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Authors: Robyn Bachar
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it might give away my true identity and defeat the purpose of having a nom de plume.
During the day of the salon I did not see hide nor hair of the chroniclers, but when the carriage arrived after dinner they appeared in the foyer, ready to accompany me.
I paused at the foot of the stairs and eyed them warily. “You are not invited.”
“Yet we are going all the same,” Simon replied.
“And how do you propose that I explain your presence? Neither of you are equipped to travel anywhere incognito.” This evening it would be only Miss Dubois and myself in disguise. She had made arrangements with Miss Thistlegoode to obtain invitations for us, or rather for Miss E. M. Rose and her sister.
“That’s not true,” Simon replied.
Folding my hands, I waited for an explanation. He didn’t appear willing to offer one, so I turned my gaze to Michael.
“We’re going to wait outside, in case there is trouble,” my husband explained.
“You expect a brawl to break out at a poetry salon?” I quirked a brow.
Simon shrugged slightly. “It might, if the murderer is there. Michael is worried for your safety, so we are going along, with or without your approval.”
“You’ll need Miss Dubois’s approval. Whether or not she allows you to ride in her carriage is up to her.”
I breezed past them without further comment, and they followed me into the night. When the carriage door opened I waved at them in annoyance. “I apologize if I am late. These poor lost chroniclers were wandering about my sister’s foyer, and they followed me like stray puppies.”
“Emily, please,” my husband said, exasperated.
“They are insisting on accompanying me,” I explained.
Miss Dubois snorted. “I thought as much. Andrew did as well. They are welcome to sit with him in the carriage behind us. As I understand it there is a tea house across the street, where they are welcome to wait for us.”
I chuckled, and the chroniclers left to join Dr. Bennett.
“Men. They are such stubborn creatures. Now, why poetry, Mrs. Black?” Miss Dubois asked upon our departure for the salon. She was dressed in a ruffled pink ensemble with a matching lacy parasol. I wondered about her habit of carrying a parasol at night, but considering the eccentricities of some magicians it hardly seemed noteworthy. My own obsession with black silk gloves annoyed my sisters, but they were a necessity more than an accessory. I felt clumsy and underdressed in Miss Dubois’s presence, because I’d had to squeeze into one of Josephine’s dresses for my disguise. Jo had always been the slimmest, and having so many children in quick succession had not been kind to my figure. Michael assured me that I was still beautiful—
I cleared my throat and pushed that thought away. “I needed a creative outlet. Something to occupy my hours while my librarian relatives were buried in research of something or other. I attempted watercolors for a time, but I found myself drawn to poetry. Perhaps I needed to put pen to paper as my family does, even if the intent is different. I imagine life in a guardian household is much more active than a librarian’s existence.”
Miss Dubois laughed, and I rather liked the sound of it. She had a cheerful, infectious laugh that I was not expecting due to her usual serious demeanor. “Very much so. Dinner often devolved into swordplay. Mother finally forbade weapons at the table.”
My brow rose as I attempted to envision my sisters armed with swords at the dinner table. Sarah with a rapier was a sight I never wished to see, for her glares were sharp enough weapons as it was, not to mention her acid tongue.
“Do you come from a large family?” I asked.
“Yes. I miss them.” Miss Dubois smiled bravely, but I sensed a deep loneliness behind it. Perhaps I was oversensitive to the emotion due to my current situation, but I squeezed her hand reassuringly. As part of my disguise for the evening I had forgone the familiar accessory of my
During the day of the salon I did not see hide nor hair of the chroniclers, but when the carriage arrived after dinner they appeared in the foyer, ready to accompany me.
I paused at the foot of the stairs and eyed them warily. “You are not invited.”
“Yet we are going all the same,” Simon replied.
“And how do you propose that I explain your presence? Neither of you are equipped to travel anywhere incognito.” This evening it would be only Miss Dubois and myself in disguise. She had made arrangements with Miss Thistlegoode to obtain invitations for us, or rather for Miss E. M. Rose and her sister.
“That’s not true,” Simon replied.
Folding my hands, I waited for an explanation. He didn’t appear willing to offer one, so I turned my gaze to Michael.
“We’re going to wait outside, in case there is trouble,” my husband explained.
“You expect a brawl to break out at a poetry salon?” I quirked a brow.
Simon shrugged slightly. “It might, if the murderer is there. Michael is worried for your safety, so we are going along, with or without your approval.”
“You’ll need Miss Dubois’s approval. Whether or not she allows you to ride in her carriage is up to her.”
I breezed past them without further comment, and they followed me into the night. When the carriage door opened I waved at them in annoyance. “I apologize if I am late. These poor lost chroniclers were wandering about my sister’s foyer, and they followed me like stray puppies.”
“Emily, please,” my husband said, exasperated.
“They are insisting on accompanying me,” I explained.
Miss Dubois snorted. “I thought as much. Andrew did as well. They are welcome to sit with him in the carriage behind us. As I understand it there is a tea house across the street, where they are welcome to wait for us.”
I chuckled, and the chroniclers left to join Dr. Bennett.
“Men. They are such stubborn creatures. Now, why poetry, Mrs. Black?” Miss Dubois asked upon our departure for the salon. She was dressed in a ruffled pink ensemble with a matching lacy parasol. I wondered about her habit of carrying a parasol at night, but considering the eccentricities of some magicians it hardly seemed noteworthy. My own obsession with black silk gloves annoyed my sisters, but they were a necessity more than an accessory. I felt clumsy and underdressed in Miss Dubois’s presence, because I’d had to squeeze into one of Josephine’s dresses for my disguise. Jo had always been the slimmest, and having so many children in quick succession had not been kind to my figure. Michael assured me that I was still beautiful—
I cleared my throat and pushed that thought away. “I needed a creative outlet. Something to occupy my hours while my librarian relatives were buried in research of something or other. I attempted watercolors for a time, but I found myself drawn to poetry. Perhaps I needed to put pen to paper as my family does, even if the intent is different. I imagine life in a guardian household is much more active than a librarian’s existence.”
Miss Dubois laughed, and I rather liked the sound of it. She had a cheerful, infectious laugh that I was not expecting due to her usual serious demeanor. “Very much so. Dinner often devolved into swordplay. Mother finally forbade weapons at the table.”
My brow rose as I attempted to envision my sisters armed with swords at the dinner table. Sarah with a rapier was a sight I never wished to see, for her glares were sharp enough weapons as it was, not to mention her acid tongue.
“Do you come from a large family?” I asked.
“Yes. I miss them.” Miss Dubois smiled bravely, but I sensed a deep loneliness behind it. Perhaps I was oversensitive to the emotion due to my current situation, but I squeezed her hand reassuringly. As part of my disguise for the evening I had forgone the familiar accessory of my
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