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Authors: Nina Rowan
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miss.”
“Mr. Krebbs surely doesn’t write the letters.”
“Don’t think so, miss.”
“That’ll be all, Tom, thank you.” Sophie gave the boy his coin and shooed him out the door before turning back to Jane. A worried frown creased her brow. “You sure it’s all right, then, miss? The letters and all?”
“It’s fine, Sophie. Just a game.”
She hurried from the kitchen, tearing the letter open.
Dear Jane,
So I might have guessed that riddle would prove too simple.
Teacher, yes, of course that is the answer. Here is another.
I shall assume that since it is shorter, it will also be more difficult:
A word there is, five syllables contains
Take one away, no syllable remains.
Till soon,
C
A word with five syllables…
“Jane, do watch where you are going.”
Jane looked up at her grandmother, who was striding down the corridor. A frown etched her face.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Boyd continued. “Where is Mrs. Driscoll?”
“Oh.” Jane fumbled to fold the letter and tuck it against her side. “I don’t… I don’t know. I went to speak to Sophie.”
“What for?”
“I wanted to see if… if we had any jam for our toast.” Jane almost winced at the feebleness of the excuse.
Her grandmother’s frown deepened. “We always have jam for our toast. What is that in your hand?”
“This?” Jane looked at the letter as if she’d only just noticed it. “Just a… some mathematical problem Lydia gave me to solve.”
“Well, I suggest you do so in your room rather than wandering about the house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jane scurried past her grandmother and up the stairs.
As she returned to the schoolroom, she wondered where this was going—who
C
was and what he wanted from her besides correspondence.
Perhaps she ought to start making more inquiries of the delivery boy and Sophie—learning the letter writer’s identity would be like solving a puzzle in and of itself. Perhaps that was the point of this whole game. Perhaps she was meant to solve the most mysterious puzzle of all.
The pleasure of being loved.
R = Return.
The reaction to the partner’s appeal.
I = Instinct.
The process of forgetting.
O = Oblivion.
If she made certain assumptions on the behavior of the individuals and assigned variables to a positive linear system, and the linear model of
x
1
(t) = –α
1
x
1
(t) + β
1
x
2
(t)
…
The pleasure of being loved.
Lydia dropped her pencil. She lifted her head to stare out the window, her heart vibrating like the strings of a violin. No equation could quantify that kind of pleasure. No theorem could explain Lord Northwood’s intent to touch her, which had been so palpable she’d felt it from clear across the room.
She pushed her papers aside and went downstairs. Her own fault, this restless trembling in her veins, the heat of memory. She pushed the longing down deep, alongside the other mistakes that lay buried beneath the crust of time.
The door to her father’s study sat half-open, and Lydia knocked before entering. Her throat constricted at the sight of Sir Henry’s cedarwood desk, the bookshelves crammed with works of Chinese history and literature. She imagined she could still detect the fragrant scent of his pipe smoke. The walls held calligraphic scrolls and Tang dynasty paintings with images of lively horses and riders, mist-covered mountaintops, graceful kingfishers.
Jane sat curled on a sofa by the window, a book on butterflies spread open on her lap. Lydia slipped into the seat beside her and drew the girl close, bending to press a kiss against Jane’s soft brown hair. The bands around her heart loosened as she breathed in the scent of Pears soap.
“You’re all right?” she asked.
“I just miss him.”
“So do I.”
The comfort of shared memories wrapped aroundthem—Sir Henry patiently teaching them how to write Chinese characters, telling them stories of his youthful travels, playing puzzles and games together.
Throughout
“Mr. Krebbs surely doesn’t write the letters.”
“Don’t think so, miss.”
“That’ll be all, Tom, thank you.” Sophie gave the boy his coin and shooed him out the door before turning back to Jane. A worried frown creased her brow. “You sure it’s all right, then, miss? The letters and all?”
“It’s fine, Sophie. Just a game.”
She hurried from the kitchen, tearing the letter open.
Dear Jane,
So I might have guessed that riddle would prove too simple.
Teacher, yes, of course that is the answer. Here is another.
I shall assume that since it is shorter, it will also be more difficult:
A word there is, five syllables contains
Take one away, no syllable remains.
Till soon,
C
A word with five syllables…
“Jane, do watch where you are going.”
Jane looked up at her grandmother, who was striding down the corridor. A frown etched her face.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Boyd continued. “Where is Mrs. Driscoll?”
“Oh.” Jane fumbled to fold the letter and tuck it against her side. “I don’t… I don’t know. I went to speak to Sophie.”
“What for?”
“I wanted to see if… if we had any jam for our toast.” Jane almost winced at the feebleness of the excuse.
Her grandmother’s frown deepened. “We always have jam for our toast. What is that in your hand?”
“This?” Jane looked at the letter as if she’d only just noticed it. “Just a… some mathematical problem Lydia gave me to solve.”
“Well, I suggest you do so in your room rather than wandering about the house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jane scurried past her grandmother and up the stairs.
As she returned to the schoolroom, she wondered where this was going—who
C
was and what he wanted from her besides correspondence.
Perhaps she ought to start making more inquiries of the delivery boy and Sophie—learning the letter writer’s identity would be like solving a puzzle in and of itself. Perhaps that was the point of this whole game. Perhaps she was meant to solve the most mysterious puzzle of all.
The pleasure of being loved.
R = Return.
The reaction to the partner’s appeal.
I = Instinct.
The process of forgetting.
O = Oblivion.
If she made certain assumptions on the behavior of the individuals and assigned variables to a positive linear system, and the linear model of
x
1
(t) = –α
1
x
1
(t) + β
1
x
2
(t)
…
The pleasure of being loved.
Lydia dropped her pencil. She lifted her head to stare out the window, her heart vibrating like the strings of a violin. No equation could quantify that kind of pleasure. No theorem could explain Lord Northwood’s intent to touch her, which had been so palpable she’d felt it from clear across the room.
She pushed her papers aside and went downstairs. Her own fault, this restless trembling in her veins, the heat of memory. She pushed the longing down deep, alongside the other mistakes that lay buried beneath the crust of time.
The door to her father’s study sat half-open, and Lydia knocked before entering. Her throat constricted at the sight of Sir Henry’s cedarwood desk, the bookshelves crammed with works of Chinese history and literature. She imagined she could still detect the fragrant scent of his pipe smoke. The walls held calligraphic scrolls and Tang dynasty paintings with images of lively horses and riders, mist-covered mountaintops, graceful kingfishers.
Jane sat curled on a sofa by the window, a book on butterflies spread open on her lap. Lydia slipped into the seat beside her and drew the girl close, bending to press a kiss against Jane’s soft brown hair. The bands around her heart loosened as she breathed in the scent of Pears soap.
“You’re all right?” she asked.
“I just miss him.”
“So do I.”
The comfort of shared memories wrapped aroundthem—Sir Henry patiently teaching them how to write Chinese characters, telling them stories of his youthful travels, playing puzzles and games together.
Throughout
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