EAGLE

27

WHEN HETTY MADE HER way up to the study, she found several new boxes of books crowding the space. Sy was busy unpacking and stacking books on the bookshelf. Rosie, instead of helping, was sprawled out on their couch with a tidy pile of tomes at her elbow.

Benjy looked past Hetty’s shoulder into the room and called loudly: “What are you doing?”

Sy startled and stumbled into the bookshelf, causing a few books to fall onto the floor. Rosie didn’t move, though she lowered her book, as if suddenly afraid she’d done something wrong.

But Benjy wasn’t glaring at either one of them. As he approached the crates, he favored them with a bemused smile. “I appreciate the bounty of books, but I like to know what they are before they go on my shelves. What did you bring?”

Sy swallowed, and his eyes darted to Hetty for a moment. “Didn’t Hetty tell you? These are from Mr. Raimond’s collection. All his books, papers, and journals, brought here for safekeeping.”

“Probably the only place they’d be safe,” Rosie piped up. “Since a thief was after them.”

“A thief?” Benjy asked as he moved to his precious bookshelf.

“She tried to shoot Hetty!” Rosie added.

The stern glare Benjy fixed Hetty with was worse than she had imagined. “I did not know that part.”

Hetty moved out of his gaze, and picked up a book at random. It was small and clearly well loved, as she could barely make out the peeling letters on the spine to read: By the ­Archway’s Light.

“Are these the books Valentine gave you?” Hetty asked.

Sy nodded, just as eager to move on from the subject of thieves and pistols. “This is all of them. Plus a few other books we were given that looked too worn to sell.”

“They’ll have some value,” Benjy said. “If not, there will be libraries that’ll take them in. I’ll help you check.”

Realizing he meant to do so right then, Hetty quietly put the book back and slipped out of the room, not wanting to get ensnarled in this project.

Her first thought upon leaving was to go speak with Penelope in the garden, but the cellar door was open and Oliver’s voice drifted up: “What would you do if they said no?”

“You know they won’t,” Thomas replied.

“But if they did, it’ll be trouble you can’t get out of.”

“You wouldn’t help me?”

Oliver sighed. “It depends.”

Intrigued, Hetty headed down the stairs.

A light bobbed over Oliver’s shoulder as he sewed up Valentine Duval. A cloth covered the dead man’s face, with a larger sheet covering everything below the torso. The satchel that Adelaide had given Hetty sat on the nearby table. Hetty shook her head at the sight. Oliver had not taken the funeral suit out and hung it up. Everything would surely be dreadfully wrinkled by now.

Thomas sat on the stool next to the table, his back facing his partner. Which meant he saw Hetty first.

“There you are​—​I was hoping you’d be back soon!” Thomas said, a bit too eagerly.

“How long were you waiting?” Hetty asked.

“He got here an hour ago,” Oliver said as he snipped the thread held taut in his hand. “And has been nothing but a distraction.” He might have scowled at the back of Thomas’s head, but it was a scowl with only a fraction of his usual temper.

Hetty looked down at the body, then up at Oliver. “What have you learned?”

Oliver pointed to an open notebook on the end of the table, where he kept all his observations. “The chalk and the residue on the body are a match, as expected. This poison kills gradually in small doses, quickly in large​—​which is what killed this man. I had Penelope look at it and she agrees with my assessment.”

“The death was meant to look natural.” Hetty peered down at the body again. With most of Valentine hidden under the sheet, it was easy to see only a puzzle and not a once vibrant, living man. “You examined him thoroughly? For bruising, wounds, and the like?” Hetty asked.

“I know how to do my job,” Oliver said. “You keep me well trained. I even learned to jab a spike into a foot to make sure they’re really dead.”

“Did you?”

“Of course! Once you’ve had someone’s eyes snap open and scream to make the stars fall when you cut into them, you never want that to happen again.”

“Or hear that story again.” Thomas winced.

“So, are we ready for the funeral then?” Hetty asked.

“I’m finishing with him as we speak. I only need to dress him and renew the preservation spells before the funeral on Monday. Will there be a wake?”

Hetty stared, stunned both by the efficiency of his words and the fact that an answer to such a simple question did not come to her lips right away.

