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Authors: Emma Jane Holloway
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family, it would be better if the heir were someone very capable and charismatic.”
Deirdre’s face was intent. “Why? Because of those rebels? The Baskertons?”
“Baskervilles,” Evelina said automatically. “They’re a rebel group who are against the Steam Council.”
Deirdre blinked, clearly lost already.
“Think about it this way,” said Evelina. “The members of the Steam Council hate each other, but they hate the rebels more.”
“And where does the prince come in?”
“My uncle believes that if the queen died and there was no one strong to take over from her, the Steam Council might just push the monarchy aside and take over the government for themselves. The Baskervilles want to stop them.”
“So the rebels are actually protecting the queen?”
“That’s right.” Evelina had met a few of the leaders—including the ringleader they called the Schoolmaster—and she was reasonably sure that both her uncles were involved up to the brims of their top hats.
Deirdre looked grave. “In other words, if the prince dies, it’s a bigger problem than just finding another heir. Everyone will start fighting one another.”
“Exactly.”
Her friend picked up the newspaper and began folding it into the smallest possible square. “Now I understand, and wish I didn’t.”
Evelina knew all too well what she meant. “I hope that helps to entertain Mr. Pringle.”
Deirdre smiled slyly. “At least until we get to more engaging topics.”
“You’re wicked.”
“I do hope so.” Deirdre stood, abandoning the newspaper on the bench. “I fancy myself as the wife of a prime minister.”
“Good luck.” Evelina picked up her book.
“Enjoy your studies.” Deirdre sailed off across the lawn, the sunshine caressing the warm tones of her costume.
Evelina managed to read a few paragraphs before the newspaper tempted her away from the slog through Goethe. She reread the article, but it was short on details. The Bugle or the Times would have been better. But that meant getting down to the main road in front of Camelin where the newspaper boys sold their wares—and with a headline like that, the papers would sell out quickly.
Temptation fluttered through her, bringing a smile to her lips. She was restless and weary of looking at the same walls. Evelina picked up her wrap and slid her book into her coat pocket. The shadows were long and thin, the afternoon classes letting out. She wasn’t supposed to leave the Ladies’ College, but what harm could there be in getting a newspaper?
She hurried across the lawn toward the college gate. She wasn’t sure which of the faculty knew that she was confined to the college, but the fewer people who saw her, the better. Walking with her head down and her hands in her pockets, she avoided the other students crisscrossing the grounds. The scent of the early evening meal—lamb stew by the smell of it—was already wafting through the crisp air.
The gates were ajar, students coming and going in twos and threes. Evelina stepped to the side, waiting for the stream to pass. The path to the main buildings snaked up the hill, but she wanted to go in the other direction. It was a two-minute walk to the street—one she’d done a hundred times. As long as she didn’t go more than a dozen steps from the university’s front entrance, she obeyed the letter of Keating’s orders not to stray from Camelin.
A knot of excitement was building inside her—proof of just how bored she was if buying a paper was a grand adventure. She darted toward the gate, meaning to slide through and away before she was noticed.
Heat flared up her arms, sharp to the point of searing. She jerked to a stop, no more than four steps from the open gates. The heat coalesced into a sharp prickling, as if thousands of hot pins were stabbing her forearms. The bracelets! She jerked up the sleeves of her coat to look at them, but they didn’t look any different. Yet what else could it be?
She’d known
Deirdre’s face was intent. “Why? Because of those rebels? The Baskertons?”
“Baskervilles,” Evelina said automatically. “They’re a rebel group who are against the Steam Council.”
Deirdre blinked, clearly lost already.
“Think about it this way,” said Evelina. “The members of the Steam Council hate each other, but they hate the rebels more.”
“And where does the prince come in?”
“My uncle believes that if the queen died and there was no one strong to take over from her, the Steam Council might just push the monarchy aside and take over the government for themselves. The Baskervilles want to stop them.”
“So the rebels are actually protecting the queen?”
“That’s right.” Evelina had met a few of the leaders—including the ringleader they called the Schoolmaster—and she was reasonably sure that both her uncles were involved up to the brims of their top hats.
Deirdre looked grave. “In other words, if the prince dies, it’s a bigger problem than just finding another heir. Everyone will start fighting one another.”
“Exactly.”
Her friend picked up the newspaper and began folding it into the smallest possible square. “Now I understand, and wish I didn’t.”
Evelina knew all too well what she meant. “I hope that helps to entertain Mr. Pringle.”
Deirdre smiled slyly. “At least until we get to more engaging topics.”
“You’re wicked.”
“I do hope so.” Deirdre stood, abandoning the newspaper on the bench. “I fancy myself as the wife of a prime minister.”
“Good luck.” Evelina picked up her book.
“Enjoy your studies.” Deirdre sailed off across the lawn, the sunshine caressing the warm tones of her costume.
Evelina managed to read a few paragraphs before the newspaper tempted her away from the slog through Goethe. She reread the article, but it was short on details. The Bugle or the Times would have been better. But that meant getting down to the main road in front of Camelin where the newspaper boys sold their wares—and with a headline like that, the papers would sell out quickly.
Temptation fluttered through her, bringing a smile to her lips. She was restless and weary of looking at the same walls. Evelina picked up her wrap and slid her book into her coat pocket. The shadows were long and thin, the afternoon classes letting out. She wasn’t supposed to leave the Ladies’ College, but what harm could there be in getting a newspaper?
She hurried across the lawn toward the college gate. She wasn’t sure which of the faculty knew that she was confined to the college, but the fewer people who saw her, the better. Walking with her head down and her hands in her pockets, she avoided the other students crisscrossing the grounds. The scent of the early evening meal—lamb stew by the smell of it—was already wafting through the crisp air.
The gates were ajar, students coming and going in twos and threes. Evelina stepped to the side, waiting for the stream to pass. The path to the main buildings snaked up the hill, but she wanted to go in the other direction. It was a two-minute walk to the street—one she’d done a hundred times. As long as she didn’t go more than a dozen steps from the university’s front entrance, she obeyed the letter of Keating’s orders not to stray from Camelin.
A knot of excitement was building inside her—proof of just how bored she was if buying a paper was a grand adventure. She darted toward the gate, meaning to slide through and away before she was noticed.
Heat flared up her arms, sharp to the point of searing. She jerked to a stop, no more than four steps from the open gates. The heat coalesced into a sharp prickling, as if thousands of hot pins were stabbing her forearms. The bracelets! She jerked up the sleeves of her coat to look at them, but they didn’t look any different. Yet what else could it be?
She’d known
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