The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,120
the mattress to better thrust her hips up off the bed, fighting to get as wide and deep as possible, to take more and more.
Penelope gave her everything—and nearly came herself when she felt Agatha tighten around her fingers and choke out a breathy, telltale cry.
Penelope fucked her higher and higher until Agatha’s hand once more grasped her wrist, slowing her movements. She took Penelope’s hand up to her mouth, and sucked gently on the fingers that had brought her to her peak. Her breath was hot, still panting, and her tongue swirled gratefully around Penelope’s fingertips.
Penelope felt a moan tear itself from her throat, low and vibrant. She was shaking in the darkness, dripping wet, aching to be touched and horribly afraid she would shatter beneath Agatha’s hands.
And somehow, Agatha knew—sensed it, perhaps, in the fevered press of Penelope’s thighs against hers, or felt the trembling in her hands that had been so greedy and grasping before. She pulled Penelope down into her arms, cushioning her against her own body, arms banding tight. Penelope burrowed as close as she could, taut with fear and anguish and unsatisfied desire, while Agatha murmured words of comfort against her hair.
Penelope could only shake her head. Comfort was the last thing she needed. Comfort would destroy her completely. “I love you,” she whispered against her lover’s collarbone.
The heartbeat there jumped beneath her lips. “I love you, too,” Penelope whispered.
And that was it. Four little words that broke her entire heart. Tears sprang to her eyes and she sat up, horrified, to dash them away.
“Penelope—?” Agatha said, reaching out to pull her back.
But Penelope only shook her head roughly, staggered free of the bed, and fled back to her own cold hearth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Agatha was unhappy and sluggish when it was time to return to London the next morning. Last night had frightened her: there had been pain laced with joy in a way she was finding it hard to untangle in the clear and levelheaded light of day. Penelope had seemed almost herself at breakfast—except for the slight shadow that lingered in the corner of her eyes.
But as Agatha sat on top of the swaying stage, watching the hills and woodlands give way to the cobbles and walls and cathedrals of the city, she realized that Penelope’s question had given her an opportunity. I’ll ask you again next summer, Penelope had said.
That gave Agatha one year to get the London print-shop into shape. Three hundred sixty-five days to bring Sydney around to his responsibilities.
If she hadn’t been surrounded by other travelers, she’d have rolled up her sleeves on the spot. As it was, she leaned forward, into the wind of the coach’s motion, until her eyes watered and her cheeks went numb with the early morning chill.
The journeymen were hard at work already when she arrived. She could hear the muffled thumps even in the shop front, where Eliza was behind the counter showing young Jane the finer points of slicing the graver into the waxed ground. Agatha waved hello but didn’t interrupt: instead, she dropped her things in her bedroom, and went straight to her desk to catch up on her paperwork.
She unlocked her desk, got out ink, paper, and quill, and began rifling through the stack of her correspondence.
On top was a letter from Penelope, talking about blackmailing the vicar. Then another, telling Agatha in more detail what the signs were of a hive about to swarm. The letter discussing Melliton’s reaction to the Pains and Penalties bill. An earlier letter where Penelope had brazenly told her about playing with the he’s-at-home while Agatha was away (she blushed and tucked that one hastily into her pocket for later rereading). More and more papers, every single one in Penelope Flood’s sweetly looping hand: the Mendacity Society, Christmas plans, thoughts about the Crown and Anchor, stories from Penelope’s childhood, anecdotes from evenings at the Four Swallows.
Nothing to do with Griffin’s: no invoices, no editorial correspondence, no proposals from hopeful new writers or authors accepting an invitation to place a piece in the Menagerie. Agatha couldn’t even remember the last time she’d sent one of those out. Not since . . .
Not since she started delegating the correspondence to Eliza Brinkworth. Somehow, during the past half year, she’d managed to offload most of the business of the London shop onto her apprentice. Who’d taken the burden up so ably that Agatha hadn’t even noticed until now.
Agatha had unwittingly exiled herself from her own hive.