This was the problem when clients were also murder suspects. Some questions got asked, others got forgotten.

“There is no wake,” Hetty said finally. “At least, I don’t know if there is.”

Oliver looked over his glasses at her and Hetty found herself wanting to melt into the shadows. “You should find out. Sooner rather than later.”

“I will.”

Oliver griped, “Sometimes I’m not sure why I agreed to do this for you. Unpaid, by the way.”

“Think of it as trading favors.”

But as much as she thought the comment was in jest, the smile on Thomas’s face vanished, and Oliver’s frown deepened.

“Don’t tell me,” Hetty said when neither spoke, “you’re helping because you want me to do something for you.”

“I would like your help,” Thomas said to his hands. “It’s the only way I can save the Pony Post. But I don’t think I can ask that of you. Things are much more complicated than I thought previously.”

“How complicated?” Hetty asked.

“He’s been accused of selling illegal goods.” Each word out of Oliver’s mouth was like a hammer driving down a nail. But behind the veneer, Hetty sensed great fear.

Earlier that day, Oliver said he worried about Thomas, and she hadn’t thought much of it then, as it had been just a vague sentiment. But now she could see the stress not just in his face, but also in how little work he’d gotten done on Valentine Duval’s body.

“Blackmail?” Hetty said.

“If being forced to tell lies about printing spellbooks and selling wands is blackmail, then yes,” Thomas said.

Hetty rocked back on her heels as she connected with his words. “Did the alderman of the Fourth Ward threaten you? The one that works with Beatty Hose?”

Thomas nodded.

Hetty swore vividly and creatively.

“I’m pleased to see you so upset on my account,” Thomas remarked. “I thought you disliked the Pony Post.”

“I do, but we’re the only ones that should be trying to force you to quit, not the alderman.”

“I’m touched,” Thomas said. Hetty had to look at him intently to know if he was joking or not, but no​—​he was completely serious. “Perhaps it was best I stop anyway,” he continued. “When I was looking for a space to work from, I found a building that would make a great place for selling furniture. Imagine if I ran a company like that? I can hire carpenters and sell custom pieces.”

Thomas went into great detail about both the place and his idea for a new business. Usually, this was the part where Hetty made a joke about him once again dropping one idea for a new one, but this time she refrained.

Thomas had bounced from one thing to the next in all the years Hetty had known him, and she always thought it was just him being drawn to the newer idea. But given how Oliver listened with patience, she wondered if she had only seen that because that’s what she wanted to see: the flightiness of a person unable to make up his mind instead of how hard it was in this world to build and maintain a business for long.

Hetty left the cellar, choosing to go through the door that led directly to the yard. She stepped out expecting to see Penelope and Darlene sitting near the garden. Instead, all she found were a few crows poking around at a spot near the kitchen door.

A spot that didn’t just smell like magic but reeked of it.

It was a curious sight, made alarming by the fact that Penelope, who had just been coming outside with a cauldron, suddenly backed into the kitchen, shut the door, and locked it.

Hetty snapped her fingers and the door jerked open at the slightest touch of her magic.

Penelope stood there half hiding behind the cauldron.

“Did you really think that was going to work?” Hetty asked.

Penelope attempted to grin. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“That’s obvious.” She glanced around the kitchen, looking for what would have caused Penelope to react so. There were no cauldrons bubbling with Penelope’s latest concoctions, nor plants scattered on the table. Darlene only sat there, somewhat stiffly, as she fed her baby.

Something about the scene was odd, and it wasn’t Lorene attempting to grab the bottle from her mother. It took a moment, but eventually it clicked in Hetty’s mind: Darlene was sitting in a chair, yet all six of the kitchen chairs Hetty owned remained unoccupied.

Without a word, Hetty drew a star sigil next to her and lifted the table into the air.

With the table floating above their heads, it was easy to see that instead of one of Hetty’s chairs, Darlene sat on a wooden crate . . . the crate Hetty’s sister had sent to Juniper Street.

“I told you it wasn’t going to work.” Darlene stood up and moved aside, throwing Penelope a distasteful look. Still holding on to her baby, Darlene pointed a foot at the crate. “Penelope wanted to hide this from you, and I don’t understand why.”

