When he received no answer, he turned. An expression of annoyance quickly gave way to one of astonishment as his dark eyebrows climbed his forehead. Next up in the parade of mental attitudes was delight. “Hello! Wait until you lot hear my newest sonnet. It’s only half done, but I am so very pleased withit.”
He started to stand, and Archie turned away, as did Simon. “For God’s sake, cover yourself, man.”
“Oh, yes.” Some rustling and muttering followed. “All right.”
Simon turned to find Effie wearing a dressing gown. Made of pale-pink silk and trimmed with lace at the elbows, it was entirely too small for the towering Effie. The hem came to his knees, and his upper arms strained against the confines of the sleeves. His dark hair hanging loose around his shoulders, together with the pallor of his face against the pink, added an almost otherworldly note to his otherwise comical appearance.
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” Simon asked.
Effie looked down at himself as if he did not know the answer to that question. “Oh. Yes. I had a most unfortunate encounter with some hogweed about a fortnight ago.” He winced. “I developed the most spectacular rash, mostly on my arse. You should have seen it.”
“I thank Heaven I did not,” Simon said drily. “I want to ask how your arse came into contact with hogweed, yet I don’t.”
“Better not to know,” Archie agreed.
“I was painting deep in the woods at Highworth, and it was unreasonably hot,” Effie began, apparently intent on relating the fate of his arse. “And I was very much alone.” He cocked his head. “A silver lining: I have now learned how to identify hogweed, and I shan’t be making that mistake again. As to my present attire, when I got back to the house, I was in terrible pain. The only place I could find a modicum of comfort was the bath, but one cannot live in the bath, though I made a good run at it. Sarah lent me this bloody wonderful thing, and when my rash had healed and I was preparing to head back to Town, I nicked it. You’ve never felt anything so wonderful as silk against your bare skin.”
“Won’t Sarah miss it?” Simon asked, focusing on an inconsequential logistical detail, as was his habit.
“I sincerely doubt it. She has dozens more where this came from.”
It was true. Effie’s sister was very likely responsible for a good portion of her modiste’s annual revenue.
“I tell you, it is a magical garment. I attribute my success with this poem”—Effie gestured with an ink-stained hand at his desk, which was covered with parchment—“to the comfort and freedom it has afforded me.” He tilted his head. “Well, I attribute my success to this garment and to having outfitted the house for mourning.”
“Yes, who died?” Archie inquired.
“Sally,” Effie said quietly.
On the one hand, this was a great relief, for Sally was—had been—Effie’s parrot. On the other, she had been a beloved companion of many years, and to the sensitive Effie, full mourning protocol would not seem unreasonable.
“Oh no, I’m terribly sorry,” Simon said.
“As am I,” Archie said. “Sally was a good bird.”
That was a lie. Sally had never shut up, and she’d never had a kind word to say about anyone. Archie wasn’t going to miss her atall.
“It’s all right,” Effie said stoically. “She was very old, and her death was quick. She was standing on her perch one day last week, squawking happily between bites of beetroot, which was her favorite treat, when she was suddenly transported by some sort of fit. She fell to the ground, spasmed, and went still.” He lowered his voice. “We were in the music room. You should have seen the picture she made against the Axminster carpet. Her vibrant green and yellow feathers, lifeless, against the pinks and reds of the carpet. An almost obscene riot of color, and yet . . . Death comes for us all, does it not? Even the most beautiful among us?” He shook his head. “Youreallyshould have seen it.”
Archiecouldsee it. He could see it because Effie could see it. That was Effie’s gift, seeing beauty, or noticing it, when others didn’t. Even when, perhaps especially when, that beauty was overlain by something less pretty.
“I had the house outfitted for mourning, and I came in here and thought about what a good death she’d had. I thought about those colors, and about the black ribbons outside. And I wrote this.” He gestured back to the desk. “I don’t like to boast, but I’mterriblypleased with it.” Effie’s poems, as much as he seemed drawn to creating them, generally caused him a great deal of pain, so this was an unusual sentiment.
“Capital.” Simon pulled out his pocket watch, no doubt concerned about the wager. “Perhaps you can read it to us in the coach.”
“The coach?” Effie echoed blankly.
“We’re going to Cumbria?” Simon prompted.
Effie looked startled, then delighted. “Oh! Is that today?”
“It is indeed,” Archie said, taking in the clothing-strewn bedchamber. When not naked—or wearing his sister’s dressing gown—Effie was a clotheshorse. He was quite the opposite of Simon in that way. Yet nearly all his clothing was black. Archie had once wondered aloud why a person who always wore the same color needed so manydifferentitems of clothing in that color. He had received in return an impassioned lecture on cut, seasonality, and fashion. Shot silk, for example, was better suited for a ballroom than, say, sarsenet, as it reflected the light in a way that was both pleasing and mysterious.
What Archie did not see among all the clothing was a trunk or bag of any sort. Indeed, the disarray in the room seemed of the general variety, not the sort that might result from packing for a trip. Archie tamped down a smile; he was going to win the wager.
“Oh good! Sit down!” Effie cried, carelessly shoving a pile of garments and papers off his bed. “Shall I call for tea while I pack? Or perhaps something stronger?”
“No,” Simon said brusquely. “We’re in a hurry. Make haste.”
