Page 18

“I was an ass,” said Georgina, sitting down in the chair beside her. “With you, and with the sheep. I’m sorry for what happened.”

She gave a small shrug. Was it really that much more Georgina’s fault than her own?

She’d howled too. She’d felt for an instant like a wolf, like Miss Poskitt’s version of a wolf.

A wild, free, beautiful creature. She’d understood, too, for an instant, the glory of the pack, her hand in Georgina’s, Miss Poskitt and Miss Mahomed grinning fiercely on either side, their hearts all beating as one.

Her heart was beating now, faster than it should be.

She cleared her throat. “I was glad to hear that Miss Poskitt will make a full recovery.”

An understatement. She’d been haunted by the image of Miss Poskitt lying so still in the grass, her face that deathly shade of white.

Her face stayed pale and set, and her eyes closed, even as the farmer had hoisted her into his arms. Elfreda hadn’t followed him as Georgina and Miss Mahomed had; there was nothing she could do, and she had papers to chase.

But the blood crashing in her ears had mimicked Miss Mahomed’s agonized cries.

Anne! Oh, please no, Anne!

Yesterday, she’d almost called at Redmayne Manor, but Papa’s prohibition, and the thought of facing Georgina, held her back.

Georgina exhaled, their own relief plain. “There’s only a small fracture.”

“I’m glad.” Elfreda repeated herself, and colored slightly at her inanity. “Miss Mahomed feared she’d lose her leg.”

“Rosalie is quick to predict amputation. She grew up playing with her father’s bone saws. He is the proprietor of the Patna Public House, but he was once a surgeon in the Bengal Army. And also”—Georgina hesitated—“she’s in love with Anne. Being in love makes a person go to extremes.”

Were they speaking from personal experience? Had Georgina ever been in love?

Maybe she looked at them too searchingly. Their pale eyes seemed to flicker, and they plucked their reticule from the soup bowl and untied the drawstrings.

“For you,” they said, withdrawing a wad of folded paper. “Five pages. A little worse for wear.” They pushed away their place setting, unfolded the papers, and pressed them flat on the table.

Grandmama’s familiar handwriting soothed her like a friendly face.

She reached for the papers. “Thank you.”

Georgina slid the papers away. “This one.” They rearranged the order. “I am interested in this one here.”

She frowned at their long fingers moving capably and possessively through papers that didn’t belong to them. When they showed her the page they meant, her frown faded, and she sighed with resignation.

“That’s from the section on the heathen men,” she said. “Which I told you about.”

“You didn’t mention treasure.”

Of course it was that very page.

“The story of the hoard is relevant in the context of the army making camp in Twynham. The camp is the priority.” Not that she hadn’t daydreamed about a heavy coffer, lid swung open to reveal a great cache of precious objects.

Georgina nodded. “And you require the assistance of the Barrow Prince to uncover it. Which he will happily provide.”

He wouldn’t. She’d all but reconciled herself to the missed opportunity. And she knew better than to entertain Georgina’s flippant remarks. But she couldn’t help but ask. “And why, pray tell, is that?”

“Because I will share my own passionate support for the endeavor.” They grinned. “I am irresistible when I choose to be.”

She let this pass. “ How? He is bypassing Twynham.”

“I’ll go with you to the Peak.” Georgina said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Is there room in the carriage?”

There would be, with Papa, Sir Graham, and herself, room for one.

“Not for you,” she said. “Papa would never…”

Georgina cocked a brow. Their smugness was such that they thought it adequate to say nothing, to let her draw her own conclusion.

She gripped the arms of her chair. “The Barrow King ? Really? That was an obvious blandishment.”

Georgina gave her a knowing smile. “It doesn’t matter if it was obvious. It worked.”

“You won’t sustain his good opinion. He will see your false praise for what it is.”

“Your father inflates his ego with self-deception. The last thing he wants is honesty from the people around him.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She wasn’t as flagrant as Georgina, but didn’t she adapt herself to Papa daily, smoothing his perennially ruffled feathers in a hundred subtle ways, resorting on occasion to white lies? Didn’t he demand it?

Georgina sensed her wavering and pounced. “I will ask him myself.”