Hetty lowered her hand, bringing the table back to the floor. “Because I tried to give it to her and she refused to hear it.”

“Well, she seems to have changed her mind.” Darlene flicked a few spells into the air, and brought the crate on top of the table. “When I got here, she was messing with things in there. It all looks very interesting. I think I might start seriously working with brewed magic again. I want to make magical paint.”

“Why?” Hetty asked.

Darlene pulled out a vial, giving it a look. “Why not?”

There was no real answer to that, so Hetty turned her attention back to Penelope. “Why did you hide the crate? I told you you could have it.”

Penelope placed the cauldron onto the table and sighed. “I was trying to stabilize another one of the elemental pistols. Thought there might be an answer in the box since your sister also studied herbs. Well, what I tried didn’t quite work, and I had to dump it outside. I was embarrassed. I’d made such a fuss about not taking the crate, and then I used the herbs anyway and just made a mess of things.”

“That’s what happens with magic,” Hetty said. “You make mistakes. Over time you get good at hiding them. But if you want the crate, it’s fine.”

“But it’s from your sister!”

“From her ghost,” Hetty corrected. “I would have never gotten this box if she still lived. Having it here reminds me that she’s gone.”

“Oh, I bet that’s just because it’s in the crate,” Darlene said. “Let’s take it all out and scatter things into drawers and baskets.”

Before Hetty could approve, Darlene did just that, pulling various items out and setting them on the table. Soon the surface was covered in little piles of items grouped together. Books and papers. Vials, both empty and full, seed packets, bundles of dried herbs. Candles, and pens, and inkwells. And some items that Hetty had previously missed entirely, like spools of thread, buttons, and a large jeweled butterfly brooch.

Lorene actually saw the butterfly first. The baby’s tiny hands reached out for it, making cooing sounds, unaware of the despair blooming in Penelope’s face.

“I suppose she and I were quite alike. I have one just like that.” Penelope absently brushed a finger against the brooch. At her touch it split in half and a long thin needle emerged from its center, making it appear less like a butterfly and more like a bee.

“Or maybe not.” Darlene pulled her daughter well out of range, just as Sleeping Beauty’s mother should have done when faced with a spindle. “She is Hetty’s sister, after all.”

“Now what do you mean by that?” Hetty demanded.

“If that isn’t poisonous,” Darlene said quite reasonably, “then it does something worse.”

With a twist of a spell, Hetty lifted the brooch into the air. Holding it aloft, Hetty noticed for the first time a tiny flask attached to the back of it connected to the needle. “I hate to say it, but I think you’re right, Darlene,” Hetty said. “Are there any other vials like this?”

Penelope picked up a tiny little vial that seemed to be a good fit. “These all look like they were used for​—​ Sweet galloping stars! Do you know anything about your sister in her last years?”

“She was a healer,” Hetty said.

“She must have been more than that.” Penelope gulped as she turned the tiny vial around so they could see the label. “This is Cassandra plant!”

“Is it poisonous?” Darlene asked.

“Not at all.” Although Hetty was speaking to Darlene, she watched Penelope grow more and more agitated as she looked at the tiny vials. “Penelope gave me a tin that I could slip into tea. It loosens the tongue and makes a person more willing to let secrets slip between their lips. It’s harmless.”

Penelope put the vials aside. “As a tea it’s harmless. Not when it’s injected into a person. I don’t know the full effects, but it’s not good.”

“What’s in the vial attached to the brooch?” Darlene asked.

Penelope reached for the brooch, but Hetty pulled it away.

Hetty had already seen the label on the back. While the liquid inside was dried up, she knew the name of the notorious poison would only send Penelope into hysterics.

“I can’t believe I didn’t go through this box,” Hetty said brightly, determined to drag the conversation in a new direction. “I’m glad you made me. And you’re right: I shouldn’t give this away without taking a closer look. There’s all sorts of interesting things in here.”

“And this crate is something you shouldn’t look through alone,” Darlene said. “Especially given some of these unmarked bottles.”

Of which there were quite a few. Dark, opaque bottles that were nothing but a mere curiosity until moments ago. More jewelry, too: not just brooches, but rings that had a hidden hollow cache, and hairpins with enviable sharpened points.

