Her fingers stumbled. Whoever could that be? The Kingsleys rarely, if ever, received company. Primarily because Margaret refused to invite her D.O.G.S. sisters to the house, lest they discover the true extent of her condition. Indeed, she much preferred for them to see her at headquarters, industrious in her workshop. Where she felt the most useful ... the most whole. Not at home, where she exposed every weakness and fissure for tending, so that she might return to headquarters the next day appearing normal—just like the others—if only for a few hours. Who, then, could be at the door so unexpectedly?
Curiosity thus piqued by this abnormality, Margaret rolled away from the piano and rotated toward the foyer. “I’ve got it.” No point in their butler disturbing his gout when she was nearer the entry. Positioning her chair along the wall to the left of the doorway, she pressed a particular section of white wainscoting, which gave beneath her finger with a click.
The door unlocked and swung open. A canine duo sat upon the stoop, most respectably, in matching red collars and capes. Why, it was Professor Quimby’s dogs! Ignacios Quimby, the gold-and-white beagle, and Penelope Quimby, the chocolate-brown toy poodle—better known as the Daughters of Genius Society’s unofficial mascots, I.Q. and Penny.
Margaret shook her head, mind utterly boggled. “Whatever are you two doing here?”
I.Q. barked in a way that seemed to assure her all would be explained in due course and raised onto his haunches, revealing an envelope tucked inside the pocket of his tiny plaid cape. Without hesitation, Penny removed the envelope with her teeth and trotted forward to place it in Margaret’s lap. The canine duo stared at her expectantly, and Margaret lowered her gaze to the envelope. The cream paper bore a cobalt-blue wax seal, featuring the D.O.G.S. crest—the silhouettes of their very own I.Q. and Penny.
The very same crest featured on the cameo pinned to her bodice.
But that could only mean this was ... but it couldn’t be a . . .
Penny yipped impatiently.
“All right, all right. I’ll open it, Penny.” Margaret broke the seal with a shaky finger and removed a very fine but completely blank piece of parchment.
Too stunned to believe her eyes, Margaret fumbled to remove the brooch from her blouse. Once she’d succeeded, she grasped the pin and twisted it to the right, causing a monocle to emerge from its hiding place within the cameo. Hand aquiver, she held the monocle over the blank page and words appeared, written in a special botanical ink only visible beneath the cobalt-blue lens. The covert communication method had been a joint effort between her and Helena. She blinked at the first three words, inked upon the paper.
You’ve been summoned...
This must be a mistake ... or puckish Helena had grossly misjudged her annual April Fool’s prank. Margaret moved the monocle’s blue lens over the message.
You’ve been summoned to headquarters, by order of the Widow herself, to discuss a case requiring your expertise.Today, at a quarter past two. No, Inspector Kingsley, this is not one of Inspector Belgrave’s renowned April Fool’s pranks. Don’t be late.
Quite seriously,
Professor Quimby
The monocle slipped from Margaret’s grasp, and her jaw fell agape.
For her routine, on this most ordinary of Mondays, had just sprung a gasket.
Chapter
3
Music coursed through Charles like a breath of fresh air, filling his lungs, oxygenating his heart, giving him life. The piano’s melodic heartbeat pulsed through his polished shoes on the stage floor and through his fingers lilting across the ivories. Every chord, major and minor, cascaded from his soul with the relief of an exhale. The euphony of notes soared to the vaulted ceiling of the packed concert hall, and though a crowd of hundreds heard Beethoven’sFür Elise, only One perceived the personal offering emptied into the melodious bagatelle.
Only One received the notes as an unspoken prayer.
The spotlight’s beam grew, intensifying until the entire stage was awash in blinding light.
Charles blinked awake, severed from the dream. From the memory of his former life as a concert pianist. Fearsome stiffness gripped his neck, crooked at an awkward angle against the wooden rocker where he’d spent his nightly vigil. He really ought to make use of the cot, but in the weehours, he was always convinced he could stay awake a little longer. Just in case something happened. Just in case Father needed him.
At the window, tying back the drapes, stood the epitome of fortitude in an apron. Mother offered a soft smile and whispered so as not to wake Father in the nearby bed. “Nearly half past seven, Charlie. Best be up and about before you’re late for work.”
Work, right.Time for another day of numbers and ledgers and paper cuts ... oh, bother. With a stifled groan, Charles arched his back to stretch his spine, which responded with a satisfying crack, then massaged a hand along the nape of his neck, the muscles taut and knotted. A swath of wavy brown hair fell before his bleary eyes. He needed to get a move on if he wanted to make himself presentable before heading to the Magi’s offices.
Charles stood, retrieved a blanket from the floor he’d lost track of during the night, and commenced folding it. He could at least set the room to rights so Mother would have one less thing to worry about. He returned her smile with one of his own, hoping it proved reassuring. “Father slept well. Didn’t express any great discomfort when I turned him and adjusted his pillows.”
“That’s a mercy.” Mother took the folded blanket from his hands and stowed it in the cedar chest at the end of the bed. “Now away with you, son. You’ve already missed breaking your fast with Benjamin, but there’s a hot bowl of porridge and pot of tea waiting for you on the kitchen table, if you make haste.”
Charles placed a kiss upon his mother’s head. “Lord knows Ben makes enough haste for us both. That younger brother of mine has more energy than I ever did at his age, no mistake.”
“La, child, and you only a hair over thirty!” Mother swatted his rumpled shirt. “Bless the Lord and my good silver, but youmake me feel like the ancient of days, talking such nonsense. Be off with you now!”
Charles took a few steps toward the doorway, unable to leave without a backward glance at Father’s form in the bed, frail and wan. At Mother’s face, creased with concerns and grief he wished he could spare her. He swallowed. “Need me to do anything before I go? I could help—”
