a yellow cat.
“Well! Good afternoon, sir. Or is it evening?” the old man asked, poking his head out and glancing up at the sky.
“It is...evening,” Marek said. His gaze flicked to the cat and back to the old man. “Ah... Mrs. Honeycutt sent an invitation.”
“Did she?” He sounded pleased. “To what?”
Was he Mrs. Honeycutt’s father? Grandfather? Marek gestured to the interior of the house. “To call.”
“Ah. Shall I tell her who is calling?”
“Please. Mr. Brendan.”
“You’ve an odd way of speaking, Mr. Brendan,” the man said. “What accent is that? French?”
“Weslorian.”
Mrs. Honeycutt suddenly popped up over the old man’s shoulder. “Mr. Brendan! How good of you to come.”
The old man turned around to see her, and she stepped forward, all smiles, dressed in a butter-yellow gown that had the effect of making her look somewhat ethereal.
Her smile sizzled in his veins. “I’m very happy to see you!” she said, and before he understood what was happening, she threw one arm around his neck and hugged him, patting him on the shoulder like someone’s aunt. Look how tall you’ve grown, lad.
Marek did not return her effusive greeting. He stood stiffly, not knowing what to do. He’d never been greeted like that by an acquaintance. Certainly not a female one.
“Lord! I beg your pardon, Mr. Brendan,” she said, and quickly let him go, stepping back. “I tend to forget myself. Come in, come in,” she urged him, waving him forward.
He cautiously stepped into the foyer and removed his hat. He glanced at the old man, but Mrs. Honeycutt extended her hand for the hat, and put it on the console. The old man was too busy smiling at the cat.
“Mr. Brimble, you must be terribly tired, aren’t you?” she said to the old man.
“Oh I am, a bit.” Mr. Brimble was still stroking the cat. “Looked for Buttercup over an hour today, up and down those stairs.”
“Poor dear. She looks as if she’s a bit tired, too,” Mrs. Honeycutt said, and stroked the cat’s back. “Would you ask Mrs. Plum to bring tea?”
“I will indeed,” the old man said. “She might have a spot of milk for Buttercup, mightn’t she, kitty? Mightn’t she?” he cooed as he wandered off, presumably in the direction of Mrs. Plum and milk for his kitty.
Mrs. Honeycutt watched him go, then smiled sheepishly at Marek. “He won’t remember to ask for the tea.”
“Your grandfather?”
“Who, Mr. Brimble?” Mrs. Honeycutt glanced over her shoulder. “He’s no relation at all, really. At least, I don’t think so. I’d really have to think...” She seemed to be pondering it over, and then smiled. “Never mind that. I won’t bore you with my theories about him.”
Did she not know the gentleman? Was there yet another person in her house who wasn’t a servant or relative? And speaking of butlers who were not butlers, where was the very handsome bloke who was possibly, but possibly not, her lover?
“Come in,” she said again, and scurried down the hall, her dress billowing out behind her. She paused at the door across from the drawing room and looked back.
Marek followed her.
The room he entered was completely different than the drawing room. This room was cluttered with papers and books and boxes piled up all around. He thought it might have been a dining room, judging by the twin chandeliers and the long dining table he supposed was beneath all that paper and books. On a wall opposite an enormous hearth, there were at least three paintings. He could make out the frames, but a linen sheet covered them, and pinned to that sheet were several pages of paper that he assumed was her gazette.
The smell of paper and ink mixed with smoke was a bit disconcerting—this room smelled like a factory, and the scent of her perfume was nowhere to be found. He took it all in, his gaze traveling over every surface, but there was so much clutter that it took him several seconds before he noticed a second cat, this one black and white, sitting on the table staring accusingly at him. It suddenly stood with its tail high in the air and daintily picked its way through the stack of papers and books before settling on a stack of broadsheets. It curled into itself with its back very firmly to the people in the room.
“Get down from there, Markie.” She lifted the cat, dropped him on the floor, then glanced at Marek. “You’re shocked, aren’t you? I can see it in your face. You