Page 107

She cleared her throat. “My first: the Serpentine doth wind.

“On to my second: which can only be a mistake.

“The third: abandoning of Eden.”

His mouth moved silently as he repeated back those three clues. “You know, you really can remove your—”

“You’re stalling for time, Malcom.”

His lips curved up in a grin. Not even three weeks ago, he’d have sooner split his tosher pole in half than take part in any game. Since he’d been a boy, Malcom craved the dark and dank, and despised the light for the perils it posed. For in the day, there were no shadows in which to hide. As such, he’d not known what it was to have the sun on his face. Or a soft breeze upon his skin. At this end of London, he’d come to find just how very different this world was, and that its allure was even greater.

“Malcom,” she said warningly.

“I assure you, I remain completely focused on the task at hand,” he said drolly. “Ouch.” He winced as she freed one of her hands and pinched his cheek. “What wasthatfor?”

“You’re not even—”

“A flower,” he said over her. “It is a flower.”

“Impossible!” Verity dragged her hands from his eyes. He blinked as the early-summer sun blinded him.

“Impossible that it’s a flower? Or impossible that I’ve bested you ... again?”

She swatted at him. “You are a poor winner.”

“That seems quite contradictory, love.”

“Oh, yes, I assure you it’s not. You’re very gloaty.”

He flipped onto his side and braced himself on an elbow. “Is that a word?”

“It’s not.” She paused. “But if it were, it would be applied to you.”

He grinned. A lightness suffused him, touching every corner of a place inside him that had once been dark, until he was buoyant. Malcom waggled his eyebrows. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m quite good at charades.”

“And chess.” Verity delivered another well-placed pinch.

“What was that for?” he mumbled, rubbing at the offended area.

“That one was just because,” she said with a toss of her head.

“You are a ruthless competitor, you know.”

“If you think I’m ruthless with charades, you should see me with”—air wafted over his cheeks, and the scent of mint flooded his senses—“lawn bowling,” she whispered against his ear.

His heart pounded faster at her nearness. “Indeed?” he asked, as he was surely supposed to issue some reply, and a more meaningful one eluded him.

“Hardly,” Verity clarified. “I’ve never played. I’ve always wanted to, though. My father would speak of bringing a set and teaching me.”

And with her soft musings, an image danced forward of a sprawling country estate. A high-walled garden with steps that led out to rolling hills.

“I wanted to play lawn bowling, Papa.” Malcom tugged at the hand in his. “You told Mama we would, but we’re not.”

His father stopped, and fell to a knee beside him. “Ah, yes, because I had to keep it a surprise.”

Malcom stared, unblinking. “A surprise?” he whispered.

“We are picking flowers to make your mama a crown so she might be queen.”