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They winced. “I was angry at Harry. He rattles off to fight old Boney for years —doesn’t even come home when father dies, was never there when I needed him—and then he shows up when I don’t need him, makes bollocks of everything, nearly shoots poor Phipps, and expects me to respect his authority?

Ha!” They winced again and continued in a less heated voice.

“The point is that I’d pretty much determined to hate everything about being back here before I’d even arrived.

” They paused, gaze narrowing in thought.

“Which may have led to my exaggerating the ceaselessly thrilling wonderfulness of my life in town just a bit—to myself, and to you. I didn’t want Harry to win by being even the teensiest bit remotely correct about any of it.

” They tipped back their head and sighed.

“To be fair, he didn’t come home when father died because of Waterloo.

I’m aware of that. He did come eventually. Not for long, but he came.”

“Love.” Elfreda murmured it. Georgie’s head came back to center. Their eyes held the whole sky.

“Death.” She swallowed. “War. Your mother, your father, and your brother all had their reasons. For not being there. But you still had to go through what you went through without them, and that isn’t easy. Or fair.”

Georgie was quiet for a time. Their smile seemed a little broken.

“I wish we’d found the hoard,” they finally said. “So you could have dazzled the Fellows with gold and gained immediate admission into their Society, and posthumous honors for your grandmother.”

She shrugged a shoulder. She wished many things. And she tried simultaneously to reconcile herself to the way things were. Flying was a wonderful dream, a fleeting sensation. In life, you moved forward slow step by slow step, if that.

Their frown lines reappeared. “For my part, the whole idea of racing off to town, with chalices, to live in a boardinghouse and act—it was rash. Harebrained. If anyone in society found out, they’d call it something significantly worse.”

“And that’s reason not to do it?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Georgie courted scandal, didn’t they? Their plan, though—it overshot scandal, and then some.

Actresses were a breed apart. Usually born into acting families.

Sometimes famed as courtesans. Even the few whose personal lives were considered respectable retained a whiff of dubious repute.

For Georgie to make a career on the stage, they’d have to take an irrevocable step from one world into another.

They seemed to read her thoughts. “It’s crossing the Rubicon.

Harry might well disown me. My society friends would cut me, necessarily, or I’d tarnish their reputations.

” Their gaze was brooding. “And what if I made the sacrifice for nothing? I don’t have much experience. I can’t guarantee I’m any good.”

“Of course you’re good.” She had no doubt.

“Hmm.” They considered her. “You’re usually right.” Their lips twitched, and then flattened into a line. “Maybe not in this instance. Last year, I started performing in the lesser-known minor theaters. Breeches roles. But none of the managers kept me long.”

“Why? You’re so natural in breeches. The way you… strut .”

“I strut, do I?”

“Like a dandy. Sometimes like a sportsman. You did a fair job at seeming soldierly as well.”

Their lips were twitching again. “Well, that’s the problem. The managers all said I was too convincing .”

“Isn’t that the job?”

“Not in a breeches role. You’re meant to sway your hips to suggest femininity even as you swagger to suggest masculinity. You don’t assume the character. You flirt with him. I enjoyed the challenge, but I didn’t care for all the men gawking at my bum.”

She went pink faced with guilt. She could feel it. And they could see it. Their eyes gleamed.

“Don’t tell me you were gawking at my bum,” they drawled.

She began to sputter. Mercifully, they cut her off by laughing. “Gawk anytime.”

She pressed her flushed cheek into her shoulder. “Aren’t there other roles you could play?”

“I’d have to try for the patent theaters, where it’s doubtful I’d get engaged at all. And if I did tread the boards, say, at Drury Lane, well—the whole ton would know by morning. In the minor theaters, at least, I run less risk of being recognized.”

“What role do you most want to play? If you could play any?”

“Macheath.” They didn’t hesitate. “The highwayman from The Beggar’s Opera .

Or a handsome youth from Shakespeare. But first and foremost, Macheath.

” Now they hesitated, but only for an instant.

“My mother loves The Beggar’s Opera . I use her maiden name as my stage name.

I’m Georgie Bowen. That’s what I wrote down when I applied for theatrical engagement at Russell Court.

I had the sudden thought that maybe someday, somewhere, she’d pass a playbill, and she’d see that name, and that role, and put it all together.

And we’d hold a clandestine reunion in the green room.

