“All those brothers, and the sister, too, have spent a great deal of time in Russia,” Mrs. Boyd remarked. “It’s no wonder they’re not much in demand. I’ve heard they’re a bit uncivilized.”
Lydia bit her tongue to prevent a retort. Although she was loath to admit it, she thought her grandmother’s commentary on Alexander Hall had some merit.
Despite his impeccable appearance, something feral and turbulent gleamed in the viscount’s eyes—something that called to mind Cossack soldiers, silver sabers, and the wide plains of the Russian steppes.
Certainly Lord Northwood’s behavior had been anything but proper, though Lydia wouldn’t go quite so far as to deem it uncivilized.
Yet.
“Sophie!” Jane Kellaway whispered.
The maid turned from the stove, her eyes widening. “Miss Jane, you oughtn’t be down ’ere! Your grandmother—”
“Is there another letter? Did the boy deliver one?”
Sophie sighed and pulled a creased paper from her apron pocket. She handed it to Jane and shooed her toward the door.
“If she finds out, I’ll be sacked, you know,” Sophie hissed.
“She won’t find out.”
Clutching the letter, Jane hurried upstairs to the schoolroom. Anticipation sparked in her as she broke the seal. She unfolded the paper, which contained a block of precise handwriting that reminded her of black ants marching in a row.
Dear Jane,
Thank you for your recent discourse on fairyflies, which I find a very lovely name for what—as per your description—is quite a disagreeable little insect.
It is, however, interesting that female fairyflies fly more adroitly than males. Perhaps therein lies a lesson for us all.
Enclosed is a riddle called an acrostic. I find myself a bit disgruntled that you solved the last one with such alacrity.
Sincerely,
C
Jane grinned. She’d been rather proud of herself for solving that last riddle so quickly. She slipped the letter behind the second page and studied the latest riddle.
My first is in tea but not in leaf.
My second is in teapot and also in teeth.
My third is in caddy but not in cozy.
My fourth is in cup but not in rosy.
My fifth is in herbal and also in health.
My sixth is in peppermint and always in wealth.
My last is in drink, so what can I be?
I’m there in a classroom. Do you listen to me?
“Jane, have you seen my notebook?”
Jane fumbled at the sound of Lydia’s voice, tucking the letter under her arm. She glanced at her sister to see if she had noticed the clumsy movement, but Lydia was looking distractedly around the room.
“Your notebook? You’ve lost it?”
“I’ve misplaced it,” Lydia corrected.
Jane glanced out the window to see if pigs were flying, because surely the universe had gone mad if Lydia Kellaway had misplaced her notebook. “When did you have it last?”
“Oh… last night.” Lydia bit her lip, an odd distress appearing in her eyes. “Well, no need to worry now. I’m certain it will turn up.” She gave Jane a smile. “Mrs. Driscoll says there will be Savoy biscuits for tea.”
“That will be nice.” Jane injected a note of enthusiasm into her voice. She liked Savoy biscuits, but tea was dreadfully boring—even more so since Papa was no longer here to play Chinese tangrams.
“Perhaps we can even persuade her to let us have some of her precious strawberry jam.” Lydia smiled again, though the tension remained in her expression—likely because of the lost notebook, but also because it was just always there.
Jane remembered a lesson in geology during which they’d studied rock veins—lines of quartz or salt that split through the middle of a rock. She thought her sister contained a vein like that, except with Lydia it wasn’t shimmering and shiny. The vein running through Lydia was made of something hard and brittle, a material that appeared on the surface only in unguarded moments.
Jane still didn’t know its cause—never had—but she suspected it had something to do with their mother.
“Did you water the fern?” Lydia asked.
Still clutching the letter underneath her arm, Jane went to the small bell glass on a table beside the window. A scraggly fern, the edges of the fronds turning brown, grew from a bed of rocks and soil. She removed the glass and poured a few drops of water around the base.
“It’s a bit pitiful, isn’t it?” Jane remarked, plucking a few dead fronds.
Lydia joined her to peer at the plant. “Perhaps we ought to move it somewhere else? Or does it need more air or a different soil? I must say, Jane, I’ve never quite understood how ferns are expected to thrive while encased in glass.”