Penelope eyed them now, her anxieties clear across her face.

“You’ve given me poisons before,” Hetty reminded her friend.

“Nothing like this.” Penelope gulped. “And not in such clever ways. I feel like I’m looking at the works of a master. Here I am jumping from one thing to the next, like a rabbit. Making elemental pistols, exploding orbs, sleep-inducing lip paint, and bone-­mending tonics . . . But your sister had a singular focus that brought a real eloquence to her work.”

“Are you saying,” Darlene remarked rather dryly, “that you’re ashamed for not being a better poison maker?”

“I’m just supposed to be better!”

“You are​—​don’t sell yourself short. Do you see any bone-mending salve in this box?” Hetty asked as she patted Penelope on the shoulder.

“Anyone can make a healing salve. You could too if you tried!” Penelope’s words ended with great gulping sobs.

Darlene looked on, startled at the sight of it, but Hetty saw the ring that Penelope had picked up. The blue gemstone embedded in the center was glowing softly.

Carefully, Hetty reached over to uncurl Penelope’s hand. A strong wave of sadness washed over Hetty, unmoored by any particular moment, but it prickled her heart with a loss she could not name.

The gesture was not lost on Darlene. Genuine curiosity and interest withered away as Darlene clutched her baby even more protectively. “I think you might want to put this all back and read the journal your sister left you. It might tell you exactly what she left,” she said.

“I think so too,” Hetty said. She eyed the items again then, and instead of growing alarmed, Hetty grew excited at the possibilities. She tapped the hollow ring used perhaps to carry poison. “These would pair well with a few of my dresses.”

“Are you going to show up to Bernice Tanner’s ball with the butterfly brooch pinned to your chest?” Darlene asked.

“Not that one, it won’t match. I’m wearing gold.”

Darlene smirked. “That’ll make you easy to find.”

“Why do you say that? Wait, are you going to the ball too?”

Darlene nodded. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I got the invitation today. I thought it funny, because I remember you telling me you were going. But when I mentioned it to Thomas, he said he and Oliver were invited, and Penelope got an invitation too. It’s all very odd, and I think Miss Tanner wanted to make sure you’re there.”

“She certainly does,” Hetty muttered.

“Why so worried?” Penelope asked then. She dabbed at her tear-streaked face. She did so with a curious air as if she were surprised by the tears. “I know you don’t like her, and you can refuse.”

“I could,” Hetty admitted. “But I hate to pass up an excuse to wear a pretty dress.”

Just as she wanted, they both laughed at her words. But as a sign of how tense the contents of the crate had made them, they quickly moved on to talking about dresses and expectations for the ball.

They were debating who they might expect to see at the ball when Benjy entered the kitchen.

He made a quick study of the contents on the table and glanced at Hetty with mild confusion.

“Your sister had a brooch that you can poison someone with?” he asked.

Hetty ignored her friends, who were suppressing their giggles. “Yes, and a few other pieces that could maybe do worse,” Hetty said.

“How interesting,” Benjy said. “I could make you a better one that’s not as obvious.”

“I’m sure you can. Did you want me for something?”

“Actually, I’m here for Darlene,” Benjy said. “Can you settle an argument about poetry? Once I admitted I have little interest in such things, I lost all ground with Rosie.”

“That’s your own fault, you know.” Darlene stood up from the table and handed her baby over to him. She rubbed her shoulder absently as if gearing up for battle as she led the way out. “These young folk think they know everything!”

“Poetry?” Penelope asked once they were gone.

Hetty shrugged. “It’s probably about the cipher Benjy’s been working on.”

Penelope blinked.

“It leads to buried treasure nearby.”

“Ah, I heard a bit about that! Maybelle’s son and a few of his friends went around digging. They weren’t going to bother with the puzzle part.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? There are parts of the Delaware Valley where it isn’t safe to show our faces.”

“Which is why my uncle was very cross with them.” Penelope rapped her fingers on the table. “But I don’t think you’re concerned about them running amuck looking for buried treasure.”

“There’s a loose connection to Valentine Duval’s death,” Hetty said with some hesitation. “Valentine was working feverishly on the cipher before he died. Poison was even dusted on the chalk he was using.”

