Page 19 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Olive stumbled onto the street with a gasp of relief.

“What’s the hurry?” Emil asked, shutting the front door behind him.

“It was too stuffy in there. Too many candles and whatnot,” she said, hurriedly adjusting the veil to cover her face.

Had he heard what Madame Celestia told about him?

Would he say anything if he had? Better change the topic, distract him.

“Was your search successful? Did you find anything interesting?”

“Boy, did I.” Emil let out a low laugh. “It’s obvious she, or someone else with access to her shop, has an illicit printing practice. I found a printing press, inks in various shades, and even a few metal sheets for engraving. You’ve outdone yourself, Olive.”

Relief rushed through her, pushing aside her remaining embarrassment. He hadn’t heard the tarot reading after all. He’d been too busy swallowing her bait.

With a bit of luck, he would waste his time watching the shop for suffragists to come printing. Because she was the only one who had done so—and she had absolutely zero plans to do so again—he would waste a lot of time there.

“Then there was the other stuff.”

“What other stuff?”

“The prints,” he said obliquely, as if it should be obvious.

“What prints?”

“If you don’t know, I won’t tell you. I’d hate to offend your tender sensibilities.”

“It was my idea to come here, if you’ll recall.”

“Then you know about the erotic paintings.”

“The…”

“Erotic. Paintings,” he said, enunciating each syllable in isolation. “Frolicking satyrs and playful maidens engaged in sultry moonlight rituals. You know the type.”

She gasped. “I most certainly do not!”

He leaned in close, bringing his mouth right up to her ear. “I took one.”

Another gasp tore from her mouth.

“It’s inside my coat. Shall I pass it under your veil for you to study it at your leisure?”

She shook her head. Horrible, teasing man.

“I can hear you panting,” he whispered. “I wonder, is it from embarrassment…or from interest?”

“I—I—”

“Tell me.”

His entreaty, so lewd, so seductive, sent desire cascading through her, settling in the cleft between her legs. She squeezed her thighs together and shook her head so violently she saw stars.

“I think you’re a fiend.”

She whirled and began to march blindly down the street. His smooth laughter followed her, and then his hand latched onto her arm and steered her around some would-be obstacle.

“Oh, Olive, you are a delight.” He patted her hand. “I was only teasing.”

Of course he was. It would be foolish to think otherwise.

Emil might tease her, but he didn’t mean anything by it.

He might stir feelings in her she’d never had before, but they weren’t reciprocated.

He was a flirt who was used to having a good time, whether working a case or not.

And she just happened to be the only woman around.

He was not her knight.

Not now, not ever.

“Where to now?” He asked after a while, much more somberly than before.

“Another temperance speech,” she said sourly, and her increasingly bad mood was only slightly mollified by his muttered curse.

Just then, they neared what sounded like a group of children.

Young boys, perhaps a girl or two, laugh-singing their way through a bawdy tune.

Olive stopped in her tracks. Even blindfolded, she knew one of those voices—Robbie.

She ripped off her veil, eyes stinging at the sudden brightness, and scoured the block.

“We’re done with disguises now?”

“Be quiet,” she snapped.

Emil’s jaw dropped, but she ignored him. Her attention was trained on the truant attempting to hide behind a garbage can.

“You.”

Robbie stood up slowly, his expression somewhere between defiance and guilt. “It was only for a few minutes,” he whined.

“I don’t want to hear it.” She turned to the other children, most of whom she recognized. “All of you. Go back to school.” When they didn’t move, she clapped her hands three times. “Scram!” They bolted like startled alley cats, shooting daggers at her the whole while.

“Ollie, you’re embarrassing me.”

She whirled to face her brother, hands on her hips. “And you’re infuriating me! I’m taking you right back to school, mister.”

“I’m never going back.” Then he plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk, planting both arms over his chest with a mutinous glare.

Olive stared him down, not letting up when a young woman exited the butcher shop behind him and was forced to juggle her packages and sidestep the boy.

Not when the butcher came to the door at the disturbance and clucked his tongue with disapproval.

Not even when Emil leaned against the gate beside them and watched with interest. Robbie caved first, chin wobbling, the anger crowded out by the effort to hold back tears.

Unfortunately, that could only mean one thing.

“Was it reading practice?” He nodded miserably, and Olive expelled a breath. Her poor brother. “Come sit with me on the steps.” He allowed her to move him to the short steps of an apartment building adjacent to the butcher shop, then sat with his forehead on his knees. “What happened?”

“They called me an idiot.”

The misery coating his muffled voice filled her with helpless rage. It was not the first time it had happened, but what she would give to make it the last.

“Who did?” Emil asked, his tone mild, curious. The casual way he stood with one foot on the stairs, his forearm braced on his knee, was at odds with the concern in his narrowed gaze.

“The little barbarians in his class.”

“Ah.”

“This is Mr. Anderson. He’s a—a friend,” she told Robbie. “But what did Mr. Turner say? Did he stop them?”

“One time he did. But they didn’t listen.”

All ire melted away as Olive wrapped her arm around his back. If only she could help him. Shield him from the burden of self-doubt that seemed to afflict all the Beckets.

“I hated school, too,” Emil said. “Math was my mortal enemy.”

Robbie lifted his head. “Reading is mine. And handwriting.”

“That’s very grave, indeed. So how do you strike back?”

“I don’t know. How can I when the letters move around all the time?”

“He isn’t ignorant,” Olive said quickly.

Emil shot her an exasperated look. “The thought never crossed my mind. Now, young Mr. Becket, answer me this. Do the letters ever march across the page like they’re an army of ants?”

