“But they aren’t beans.”
“As long as they’re in a can, the Doorhandler Can Opener can open them for you.”
Sutton cast a look of absolute loathing over Luna’s shoulder. Luna leaned in and whispered, “He’s going to run out of canned items eventually. Please, Sutton!”
The maid’s jaw tightened. Finally, with a little toss of her head, she motioned for Luna to follow her. The two of them slipped down the hall, leaving the gents to their enthusiastic litany of all things canned, took a turn, and passed by the dressing rooms. Sutton led the way to the very back of the cathedral, where everything was rather less grand and godly and rather more of-this-world. A faint smell of cheese lingered in the air. It reminded Luna of the chantry house back home in Greater Snoring, where she took Auntie Aurora for servicesevery Sunday. Was cheese somehow a sacred smell unto the gods?
Sutton paused before a narrow door in the wall and turned to face Luna. She gave her a look, then jerked her chin once.
Luna, more than a little trepidatious, took hold of the handle, turned it, and peered into the dimness of a broom closet. A broom closet positivelymoundingwith fluffy white tulle. And in the center of that fluffy whiteness sat none other than the lady of the hour, Miss Eugenia Lambert herself. Knees up and chin in hands.
“Did you fetch my tea, Sutton?” she demanded, looking up with a sulky expression on her mousy little face. Upon seeing Luna standing there, the sulkiness melted away into surprise, then confusion, followed by a sudden flash of recognition. “Miss Witch?” she said, using the name all the Silly Young Things had adopted for their favorite scryer. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Luna turned to Sutton, holding out her hand. “May I?”
The maid relinquished the teacup and saucer but retained the bouquet. Satisfied, Luna slipped into the broom closet, taking care to avoid stepping on Miss Eugenia’s gown. She knelt and offered the tea. Eugenia all but snatched the cup from Luna’s hands and took a loud gulp. It must have gone rather tepid, otherwise a gulp like that would have scalded the roof of her mouth. Miss Eugenia didn’t seem to care.
“Mother didn’t want me having tea this morning,” she said, tossing Luna a look from under heavily mascaraed lashes. “She said I’d dribble.” She sighed then and set the cup back in its saucer. “She’s probably right.”
“Well, who cares if you dribble?” Luna shrugged. “You’re the bride. You can dribble if you like. It’s your day, after all.”
“Try telling that to Mother,” Eugenia sniffed before taking another sip.
Luna hesitated. Then, angling her knees to one side, she rested her weight on her hip, her feet curled under her, her weight supported on one hand. “I saw your mother in the narthex,” she said.
“You did?” Eugenia looked shifty. “What was she doing?”
“Having words with your father.”
“Poor old dad.”
“Yes. I thought so too.” Luna smoothed out the front of her bib apron with one hand. “There’s a bit of a do out there. Everyone’s worried about you.”
“No, they’re not.”
These words were uttered with such bitterness, it took Luna aback. “What do you mean?” she pressed gently.
“They’re not worried aboutme,”Eugenia said. “Mother’s worried about what people will think. Dad’s worried about the expense and about how quickly he can get away from Mother. Miss Tuttlemouse is worried about her chances in Society if she couldn’t manage to catch a husband before a little nobody like me. Miss Robinwell, is worried about how her complexion looks in purple, and the rest of the girls are only worried about which groomsmen they can most likely snag for a snog at the reception.”
For all Miss Eugenia was very young, she was not without insight. Her time spent as a wallflower had developed in her a certain degree of perception.
“What about the duke?” Luna queried.
Eugenia sighed. “He’s worried about my inheritance.”
Luna bit her lip. She’d hoped for better things from the Duke of Woolfwood. He already possessed a fortune of his own, but that never seemed to stop a fellow from wanting to amass more fortune when opportunity arose. And fortunes such as that which had been bestowed upon Miss Eugenia would turn even the sweetest-tempered man into an opportunist.
“What about Tom?” Luna asked softly.
Tears brimmed in Eugenia’s little eyes. One slipped free to fall from the end of her nose and plop into her tea dregs. “Tom kissed Miss Tuttlemouse.”
“What?”
“Yes. Cordelia Gillspenser told me. It was at the Kempworth’s masquerade ball. He claimed afterwards that he thought it was me behind that butterfly domino, but . . . well, no one is going to mistake Miss Tuttlemouse and all her Miss-Tuttlemouse-ishness forme,domino or no domino.”
Luna frowned. She’d glimpsed a young woman of rare beauty and stunning proportions out in the narthex, smacking one of the groomsmen over the head with her nice peony bouquet, and wondered briefly if she might be the famous Society Darling. Miss Eugenia was right if so—they were not of a type to be mistaken for one another. It would take a lot more than a mask to pull that one off. More like a miracle.
“Is that why you agreed to marry the duke so quickly?” Luna pressed. “To punish Tom?”