“Will the Major even allow it?” She stalled, gnawing her lip, uneasy flutters in her stomach.

This was Georgina Redmayne. She should say no. No. A thousand times no.

Georgina Redmayne. They walked into a room and every head turned.

They told a story, and people hung on their every word.

They were beautiful, lively, appealing—everything she wasn’t.

When they were sixteen, they’d convinced Lord Fawcett’s son to ride his horse into the ballroom—at least, Elfreda felt almost certain it was them.

They could convince William Aubin-Aubrey to come to Twynham. She knew it.

She put a hand on her stomach. The flutters were more insistent, more excited.

“The Major doesn’t have to know,” said Georgina. “I’ll go with you, and we’ll bring the Barrow Prince back. Unless you’d rather stay here and see if we can’t turn up some treasure.”

Her spine went so stiff so fast she heard a faint crack. “That’s what you’re after.”

They didn’t have the decency to look chagrined. “Is that a sin? Even nuns were after it.”

“This conversation is over,” she said, but she was too vexed to stop herself there. “If we did turn up the hoard, the coroner would hold an inquest. Hidden troves of gold and silver belong to the Crown, not the finder. It would all go to the king.”

And probably, eventually, to the British Museum. With her name attached.

Her cheeks warmed.

Georgina seemed unimpressed. “The coroner won’t miss a chalice or two. I don’t need much, just enough to rent a room for a year in a boardinghouse where I won’t get fleas. Plus expenses.”

“I would miss the chalices.” The warmth drained from her cheeks.

“But you wouldn’t miss me.” Georgina’s eyes sparkled, and they shot her a charming smile. “Just a handful of gold coins, and I’m out of your life. Isn’t that worth any price?”

Despite herself, she gave a snorting laugh. “I’m perfectly content to ignore you for the next thirteen months. It doesn’t matter where you are.”

“Look,” said Georgina, “I want loot, yes. I want to get back to London and tread the boards. But I’ll go with you to the Peak even if you decline. You’re right that I should make amends, and luring your Barrow Prince is the best I can do. So let me do it.”

They were very nearly irresistible. She could resist them, of course. She could say no right now. But this was about William Aubin-Aubrey. Faced with Georgina, he would say yes .

“Suit yourself,” she said.

“Good.” Georgina nodded, pleased. A moment later, they gave their head a shake. “Aren’t you intrigued, though? I can’t stop thinking about the clues.”

She stilled. “Clues?”

Georgina tapped the bottom of the page. “Clues.”

“The riddles?”

“Yes. Riddles. Clues.”

“The riddles aren’t clues.” Elfreda’s brows pinched. “See this line under the narrative?” She traced the inked line with her finger. “The riddles are beneath. This is a footnote. Grandmama put these riddles there as commentary.”

Georgina leaned back in their chair. “Mysterious commentary. Couldn’t she have included the riddles because they were there on the page, in the original manuscript? Just not in the main paragraph?”

Notes in the margin. Yes, medieval manuscripts were littered with them.

The possibility hadn’t occurred to her. Georgina had arrived at an interpretation that she’d neglected to consider.

The tops of her ears began to burn.

“ Earth-child I was, skulking in ground ,” Georgina read the first riddle aloud, “ Till smelt-flames offered a new name and price: No longer earth, I can purchase the earth. ”

“That’s a translation of a famous riddle, by Symphosius.” Elfreda paused, pulse leaping. “The answer is gold.”

“That’s what I thought.” Georgina looked at her, and the vindication in their face was mixed with wonder.

“It is a clue, isn’t it? Imagine. The nuns lived in fear of the Northmen, for decades, for lifetimes.

The hoard had to stay hidden, its location a secret, so they passed these riddles down for generations.

Do nuns have generations? Regardless. They passed the riddles down in the hopes that they’d be solved, and the hoard found, when the time was right. ”

Imagine. She’d begged Papa to imagine too. Silliness. That was his word for imagination—hers at least.

“The first riddle supplies the what ,” said Georgina. “The second supplies the where .”

Silly. To race from speculation to speculation. Giddy making. A tickle in her chest threatened to burst into a howl. Clues. She could imagine it.

“The second riddle.” She swallowed. “It’s not Symphosius. Or Aldhelm. I’ve never seen it in another text.”

