The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,81

on your own?”

Harry’s grin was lightning-quick. “I think we’ll rub along together just fine, thank you, Pen.”

John’s ears went red at the edges, and he kept his eyes downcast.

Penelope fought a fond urge to roll her eyes.

“Lord,” Griffin said as soon as they were on the path, “they aren’t half in love with one another, are they?”

“They’ve been like that since they met,” Penelope said with a laugh. “They pass as brothers or friends well enough, but I know they enjoy not having to watch themselves so closely when they’re home.”

“I can imagine.” Griffin’s boots crunched on the frost, her thick wool skirts swirling around her ankles.

“Were you and Thomas like that? Lost in one another?” Penelope asked, because apparently she enjoyed torturing herself.

Griffin smiled wistfully. “At first, when we were young. When we were still a little unsure of how we felt about each other. But then we had a son, and we started the Menagerie, and we had to turn our faces back to the world.” A robin trilled out from a nearby branch as they passed, then launched itself into the air in a burst of snow. Griffin’s keen eye tracked it until it vanished against the winter sky. “I wonder, though, how things would have been different if we hadn’t been able to marry. Keeping a secret love alight takes a great deal more effort, I should think. Like trying to keep a torch from being extinguished by the rain.”

“Perhaps it depends on the couple,” Penelope said. “Certainly Harry and John never seem to lack for fuel.”

Griffin snorted.

“And Isabella and Joanna—well, they weren’t like Harry and John, but they always seemed to sort of . . . drift toward one another. There was always a sort of pull between them, keeping them tethered. You only noticed it if you spent a long time watching, though—I’m still not entirely sure how many people in Melliton knew the truth, and how many just saw a very old, very deep friendship.”

“Isabella and Joanna . . .” Griffin murmured. She turned her face up to the sky, her breath making clouds in the chilly space above her muffler. “That sounds more like what Thomas and I had,” she said easily. “Our love was . . . comfortable. Oh, that sounds so tepid when put like that—but it didn’t feel dull. Just—strong. Steady.” Her lips quirked. “I miss that.”

“Maybe you’ll find it again someday,” Penelope said. The words were soft, hardly more than a whisper.

Perhaps they were lost on the winter wind, because Griffin made no reply.

Night had fallen, the clock was about to strike eleven, and Penelope was knocking softly on Griffin’s bedroom door.

Rustling and light swearing answered her. Then the door was pulled wide. Griffin stood, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes still sleep-softened even as they pinched at the corners. “Already?” she grumbled.

“We’ll need to hurry to have everything ready by midnight,” Penelope replied.

Griffin breathed a low curse, but Penelope only grinned in return. Anticipation thrummed through her veins and sizzled beneath her skin. This Christmas Eve tradition was one of her very favorite moments of the year, and she couldn’t wait to share it with her friend. Especially a sleepy, grouchy Agatha Griffin wearing thick-soled boots and an expression of pure suspicion.

“Too much mystery,” Griffin muttered as they crept down the stairs with only a single candle to guide them.

Eliza, Sydney, Harry, and John soon joined them in the hall. Voices were muffled and footsteps careful, to keep from waking the rest of the household. “Does everyone have their coins?” Penelope whispered, and was answered by a bobbing round of nodding heads. “Good—let’s go.” She shouldered her pack of supplies and the group slipped out into the night.

A cold moon had risen, silvering the trees and the long ribbon of the lane. Harry and John led the way in the snug shielding of their woolen pea-jackets, long tested by the Arctic climes they sailed. Griffin had wrapped her shawl over her head for extra warmth, leaving only her eyes free, and Eliza and Sydney were sporting two of the Stanhope brothers’ cast-off felt caps from when they were boys. Nobody spoke: Penelope had cautioned them against it, for stealth’s sake.

In a silent huddle, they slipped toward the Four Swallows.

They were not the first to arrive: Mr. and Mrs. Biswas let them into the darkened tavern hall, and helped Penelope begin emptying her pack. Mrs. Bedford was already setting out a bowl of her best cider, and Mr.