everything by the Widow Wasp,” he said.
The officer’s eyes stayed on Agatha, and his face was manfully expressionless—but not so the other two. One was eyeing the window glass with gleeful intent; the other was letting his gaze roam across the many watercolors, scenic prints, and loose manuscripts stacked everywhere in the shop.
Everything here could either break or burn, Agatha realized with a chill. She was surrounded by destructibles, her body the only thing between these soldiers’ weapons and the roomful of vulnerable people behind her—and the men in front of her looked weathered enough to have seen action during the war. They’d know a thing or two about destruction. About violence. About hurt.
She froze, unable to protest or call out a warning or even move. One droplet of sweat slithered from her neck down beneath her collar. She fought not to shiver, painfully aware of the light, ticklish movement.
“I beg your pardon,” came an icy voice from behind her.
Agatha turned her head stiffly and saw the countess standing in the doorway, one hand braced gracefully on the doorframe. She was not a tall person, but the fineness of her clothing and the steel of her posture could not have said aristocrat any clearer than if she’d had it written on a placard and carried above her head by a troop of liveried servants.
The lead soldier bowed and regarded her warily. “We are here on the King’s business, ma’am.”
The countess was looking down her nose at the officer, despite being the shortest person in the room. “I am the Countess of Moth, and of course you must carry out your orders,” she said smoothly. “To the letter—and no further.”
“Yes, my lady.” The officer’s mouth went thin, and his two subordinates shuffled themselves slightly more upright.
The countess turned to Agatha. “Where are the Wasp’s songs?”
Agatha pointed at the central table, full of what broadsides and lyric sheets and chapbooks they still had.
“And are there any in the back?” the countess asked.
“Only the plates,” Agatha replied. “We’ll fetch them for you.”
“Would you be willing to let one of us walk around to check that we have everything, ma’am?” the officer hurried to inquire.
Oh, suddenly it’s asking permission instead of barking orders? Agatha thought, but out loud she only said, “Sydney, please show the officer around the workroom. To prove to him we are holding nothing back.” She couldn’t leave while these men were here. She was rooted to the spot, heart racing.
Sydney’s eyes glittered dangerously.
Agatha tried to use her own eyes to transmit silent, urgent motherly messages. Please, she begged wordlessly, please don’t.
Her son came around the counter, looking grim. “This way, sir,” he said, and led the officer through the door into the workroom.
The two subordinates began gathering up the Wasp’s songs, piling the paper in a handcart they had brought with them. The countess moved to stand beside Agatha, a silent, supportive presence.
Agatha kept one hand relaxed at her side, but hid the other in her skirts, so as not to show the soldiers her clenched fist. Heavy hands grasped smooth pages, crinkling them. Chapbooks piled up in the handcart, covers bending, pages creasing, the rustling of all that paper being occasionally broken by the occasional sound of a single page tearing.
It made Agatha flinch every time.
One of the soldiers noticed, and broke into a grin.
Agatha took a slow, deep breath and prayed for endurance.
The countess cleared her throat pointedly, and the soldier returned to his task.
Hours or seconds later—Agatha found it impossible to tell—Sydney returned with the officer. Eliza followed them, eyes wide and cheeks pale.
“That appears to be everything,” the officer said, avoiding the Countess of Moth’s stern gaze. Instead he turned to Agatha. “I sincerely hope we won’t have cause to visit you again, Mrs. Griffin.”
His eye flicked to Sydney, and then back.
As a looming, unspoken threat it was wildly effective: Agatha felt the mettle of her soul buckle like cheap tin. Promises, apologies, defensive words bubbled up on her tongue like the froth from a dose of poison.
Before she could choose any of them to speak aloud and damn herself forever, the soldiers turned and marched out, carrying fifty pounds of Griffin’s most profitable stock with them.
The countess pressed one hand against Agatha’s arm. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Lord Sidmouth is determined to make trouble for everyone—the Polite Science Society has had more than a few lectures cancelled for lack of a permit, under the new laws. If they come again, send Eliza for me