“ Within my depths, the shadows play. And yet there is light at my mouth and water that brings life. ” Georgina read it aloud, in a quiet voice that somehow carried to every corner of the room. “What’s the answer?”

Their eyes were the color of the winter sky. The Northmen might have watched smoke from their fires on the bluff spiral toward exactly that shade of blue.

“I don’t know.” She slid the papers over, gathered them to herself. “I’d have to think.”

“I’m first-rate at charades, but these olden-day riddles are a different beast entirely.” Georgina drummed their fingers on the table. “I should practice. Are there any books of them in your library?”

“They are all in Latin, or Saxon.”

“That’s terrifically inconvenient.” They frowned. “None in English? Or very bad French?”

“No.” She fought a smile, unsuccessfully.

“Pity.” A smile tugged at the corners of their mouth too. “We must at least solve the riddle. We owe it to the nuns. And, of course, to your grandmother.”

I know what you’re doing, she wanted to say to them. It’s obvious. Invoking Grandmama, tugging on her heartstrings. Georgina had figured out her formula, as well as Papa’s.

“I can translate a riddle, if you want to practice.” She tipped back her head, studied the ceiling until she had it. “All right.” She felt oddly nervous as she recited. “I create hungry sparks that must be fed, like rubbed against like, warm and then bright.”

She turned her gaze on Georgina. Georgina was giving her a very strange look in return.

“What’s the answer?” she asked.

“You want me to answer.” Georgina seemed vaguely incredulous. “That riddle.”

What wasn’t she understanding?

“You can take your time,” she offered.

“I’ll answer.” They ran a hand through their hair. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” My God, this was baffling. “ You might not be sure.”

“I’m sure.” A slow smile spread across their face, then faded as they leaned closer.

“The answer is…”

Their eyes darkened as their lashes swept down, and then their mouth was on hers.

The soft heat of it stopped her breath. Everything stopped.

The contact was so light she almost made a noise of frustration, tilted her head to increase the pressure, but she couldn’t move a muscle.

Sensation tingled over every inch of her skin.

The need for touch became an ache. Her lips were burning.

They had to do something more, something to quench this spreading fire.

And then they did less.

It was over.

Their mouth was gone, and hers felt scalded, damp and hot.

“Well?” Georgina was draped over the arm of their chair, chin in hand. “Am I right?”

Elfreda exhaled. “You are…” She couldn’t finish the thought.

“Kiss.” Georgina looked pleased. “ Like rubbed against like. Those are lips.”

Kiss? Lips?

“Flints!” Elfreda bestirred herself at last, all the blood that was holding still in her veins coursing now with double the speed. “Rub flints together and they produce sparks. The answer is flints. Or sticks, maybe. Flints or sticks. It’s a riddle about making fire.”

“Oh.” Georgina straightened, skimming a fingertip back and forth over their lower lip. “I thought it was about kissing. And that you wanted me to kiss you.”

Mortification made her stomach drop. She barely understood her own desire, but it seemed Georgina had arrived at an interpretation of that as well.

“It wasn’t just the like rubbed against like that suggested kiss ,” they continued, their tone defensive. “It was the hungry sparks . Kissing does that—sometimes at least. Not literally. The answers to this type of riddle are more literal than metaphorical? Is that the lesson?”

“The lesson is that I was right. About you.” She wished her voice wasn’t trembling. “You should leave.”

They collected their bonnet and reticule and stood. She could feel them looking down at her.

“So, just to be clear, you didn’t want me to kiss you?” The disbelief in the question set her teeth on edge.

The silence stretched until she was on the verge of breaking, blurting Yes, I didn’t , or No, I did , some mixed-up affirmative-negative, negative-affirmative retort that contributed to the unclarity of everything.

“Apologies,” they said.

She let a shred of long-held breath escape her.

“Should I talk to your father now about the Peak? Or come back tomorrow?”

“Neither.” She kept staring straight ahead at the engraved breastplate of the suit of armor Papa called the Dudley . The breastplate had a mortal-looking dent. “You can see yourself out.”

After a long moment, she heard Georgina’s receding footsteps. When they dwindled to nothing, she slumped and touched her lips, extinguishing any remaining sparks.