The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,77

it to use, so your heart doesn’t devour only itself.”

Sydney sucked in a sharp breath. “Has anyone ever told you you ought to write poetry?”

“Careful, my darling son.” Agatha laughed. “I will cut you right out of the will, see if I don’t.”

“Do you think . . .” Sydney paused, looking grumpy, and for a dizzying moment Agatha felt as though she were looking into a mirror. Sometimes she forgot he was as much her son as Thomas’s.

Sydney’s voice was soft, but steady. “Do you think if we’d kept going as the Wasp, things might have been different?”

Agatha bit back the urge to tell him not to be foolish. That was the fear talking, and fear had almost ruined things between herself and her son. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, and saw Sydney’s eyes widen in surprise.

Her cheeks went hot, but she pressed on. “When your father was still with us, Griffin’s was much more focused on the arts and sciences. The Menagerie was everything. He was part of the political conversations—but distantly, as a listener more than a speaker or a publisher. The political jobs you’ve brought in to offset the stamp taxes have been financially sound choices, it’s true—but I don’t have a good sense yet of how to balance the risks and the rewards in the political sphere. Until I do, I am likely to want to avoid the larger risks, if I can.” She plucked at the nothing on her skirt. “Even if it means doing something rather cowardly.”

Sydney rose and walked over and bent down, his lips brushing her cheek. “I’m sorry I was so angry,” he said. “If it helps, Eliza’s been raking me over the coals for a week now, for sulking when you were just being protective.” He rolled his eyes, giving Agatha a precious moment to dash the water from her own, unseen. “Don’t tell her I told you that. She’ll never let me forget it.”

“I won’t,” Agatha promised. She let her lips curve upward knowingly. “Is there . . . anything else you feel you should tell me? About Eliza?”

Sydney went so red it was all his mother could do not to laugh. “I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled, and escaped soon after.

Agatha turned back to her letter with a knowing smile. Penelope would enjoy hearing about this . . .

Chapter Eighteen

Penelope woke at dawn two days before Christmas, even though she could have slept later: the slumbering hives didn’t need looking at for a few days yet. The day lightened from black into a dull, leaden sort of gray, where clouds hung low like surly eyebrows and the air put clammy fingers down the back of one’s neck.

Penelope prowled around the house, counting the seconds as they ticked past on the clock face.

It got so bad that Mrs. Braintree started making broad hints about illness and fever and dosing Penelope with something from her terrifying stillroom. (Mr. Scriven said her great-great-grandmother’d been a witch in the old days.) Penelope allowed herself to be gently shooed out of the kitchens and back to the parlor by one of the new maids, hired for the holidays.

But finally, after ages had passed, it was late enough that Penelope could take her handcart to the Four Swallows and meet Agatha, Sydney, Eliza, and all their luggage in the main courtyard where the stage had deposited them before continuing along the road north to Carrisford.

The young folk were looking around with skeptical eyes, and Penelope had a pang of concern that they were not seeing Melliton at its best. Hopefully the holiday would bring the kind of cold, crystalline snow Penelope loved most, the kind that silvered every edge and turned the houses and crofts and cottages into rolling, icy fairylands.

But then she looked over to see Agatha Griffin taking a deep breath, shoulders lifting and a tightness in her face smoothing into something like happiness.

Penelope’s heart warmed in helpless response. “You can put your luggage right in the cart,” she said.

Griffin grinned. “I will—but let Sydney push the thing, if you please. He needs more wearing out than you do.”

Sydney made an affronted noise but grinned and took up the task willingly enough. Eliza tossed her bag on top of Griffin’s and sent Sydney a pert look.

Penelope gave the boy directions, and the whole group began moving east toward Fern Hall. Sydney and Eliza quickly drew ahead, talking constantly the whole time. Griffin watched them thoughtfully. “Two entire weeks away from