“Poison.” Penelope sighed. “Some poisonous herbs have gone missing from the shop. They’re not the most dangerous, but my employer was quite upset. She’s afraid of it happening again with something more valuable.”

“Not dangerous?” Hetty asked.

Penelope gave a wan smile. “It’s all the same to her. Also my employer expects better from me. I expected better of myself too, because I know how often common herbs are stolen.”

“It’s not your fault. You were targeted by a man who has an elaborate scheme involving a number of magical items.”

“Still, to think such poisons are out in the street. Dodgy potions are one thing, but this . . . I worry that Valentine Duval might not be the only victim.”

“Poisons exist everywhere; it’s only how they’re used that ­matters.”

“That’s not making me feel any better.”

“Maybe this will, then. I’m sorry that I forced this crate on you. I just wanted to get rid of it.”

“I don’t blame you for that.”

“You know, after I showed it to you, I forget all about it. Granted, Jay did show up to tell us Valentine Duval was dead soon after. But I shouldn’t have. It’s odd, isn’t it? I spent so many years with Esther in the forefront of my mind. So much I neglected everything else, but when I got a collection of all her things and memories, I could put it aside.”

“I won’t say it’s a terrible thing,” Penelope said very carefully. “You suffered a great loss, and how you recover from that loss is a path you must take alone. But know that if you want company for such a journey, you need only to ask.”

That took a lot for Penelope to say. Penelope always came to Hetty’s aid, and even her playful threat to poison Benjy if he ever hurt Hetty was sincere. But Penelope was afraid that she was only a replacement for the sister that Hetty had lost, not realizing that she was the sister that Hetty had found.

“I’d be careful with such promises.” Hetty adopted a lofty tone. “You know firsthand that all my travels deal with the dead and stranger mysteries.”

“Yes, quite strange, and some more avoidable than not.” Penelope grew quiet as she studied the crate before them. “Does the offer still stand about staying here for a time?” Penelope asked, avoiding Hetty’s eye.

“Why would you think I changed my mind? You know how stubborn I am.”

“Everyone knows that,” Thomas called as he swept into the kitchen.

“You don’t even know what we’re talking about,” Hetty said.

“Whatever it is”​—​Thomas winked as he opened the pantry​—​“it’s true for anything. Tell me I’m lying.”

He wasn’t, so Hetty remained quiet as Thomas gathered ingredients, opening cabinets and closing doors with the slightest twitch of his hand.

“Is it safe to cook in here?” he said as he got out an onion.

“I wasn’t brewing any potions,” Penelope said.

“I meant . . . Hetty didn’t attempt to cook something?”

Hetty sniffed. “If you weren’t about to make dinner, I would have some very nasty things to say.”

“But would I deserve them?”

“Yes,” Hetty said, even as she knew it wasn’t true. There were many nights when they were busy with cases when they had a hot meal only because Thomas had made something, reminded them it was there, and sometimes cooked it while they argued over the finer points of a case in this very kitchen. This was what he always did for them, and something that Hetty took particular notice of now upon his return to Philadelphia after many months away.

“I keep trying to remember why the Duval name is familiar to me,” Thomas said as he chopped away. “I just have this feeling I’ve seen it before.”

“Valentine’s father died last month,” Hetty said. “Raimond Duval. We took on his case briefly.”

“It’s not that,” Thomas said.

“Maybe it’s because of the school. Both of them worked at Olm­stead,” Penelope said. “Rosie had them as teachers, and George took Raimond’s vacant teaching post.”

Thomas squinted. “Not that, either.”

“Maybe you just remember it from conversations Hetty and Benjy been having,” Penelope suggested.

But even Hetty knew that one was wrong. Thomas had been too distracted by the problems plaguing his mail-order business to really get involved in this case.

“Maybe Valentine Duval bought something from you. You didn’t happen to sell him any chalk?”

“No.” Thomas shook his head. “Definitely not that. I haven’t shipped anything that small. Why can’t I remember?”

Penelope laughed. “Why do you care so much?”

“You never know what sort of information might be useful.” Thomas moved to the icebox and took out a piece of meat Hetty knew hadn’t been bought by either her or Benjy. “And sharing that information is how I’m useful to you.”

