To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,32

grunted once. “Good for her. Care to share?”

John nodded and showed her the page of letters he’d written, biting back a laugh.

She stared at it, then gave him a dark look. “What does it really say?”

“Exactly what I wrote. Look.” He set the paper down and began to divide the jumble into words with slashes between the letters. “We are trained to only read things in a certain format. Change the format, and you change the significance. You see?” He slid the paper to her again, this time his smile for her nod.

“Yes, I do. But who are we to meet in Place Royale by the third tree to the west?” She glanced up, a furrow between her fair brows. “Surely, not Madame Moreau herself.”

John shook his head and sat back. “Not likely. Weaver did say we would have contacts here, and they would make themselves known. This is likely one of them. We know we can trust Madame Moreau, so I have no reason to suspect a trap.”

Hal nodded, then picked up the original note and compared it to the translation John had written. “Pratt.”

“Hal?”

“How the bloody hell did you see this in that?” She rustled the pages in turn for emphasis, slouching forward in unladylike fashion as she studied them. “There is no possible way to know where the message was in all of that in the time you accomplished this.”

John chuckled and folded his arms, taking a selfish moment to feel quite proud of himself. “Of course it’s possible. I just did it.”

The papers hit the table beneath pressing palms, the sound of the thumping echoing almost ominously, despite the diminutive size of the table itself. “So help me, Pratt, I will throttle you in ways they don’t teach at the Convent or anywhere else.”

“I’m afraid to ask.” He sat up and rested an arm on the table, flicking his fingers at the letter. “This is what I’m trained to do, Hal. I search for patterns, for hints, for anomalies… Especially anomalies, because that’s usually where I start to get somewhere. Anything that doesn’t fit is suspicious. How do I do it at the speed I do? Practice. And it’s not always fast, I can assure you. This one was fairly simple compared to other projects I’ve had.”

Hal twisted her lips, the furrow between her brows deepening. “Teach me.”

John’s eyes shot to her face, though her attention was still on the letter. There was something about the determined set of her jaw and the way it contrasted with the fullness of her cheeks that fascinated him, to say nothing of the faintest pink hue right at the place where jaw and cheekbone united. Something about the simplicity of her look this morning that he admired, and the unadorned air about her that he welcomed. Would have encouraged.

Wanted to keep.

He swallowed and returned his attention to the letter. “All right,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “Take a look at the original letter again. Look for patterns, hints, and…?”

“Anomalies.” Hal nodded and bit her lip as her eyes scanned.

He could barely see her do so, but he felt the teeth on that lip as though it were his own.

Perhaps he needed to drink coffee in the mornings, too. Clearly, he was not functioning well.

“Here,” Hal said at last, pointing at a word. “Parasol. We know that didn’t happen, so it clearly doesn’t fit.”

John nodded once. “Very good. So, if we look at that…”

An hour later, the first lesson complete, the pair of them strolled along the paths in Place Royale with other fashionable members of Paris Society, ambling aimlessly as they all were in high finery that would never have been seen outside of a ballroom in London.

Aimless ambling had never sat well with John, nor would it ever.

But without an identity to their contact, there was nothing else to do until they reached the third tree to the west. What were they to do by that tree without making it obvious that they were waiting?

“How are we supposed to meet our contact in such a popular park in the middle of the day?” Hal hissed as they walked.

“I have no idea,” John replied. “I leave that to the actual spies.”

He would swear later he could hear his wife scowl. “Clever, Pratt. So very clever.”

“I try.”

Really, he just couldn’t help himself; the witty quips seemed to just fly from his lips around her even when he knew it would irritate her.

Especially when he knew it would irritate her.

The Shopkeepers