” They shifted their gaze away from her, self-mockery too thin a veneer on the hope that blazed beneath.

Elfreda’s heart gave a painful knock.

And then her stomach growled.

“My thoughts exactly.” Georgie bounced to their feet. “Breakfast. Then bluff.” They extended a hand.

She took it.

Georgie meant breakfast at the manor, so they could change out of their evening kit, and spare Mrs. Pegg the shock of it.

Elfreda detoured to her bedchamber, washed up at the basin, and pulled on her oldest muslin, gray and ideal for digging.

She checked the nursery—the twins were absorbed in Game of the Goose—and met Georgie in the courtyard.

“What would Mrs. Pegg have said about my breeches?” they wondered on the walk.

Elfreda shook her head, unsure. “She knows who you are, which means she wouldn’t have taken you for a stray libertine or feared for my virtue.

So. Probably nothing? As you once noted, Marsdens are peculiar.

She has been in service at the hall for decades upon decades, bearing witness to any number of druidic vestments. ”

“And that oracular pig,” laughed Georgie.

When Holywell Rock heaved into view, they ran to it lightly, scrambling up to the top, grinning in the direction of Marsden Hall, and then toward Redmayne Manor. They hopped down on the Redmayne Manor side.

“The Ladies of Llangollen wear riding habits exclusively,” they told her, as she drew up to them.

“With top hats and powdered hair. Dressing as you please on your own demesne—that is a distinct advantage of the country. For those advantaged with a demesne, of course.” They inhaled the sweet air.

“And June smells like bouquets.” They plucked a scarlet poppy and passed it to her.

“That’s another advantage. Although,” they reflected, brows lowering as a breeze wafted from the fields, “sometimes it smells like cows.”

At Redmayne Manor, in the breakfast room, Elfreda gobbled indecently and drank coffee, tea, and chocolate in such quick succession her head began to swim.

She lingered over the meal, while Georgie skipped upstairs to change.

It was one in the afternoon, hardly the hour for breakfast. Yet she continued unalarmed, no inkling of her habitual anxiety.

This decadent languor would dispel once she had her shovel in hand and set to work.

For now, she’d revel in the last of the chocolate, in the airiness of the lovely room, so very modern, with its large windows, and its pink-papered walls, decorated with convex mirrors and an oil painting of mares and foals under a spreading oak.

It was almost impossible to connect the manor with Sexburga’s abbey, to remember that the abbey had stood on this very spot.

This very spot.

The moment Georgie reappeared, whistling, she sprang at them.

“The crypt.” She clung to their neck, laughing. “The crypt!”

“The crypt,” they agreed readily, and locked their arms around her waist.

“I should have thought of it before.”

“You certainly should have,” they agreed, squeezing her tightly.

“Do you have the faintest idea what I’m talking about?” She drew back.

They shook their head, unabashed. “No, not the faintest. But I appreciate the passion.”

She tried to frown but couldn’t. They were too adorable. She was too excited. “ Within my depths, the shadows play. ”

“The riddle, yes.” They nodded.

“The crypt!” She started waving her hands. “Pilgrims descended to see the relics. There was light—a shrine surrounded by candles. And water—holy water. The hoard!” She bounced on her toes. “Crypt! It’s the answer.”

Georgie’s smile grew brighter, until it blazed.

“I’ve never been happier to say this.” They headed for the door. “Follow me to the wine cellar!”

—

An hour later, she admitted defeat. She and Georgie had searched the wine cellar and found…wine. Also, a sarcophagus. A lidless sarcophagus. A lidless sarcophagus that contained a chest of bottled claret.

She dragged her feet on the narrow stair.

“Not crypt,” she muttered. “Not cave. Not font.”

“Crypt was a good guess,” said Georgie, turning their head to look back at her from the step above. “They were all good guesses.”

She nodded, chin heavy with disappointment. She ground her teeth to keep it from wobbling. She was reacting too strongly. This morning she’d been content to dig.

Once she had a shovel in her hand…

As she exited Redmayne Manor into the afternoon sun, she blinked. The light was glaring, and she’d been straining her eyes in that dim cellar.

She blinked again.

Three gaily clad young women stood on the drive.

Georgie had stopped dead in their tracks, goggling.

“It is your house!” cried the one in the middle, in a rich, carrying voice. “Charlotte and Louisa were afraid to knock.”