a thing more than that.”
Agatha fumed at this, and fumed a little more when she realized he was using some of her own teachings against her. But there was one point yet to be made: “If you aren’t planning to wed,” she said, voice low and dark, “then the correct thing to do is to break off the affair entirely.”
Sydney’s long mouth twisted unhappily. “That’s not what either of us wants.”
“If your father were here—”
“He’d what?” Sydney cut her off. “Disinherit me? Throw Eliza out into the street?”
“We could find her another apprenticeship,” Agatha blurted out, desperate. It was a mistake, she knew it at once, and she kept going, anyway. “Plenty of printers in London could use someone as talented as she is—Novello, for instance . . .”
Sydney’s eyes blazed. “If you send her away, I’ll go with her.” His hands were fists at his sides. “I’ll go anywhere with her.”
“How about to her father?” Agatha shot back. “What will you do when he asks what your intentions are for his only daughter? What will you say when people start to whisper about you and Eliza—assuming they aren’t already—when no wedding happens—and if there is a child—”
“There won’t be,” Sydney replied staunchly.
“You can’t be certain—”
“If there is, we’ll revisit the question then.” One corner of his mouth turned up in grim amusement. “After all, we can always get married later on, can’t we?”
Agatha felt like screaming, but had to restrain it to a furious hiss. “Of all the irresponsible—”
“Enough, Mum!” Sydney cried.
Agatha’s mouth snapped shut.
Sydney huffed out a breath, fists balled at his sides. “I won’t force Eliza to place her whole life in my hands if I can’t do the same thing for her.” He skewered Agatha with a furious glare, which reminded his mother far too much of herself. “You and Father taught me that honesty was a virtue—well, I’m telling you honestly: I love Eliza, and I’m not going to marry her, and there’s nothing you can say to convince me what we’re doing is wrong.”
As Agatha gasped in outrage, he stomped down the hall and vanished into the dining room.
It was just past midnight, so farewell to Christmas Day. Penelope found herself fidgety—dinner had been a peculiar, tense affair, with half the guests at the table suddenly and inexplicably snappish and unsociable—and the first few hours of her sleep were punctuated by unsettling dreams. Running and running but going nowhere. Gravestones towering up as high as city buildings. Trying to write a letter, but watching the ink pour away from the paper as though it were blood being shed from a murdered body.
After this last, she decided a soothing drink was in order.
Apparently, she was not the only one in search of comfort. For when she stepped into the larder for milk, she found Agatha Griffin furiously slicing pieces of bread from a loaf. She wore a green robe and cream shawl, her salt-and-pepper hair hanging loose down her back and shaking with every movement. Penelope smiled at first—but her smile faltered, as she watched the abrupt, angry motions of Griffin’s hands, and saw the light of the single candle outline the tight lines at the corners of her mouth.
Penelope cleared her throat softly. “I’ve got something stronger than bread, if you want it.”
“Oh!” Griffin whirled around, knife raised—then fear and fury melted away when she saw it was only Penelope. “Yes, thank you—the stronger the better.”
Penelope strode to the shelves on the far wall. Mrs. Braintree usually kept a bottle near to hand—ah, yes, here it was. A short, slim bottle of deep amber. “I should give you fair warning,” she said, “this is quite possibly the most dangerous drink in all of Melliton.”
“What’s in it?”
“Honey. Well, mostly honey.” Penelope turned the bottle so its shoulders gleamed red in the candlelight.
A reluctant spark lit Griffin’s eyes. “Only you, Flood, would try to comfort someone by offering them something dangerous.”
“Is it working?”
“Give me a taste and we’ll find out.”
Penelope found two glasses, took a seat beside her friend at the long wooden table, and poured generous helpings for them both. Griffin sniffed at hers and reared back, blinking tears from her eyes.
Penelope grinned over the rim of her glass. “Warned you.”
Griffin shot her a defiant glare and swallowed half the drink in a single gulp.
“Steady!” Penelope said, alarm flaring up within her. “This stuff’s even stronger than that brandy you like.”
“Good,” Griffin wheezed around the alcohol fumes. She took one of the slices of bread