Page 16 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

“None of that,” he said sternly. “It would be exceedingly rare for that ball of fluff to carry rabies.”

“I’m very unlucky.” She tugged her hand free and stared at the drop of blood welling on her fingertip. “This could be my undoing.”

“Olive.”

“I’m thirsty.” She smacked her lips. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it? I—”

“Olive!”

Her gaze snapped to his, wild and unguarded, and he saw the battle play out—a valiant effort to shove down whatever panicked thought fought to escape.

“I—” She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. “I—” Another sharp gulp, her expression twisting like she’d tasted a spoonful of cod liver oil. A flicker of raw discomfort crossed her face, like the words were physically clawing their way up, but she was determined to choke them down.

And Olive, he had come to realize, was far too skilled at silencing herself. He sighed.

“Whatever it is, just say it before you combust.”

The invitation was barely out before she unleashed a torrent of words in one long breath, the words running over each other so quickly he could barely discern one from the other.

“I have a performance tonight. If I play, will it become infected? How bad must it be before they need to amputate? Is lopping off a diseased finger terribly expensive? Can I make a living as a nine-fingered pianist? Oh, Emil, I’m in no mood to join the carnival!”

He palmed her cheeks in his hands, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. That was more than he ever could have expected.

“Breathe, you madwoman.” She guzzled in air.

“We’ll visit the doctor—my treat—and get you cleaned.

” She nodded fervently. “And you’ll stop imagining the worst.” She looked doubtful.

“At least try.” He released her cheeks, then tucked her uninjured hand into the crook of his arm.

“Now. Are you ready to face your audience?”

“What audience?”

He tilted his head toward the half dozen library patrons that had been attracted to the hubbub like bees to honey. She inhaled sharply and clutched his forearm in a death grip.

“There’s no need to panic. I won’t leave you.” The declaration was unplanned. Unsolicited, perhaps even unwanted. “At least,” he added in a rush, “not until we’ve had a doctor cure you of unspeakable diseases.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and it was he who avoided eye contact this time.

“Are you all right, miss?” an old woman with a gray halo of hair asked.

“Was it a rat?” a chubby-cheeked boy at her side asked eagerly.

“Only a little mouse,” Emil replied. “Completely harmless.”

“It had better be,” Olive muttered.

“Is this yours?” A man plucked a paper from the floor and held it aloft.

“It is, thank you.” Smoothly, Emil took the paper, but inwardly, he was appalled. Impossible to believe he’d been about to walk out of the library sans the clue that had brought them there in the first place. “If you’ll excuse us, I must escort the lady to the nearest doctor.”

He led Olive through the Reference room to the paneled lobby, down the marble landing to the lower ground floor, and out the main entrance to Fourth Avenue. Once there, he released Olive’s arm and unfolded the scrap of paper. Olive hovered at his elbow.

“What does it say?”

He sighed in disgust. “I can’t make out more than a few words. That damned mouse chewed it to perdition.”

“Oh no.”

He cut her a glance. She didn’t seem particularly worried about their setback, but then, she was probably still consumed with her bitten finger.

“Come along,” he said with a sigh. “I promised you a doctor.”

“A pharmacist at the very least.”

“At the very least,” he agreed. “And then what?”

“Oh. Um.” She rifled through her pocket with her uninjured hand and withdrew her notes. “There’s a women’s convention this afternoon. We could attend the speeches and make a note of who appears the most likely to be in the know, if you know what I mean.”

He considered the offer. He wouldn’t mind hearing a few lectures. It might remind him of his days as a reporter, taking notes during political stump speeches. Even better, there would be fewer opportunities for Olive to drive him wild with those doe eyes.

“What are the topics?”

“Let’s see. The first talk is entitled The Vice of Gambling and the Moral Duty of Women to Act Against It.” She looked up. “Oh no. You’re a gambler, aren’t you?”

“I enjoy cards as much as anyone else,” he said dryly. “What else?”

“There’s one more. The Demonic Hold of Alcohol on Men’s Minds.”

Emil stared at her, waiting for her to laugh at what must be a joke, but she only gazed back innocently. “You’re not serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Do you not wish to attend?”

“No sane man would.” He harrumphed. “But I know you put a lot of effort into this outing, so I won’t say no.”

A flicker of guilt crossed her face, and Emil briefly wondered if he was being hoodwinked. In the next breath, he dismissed the suspicion. Olive was too much of a lamb for that—except, of course, when she morphed into a changeling. He frowned. Wonderful, now he was doubting himself.

“Onward, ho.” He reached for her arm, but she danced backward.

“Five feet,” she reminded him.

“Ten,” he countered, his fingers curling into his palm.

And as they started toward the corner of Fourth and Madison, ten feet apart, he realized something momentous had happened.

He’d fallen, just the slightest, under Olive Becket’s strange spell.