that coursed over her skin.
Such a letter demanded revenge: Penelope sharpened a new quill, closeted herself in the study where no one would see, and wrote back three pages of even more explicit longings.
And so they went on, torrid promises flying back and forth, a game of wits that was both frustrated teasing and sensual fulfillment. Dreams recounted and embellished. Scraps of the most scandalous verses Penelope had found in her years raiding Isabella’s library. One of Agatha’s letters was simply a series of erotic woodcuts, some of which were old commissions she’d done and some of which she’d carved specially for Penelope—definitely the one where two tiny and extremely nude figures embraced, framed in vines and flowers, as a swarm of lazy bees bejeweled the sky around them.
The correspondence was punctuated by visits where Agatha and Penelope acted out as many of those shared fantasies as desire and physical stamina would allow. As the weather warmed and winter thawed into spring, they began walking the bee circuit again, finding time in the hollows and dells for a little discreet love play beneath the boughs and blossoms.
It would have been a halcyon time—were it not for the regular pricks and stings of the Mendacity Society, whose presence was becoming more and more of a goad in the town.
Harry was fined for swearing, then fined again when he swore before the magistrates; Miss Felicia Plumb was questioned at length about the origin of the lace on her attire—which it transpired she’d made herself, with months of painstaking effort; Mr. Koskinen was penalized for fishing on a Sunday morning. Mr. and Mrs. Biswas kept closer to each other than ever when they served customers at the Four Swallows in the evening, while Mr. Thomas and Mr. Kitt were now careful to always have a third person seated between them.
As spring advanced, the whole country decked itself out in a festive mood for King George’s approaching coronation. Agatha went exploring in Griffin’s warehouse and brought out plates of antique ballads from the last coronation. Reprinting these was an easy way to keep the Melliton press-works queue full, leaving no gap for Lady Summerville and the Mendacity