“Yes,” Robbie breathed. “Does that happen to you, too?”

“No, but it does to my older brother. That’s how I know you’re telling the truth.”

Robbie’s breath hitched, and he was staring at Emil like he’d lifted an enormous weight from his shoulders.

An ache burned the back of Olive’s throat, and she was forced to admit that Emil had done the same for her.

There was comfort in knowing one wasn’t alone. That others shared the same challenge.

“That’s why he left school—”

Her gasp of horror made Robbie jump, but Emil only rolled his eyes.

“—Left school at sixteen and began working for the family business doing something he really loved. Woodcarving. Now he’s our best craftsman, and his skills are in high demand.”

“Though school is still very important,” Olive insisted.

“It is,” Emil said. “But I think it also helps to know that intelligence comes in many forms.”

“Like what?” Robbie asked.

“Well, reading, writing, and arithmetic are one kind of knowledge. But there are plenty of others, like playing the piano. Solving cases. Building boats. You’ll find yours.” He ruffled Robbie’s hair. “Besides, I think you’re lucky.”

“Why?”

“If everything came easily, you’d never have to work for it. Worse, you might get used to quitting when something doesn’t work on the first try. Tell me, kid. Do you keep going, even when things get tough?”

“Most of the time.” He glanced at Olive, and she gave him an emphatic nod.

“Then you’ve got grit. All you need to go back to school tomorrow.”

Robbie considered Emil’s words. “Why not?” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m much faster than that snake Willy Jones. And I tie better knots than him.”

“There you go.” Olive squeezed his shoulder one last time, then rose to her feet.

A hollow ache gnawed at her stomach, and the world tilted.

She blinked her eyes furiously. Drat, not now.

She didn’t have time for dizziness. Not when she needed to be strong for Robbie.

Not when she had to lead Emil to the next clue.

She steadied herself with the handrail, but her legs wobbled beneath her.

“Olive, sit down.” Dimly, she found herself obeying Emil. Half sitting, half collapsing back to the stone steps. “Head down. That’s it.”

She closed her eyes and willed the spinning to stop. After a while, she became aware of a hushed conversation taking place above her.

“Does she normally skip breakfast?”

“Sometimes. I think…I think she made me eat her oatmeal this morning. There wasn’t much left.”

“Is your father’s job not paying enough?”

“Father died when I was five,” he said. “Olive takes care of me and Mama.”

“I see. Perhaps we should collect your mother, have her come help Olive—”

“But Mama never leaves home.”

“Never?” There was a lengthy pause. “Is she ill?”

“I don’t think so.”

Olive fought her way back to reality before her brother could divulge any more family secrets. “Robbie, hush.”

He gave her a wounded look. “He’s your friend. Why shouldn’t he know?”

“Mr. Anderson isn’t my—” She shut her eyes and inhaled through her nose when the world spun again. “That’s family information. It’s private.”

“Oh.”

“Wait here.” Emil rose and disappeared inside the butcher shop without another word.

“I’m sorry,” Robbie whispered. “It’s all my fault, again.”

She fumbled for his hand and squeezed it. “We’ll both do better.”

They sat in silence until the door flew open a few minutes later. Emil dropped onto the step beside her and held something out.

“Here.”

It was a sausage wrapped in warm, flaky bread, its crisped casing glistening with juices. The smoky meat and sharp tang of mustard made her stomach growl and her mouth salivate. Still, she hesitated.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“Not a chance.”

“I can split it with Robbie."

“He has his own.” He handed a second to Robbie, who did not share in her hesitation and stuffed it into his mouth before she could stop him. Emil bit into a third sausage. “Eat,” he said over the mouthful.

Olive gave up and did as she was told. She peeled off her gloves, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation, and dove in.

The sausage was perfection. She savored every bite, then couldn’t resist licking her fingers, chasing each juicy rivulet before it could reach her sleeves.

At last, she sat back and sighed. She chanced a peek at Emil and found him studying her.

“I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast,” she said with a grimace.

“Not with the way you run around town,” he agreed. “You need more sustenance.”

Strangely, his scolding didn’t raise her hackles as she thought it would.

Instead, it infused her with warmth. It was nice having someone care about her well-being.

Someone other than her mother, who often couldn’t do anything to change their circumstances.

But Emil had. Without hesitation, he’d comforted her brother and helped her in a moment of weakness.

Perhaps a little like a knight would.

But only a little.

“Thank you.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry,” she began slowly, “but I’m afraid I have to cut our search short—”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” The corner flattened once more. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

She didn’t? That, too, was novel.

“I’m taking you both home. You need rest before your lessons this afternoon.”

Her breath hitched again—he knew her schedule. Probably had it written down in that little notepad he carried around. Then his gaze was on her neck, and he was frowning.

“What happened to your scarf?”

Her fingers flew to her throat, bare but for her high collar. She winced. “I must have left it at Madame Celestia’s.”

It wasn’t like her to leave her belongings behind. But then, it also wasn’t like her to work a case with a man who made her thoughts scatter when he gazed at her. At least it was only a scarf, which she could retrieve. Unlike her wits.

“The veil kept the wind off you. Finally, something in that hideous thing’s favor.”

She watched—witless again—as he unwound his scarf and draped it around her neck.

The wool was impossibly soft, the fibers still warm from his skin, and it smelled like him.

She fingered the intricate stitching, each loop and weave speaking of careful, loving work.

And now he was lending it to her. She dipped her chin into its folds to conceal her smile.

And for once, she let someone else take care of her.