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“Once I found a lizard in there,” Rupert offered as he carefully marked his place in the book with a piece of balsa wood. “Also, a lampshade.”

“Had to put it somewhere, eh?” Still, the housekeeper plunked down the tray and reached into her right pocket.

First to emerge was a long fork, of the tuning variety. She stared at it for a long moment, then shook her head, muttering, “Never seen that before,” and stuck it under her arm. Next her hand emerged with small creamer jug—full of milk—which caused her face to alight as she arranged it carefully on the tray.

“I knew I’d put that down somewhere sensible, eh? Not what I was looking for, but I always say you find what you were looking for in the last place you look.”

“Aye, Mrs. Mac.” Griffin clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “That’s why it’s the last place ye look for it.”

“Right, now where is it…” Her plump face screwed intently as she delved into The Pocket Of Horrors, reaching past her elbow into a square of fabric no more than six inches on a side…and flinched. “Ow! The little imp is irritated, eh, now I took his milk—Oh! Here it is.”

She pulled out an envelope, which she flourished. “This invitation arrived an hour ago. You’re going to tea next door.”

Griffin grew dangerously still. “I am, am I?”

His housekeeper rolled her eyes. “I read it, eh? Can’t blame me for being concerned. Tea, next door with Miss Montrose, ten minutes.”

Cheeks bulging with scone—lucky lad—Rupert mumbled, “Better get changed, Father.”

Before she could scold the boy for his poor manners, Griffin distracted Mrs. Mac by pulling the letter from her hands.

It was indeed an invitation. For today—now, practically. He felt his heartbeat speed up, which was a strange reaction to a situation which wasn’t at all dangerous.

No’ dangerous? Ye forget what it felt like to hold her?

Perhaps it was dangerous, to have tea with a woman like that. “What does she want?” he muttered, staring down at the neat, precise script which seemed to fit an inventor like Miss Montrose.

“Perhaps she means to board up the secret door,” Mrs. Mac said kindly. When he looked up at her, she offered a shrug and a smile. “You’ve been yelling at the lass for months, Mr. C. Perhaps she’s finally paying attention.”

Yelling? He’d been yelling at her?

Ye held a knife to her throat.

Well, aye, but it’d been dark and she likely didn’t know that. He’d thought she was a thief. He’d thought she’d been there to harm his family.

The invitation crumpled in his fist. Which was why the damned door needed to be sealed, so no one could sneak in from behind.

“Perhaps she’s finally seen reason,” he muttered. Aye, he’d join her for tea, and hopefully board up the door. Tea and joinery.

After the invitation he hadn’t meant to extend last evening—the one his children and Bull and Mrs. Mac had clearly conspired on—he was owed an invitation of his own. And hopefully he’d get the answer he’d been looking for.

“Oh! No guest should arrive empty-handed, eh?” Mrs. Mac plunged back into her apron pocket. “Well, that’s not true, plenty of people do it. But I think Miss Montrose would appreciate…”

She pulled out a cat.

From her pocket.

A relatively small, orange and white, hissing feline.

Griffin instinctively took a step back.

“Here you go, Mr. C,” she announced cheerfully, thrusting the animal toward him. “The wee demon must’ve snuck through the secret door from her house, eh? I found him in the kitchen, looking for cream. She’ll like him back, eh?”

“I’m allergic to cats,” he blurted.

“No, you’re not.” Mrs. Mac stepped closer, waving the poor thing in front of her. “Just grab him by the scruff of his neck like—good, eh? Everyone knows that’s how you hold a cat. You figured it out, eh? Now, I’ve got to go finish proofing the bread dough.”

She turned to go, leaving a stunned Griffin holding a cat. A cat who clearly didn’t know about the universally acknowledged way to hold a cat, judging from how much it was twisting and spitting to escape his grip.