Page 66 of The Scot Who Loved Me

“Surprised, are you?” Aunt Flora was in high spirits, jamming the cork in the bottle. “You canna keep working your fingers tae the bone. Neither of you,” she said in a huff to Anne and Miss Fletcher. “Every woman needs a little fun. It’s good for the soul.”

“Cecelia understands this.” Aunt Maude was a stern rustle of starched skirts. “You could learn from her.”

Glowing respect for Cecelia’s hoyden ways? From Aunt Maude? Now he’d heard it all.

Aunt Flora pointed the brandy bottle at Anne and Miss Fletcher with the skill of a seasonedtutor. “Beware, ladies. If you’re no’ careful, you’ll wake up one day with a head of gray hair and no memories tae speak of.”

“I appreciate your wisdom,” Anne said, wiping biscuit crumbs into a neat pile. “But with the gold in our sights, fun is the least of my concerns. Returning the gold is our promise, our duty to the clan.”

“Duty,” Aunt Flora grumbled under her breath.

“It is the reason for our league,” Anne said.

She was the good shepherdess, herding her flock back to the goal at hand. Murmured agreements and grudging nods came from the aunts’ mob-capped heads. Will, standing in the background, reveled in the small rebellion. Their seasoned words struck an unexpected chord.

Fun! Imagine that!

Anne sat properly tall in her chair, her hands linking a tight knot on the table. Order had been restored. “Is there anything else you need to tell us?”

“There is one detail.” A line creased above Miss Fletcher’s nose. “With all the smoke, I opened the small window at the back of our shop.”

“Did the neighbors notice?” Anne asked.

“No. But the Night Watch did.”

Will groaned.

“I know,” Miss Fletcher said, her gaze acknowledging him. “He yelled from the back alley. I called out through the window that all was well, but he insisted on coming into the shop. Margaret managed to keep him in the front and assure him the fire was out.”

“That’s good,” Will said.

“I’m not so sure.” Reluctant words rolled off Miss Fletcher’s tongue. “He was suspicious of my claim that I was trying a new method of bending whalebone. It’s done, of course, but you can’t tell a man that. I fear he will come back, with the alderman perhaps, who can insist on inspecting the back of the shop.”

“It’s understandable. Fires in London, dear... they put everyone on edge.” Aunt Maude held out her Lambethware dish to her sister. “Some brandy. I fear I need it.”

Aunt Flora uncorked the bottle and poured a few drops.

“Last night it was the Night Watch, this morning the ward beadle.” Miss Fletcher’s face was baleful. “I’ve already hidden my tools, but for the near future, I won’t be able to work metal.”

“What about the wax mold?” Anne asked. “Did it melt?”

“It’s right here. I was able to save it.” Mary fished the wax out of her petticoat pocket and set it on the table.

Smoke and ashes had turned its milky hue a tepid gray. One end—the bow head end thankfully—wilted in the way wax did under transformative heat but mostly kept its form.

“You saved it,” he said.

“A lot of good that will do us. I have no means to make the key.”

Aunt Flora’s fingers wrapped tightly around the brandy bottle’s neck. “Surely, dear, you know a blacksmith? Someone who might let you use his forge? You do still have the silver?”

“The ingot is malformed but I have it.” Shecombed both hands through unruly hair. “Where am I going to find a blacksmith? One who will letmework his forge and not ask questions while I smith a Wilkes Lock key?”

Her challenge weighed on their small group. Will crossed his arms, an idea forming, though he couldn’t be sure which obstacle was more daunting: A smith lending his forge, no questions asked, or a smith lending his forge to a woman.

“Have you no one in the City you trust?” Anne asked. “Think, Mary. There must be someone.”

“None.”