The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,63

two yourself, you know.”

“Ha—I couldn’t afford them. Not even one of the smaller satyrs.”

Griffin winced. “None of those satyrs was particularly small, Flood.”

“Besides, where on earth would I put him?”

“Where would he fit?”

Penelope chortled, and Griffin went red. Her eyes slid away toward the wall, her mouth tightening.

Penelope’s amusement faded. “Thank you again for letting me stay. I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble for you.”

“No trouble,” Griffin said, still looking at the wall.

Penelope screwed up her courage. “I’d like to return the favor, next time you come to Melliton.”

Griffin glanced at her then—a swift, piercing look that dried any other words on Penelope’s tongue. The printer’s gaze slipped down to Penelope’s mouth, then away. Penelope worried she’d erred somehow, but then . . .

“I’d like that,” Griffin said, and some of Penelope’s anxiety eased away. “I’ve worried I’m intruding too much on Mrs. Stowe and Miss Coningsby’s privacy. They each prefer a bit more solitude than my visits have been giving them.” She yawned, working her shoulders deeper into the pillow behind her as her eyes fell shut once more.

Penelope settled cozily onto her side, her blanket-burrow warming slow and steady as an oven. “Then it’s settled,” she said. “You can stay with me and Joanna and give us advice on how best to approach the vicar about the snuffbox. She’s frustrated enough that she’s concocting . . . plans. Or rather, schemes, the more dramatic the better. Bribing the household staff to filch the item. Sneaking into Abington Hall when the family’s away and rifling through cabinets until she finds it. Hiring a brilliant thief from the great criminal underbelly of the metropolis, who arrives in Melliton in disguise.” Her lips quirked. “And who then ends up murdered, forcing Joanna to unmask the real killer to clear herself of the crime.”

Penelope paused, waiting for Griffin to snort or scoff or otherwise comment on the absurdity of this.

A light snore was the printer’s only response. Her lips were slightly parted, her hands still folded tight on her chest. As though if she didn’t keep them there, her heart would escape clean out of her breast.

Or maybe that was just Penelope’s imagination again. She buried her face in the pillow, and told her own heart to behave.

Chapter Fourteen

The print of Penelope Flood at Brandenburg sold through two printings before the public’s attention moved on. Agatha found this immensely gratifying—not only for her skill as an artist, but also for the way Flood blushed whenever Agatha gently teased her about it.

Summer became fall, and the drones began dying.

“Typical,” said Joanna Molesey. She was wearing black striped with red, which seemed to help her feel more herself again. “The men perish young, and the ladies trudge on toward winter.”

“Plenty of women die too young.” Agatha swirled her glass so the last drops of wine chased each other around and around in the bottom of the bowl.

Joanna’s eyes flashed. “In the race of man, too many hurry to the finish,” she proclaimed.

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Please don’t write poetry in public. It’s not decent.”

Joanna laughed and improvised a second line, her voice falling into cadence like a falcon finding the updraft.

Agatha protested a little more, but only to be contrary. She’d been fully prepared to find the poetess a cynical, tempestuous, sharp-tongued termagant—and Joanna was all those things, without a doubt, but she was also witty, warm, thoughtful, and fiercely principled. She raged out of love, and that lit some answering spark in Agatha’s soul.

Agatha now stayed at Fern Hall whenever she came to Melliton. She would stop by her mother-in-law’s and see if Mrs. Stowe and Miss Coningsby needed anything—Mrs. Stowe’s joints were aching as the weather grew colder, but that was nothing new, and Miss Coningsby was quietly but earnestly relieved to have the house to herself again.

So now there was a small guest bedroom that was essentially Agatha’s own space in Penelope Flood’s house. The blue coat and old trousers lived in a chest of drawers there, having long since become Agatha’s, and with them were stored a few other articles the engraver had brought along for convenience’s sake: a cake of her favorite soap, a spare set of underclothes, and a light wool gown. Just essentials. Not like she was joining the household. Not like she really, truly lived there.

So what if her room directly adjoined Penelope Flood’s? It wasn’t as though Agatha spent any time in bed imagining what Flood was doing on the other side of