Page 36

“Very well.” Agnes heaved a resigned sigh. “She’s in the library.”

Georgie followed her through the granite entrance hall—cold and dark—and through a series of corridors—colder and darker. Dust lay thick on the floor, and shadows welled from every corner. The scent of tallow hung in the air. Georgie’s eyes traveled up the great carved staircase as they passed. The finials on the corner posts were probably pine cones or pineapples but looked like squatting demons in the gloom.

“Georgina Redmayne is here,” announced Agnes upon entering the library. The room was a maze, too many chairs shoved hugger-mugger between tables, chests, and cabinets, all overflowing with scrolls and relics.

“Hwat?” It was Mr. Marsden’s voice. He did not sound hospitable. “The Redmayne girl? Here? Bring her over.”

There was a thud. Elf was poised halfway up a bookcase ladder. A book had just fallen from her hand.

They hurried toward it. Elf jumped down from the ladder, determined to beat them there.

“Allow me,” they said, but she paid no heed. She spun at the base of the ladder, and as she bent for the book, her elbow struck a clay pot on a stand, bumping it over the edge. She gasped. Georgie lengthened through their torso, dropped their reticule, stretched out their arms—the pot was just out of reach. Their feet left the ground.

“Elfreda!” Mr. Marsden roared.

“I’ve got it.” Georgie was on their knees on a rug worn almost to nothing, the pot cradled in their hands. They could hear the blood crashing in their ears.

“That is the Finglesham urn!” Mr. Marsden had risen from his chair. “Child, how could you be so clumsy?”

Elfreda’s face paled.

“I distracted her.” Georgie tottered to their feet. The urn was nearly a foot tall, wide around the middle, ornamented with curved lines and indentations. Thank God it had a lid. They shuddered to think what it held. Who it held, rather.

They set the urn back on the stand, picked up their reticule, aimed a smile at Mr. Marsden. He was wrapped in a greatcoat against the chill and did not smile back.

“Miss Redmayne,” he said. “I would not have recognized you, except you so closely resemble your brother. Do you intend to stay in the neighborhood?”

“Oh, no, I intend to go back to London as soon as I can.”

“London,” sighed Agnes. She was communing with a terra-cotta bust and didn’t seem to realize she’d spoken aloud.

Georgie cleared their throat. “The Major has already shipped for France.”

“Very good.” Mr. Marsden made a brief showing of teeth. “I am sure we are safer for it.”

“Yes, indeed.” Georgie pretended to miss the double meaning. “He’s a Waterloo man.”

Mr. Marsden’s eyes were narrow behind his spectacles. “To what do we owe this visit?”

“I wanted to see that Miss Marsden was well.” Georgie’s gaze slid to her. She returned their look with an expression many degrees colder than the room. “The ram’s attack was such a terrible shock.”

It wasn’t the ram that had made her pledge to destroy them. It was the sight of her grandmother’s papers blowing through the air, like huge white leaves.

Shaken from the tree of knowledge.

By Satan.

Who would be Georgie, in this instance.

“She is not entirely well,” said Mr. Marsden. “She nearly shattered the Finglesham urn.”

Elfreda clutched her woolen shawl tightly around her neck. “How is Miss Poskitt?”

Georgie looked from her to Mr. Marsden and back to her. “The doctor said her leg would mend by midsummer. Her father insisted she mend at home, and so she and Miss Mahomed left this morning, for Halifax. They asked me to say goodbye. And to thank you. For fetching help.”

Elf’s face darkened. “All I did was tell a farmer.”

She’d run through the fields, toward Charles Peach, while most of the papers blew in the other direction. She’d caught some on the way and gathered more on the return, but many had flown away entirely.