“You’re very useful now,” Hetty said. “If you weren’t here I have no idea what I would’ve done about dinner.”

“And it’ll be a very good dinner, no matter what you make,” Penelope added. “Sometimes I think it’s a shame you don’t get paid to cook.”

“Well, the days of the Dandy of Honey Hill County are over,” Thomas said, looking squarely at Hetty as he did.

Hetty only batted her eyes. “If you don’t want me to tell stories about you, don’t lead an interesting life.”

Thomas snorted and Penelope frowned. “What do the Dandy stories have to do with Thomas?”

“They were inspired by his life before he met us.” Encouraged by Penelope’s curiosity, Hetty eased into storytelling mode. “They called him the Dandy then. The finest cook all around, who strutted about in fine leather shoes and a tailored coat that made him the envy of all. He wore one silk cravat as he cooked and a different one when he presented the meal. And he had everything he wanted except for the one thing most dear​—​his freedom. So he made a bet with his old master. He’d make a meal for the most disagreeable, most cantankerous, most bitterly sour old woman in the county . . . and the meal would be so divine that she’d weep tears of joy as she ate. And when those tears ran, he and his would be free. All the arrangements were made. The finest and most high-quality meats, cheeses, and more were ordered. Lace tablecloths said to grace the tables of royalty were brought out, and cups said to be used by the Sun King were ready to have wine poured in them. Everyone in the county had gathered at the farm. But the Dandy never showed, having used the preparations to lend him cover to make his escape. Him dressed in rags, and his wife and daughter hidden in a wine barrel. They left aboard a wagon and they were never seen on the plantation again.”

Penelope turned around in her chair, rather aghast. “Do you really let her tell that story about you?”

“It’s all true,” Thomas said calmly. “She stops it before it gets to the part I don’t want told.”

“Because that’s only the beginning of the tales of the Dandy,” Hetty teased. “His story gets more exciting when a very talented dressmaker shows up.”

“Wait a moment. I’ve heard stories about the Dandy before, like the one about him stealing a ledger with the names of lost families from a pirate? That was Thomas? All those Dandy stories?” Penelope gasped at a sudden thought. “Do you tell stories about all of us and just hide us under different names?”

In her sweetest and most innocent tone, Hetty replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Thomas coughed. “The Gardener of the Glass Palace, and her friend the Painter of the Seas.”

Penelope’s mouth fell open. “Henrietta! I can’t believe you’d do such a thing!”

Hetty just grinned. “Don’t lead such interesting lives.”

Penelope was beside herself as she recounted the little tales Hetty had made up on the spot over the years, and there were quite a few. “I always knew when you talked about a blacksmith you meant Benjy, and anyone ill-tempered was Oliver or George, depending on the tale,” Penelope grumbled. “Do you tell stories about Cora and Jay?”

“A few,” Hetty admitted. “But I don’t feel like telling them now.”

Penelope stopped fuming as her ear perked up over this slip of the tongue. “Is this about what happened with Cora last night?”

“What happened with Cora?” Thomas moved over so he stood behind Penelope, mixing bowl in hand. “Is this related to your argument with Jay?”

“How do you know about that?” Hetty demanded.

Thomas just kept mixing the biscuit batter. “I overheard you the night I brought the fiddle. I went looking for you.”

“You shouldn’t be eavesdropping.”

“It’s hard not to listen when voices are raised. You shouldn’t argue with them.”

“Benjy gave me that same advice, and I didn’t listen to him. Why should I listen to you?”

“Because I’m more sensible than him,” Thomas said. “It comes with age and wisdom.”

“You’re not all that old,” Hetty said.

Ignoring her, he added most sincerely, “Take my advice, Hetty. No matter what case you’re elbow-deep in, having regrets is the last thing you need.”

He said it with a jaunty enough air that Penelope giggled.

But Hetty knew better.

Thomas had heard more than just a simple argument. He had heard, he had observed, and had understood what was really going on. Maybe he was the only one who’d noticed. In gatherings, Oliver and Thomas often drifted over for conversation with the much older couple, wearied of “young people problems” as they liked to say, although Oliver and Thomas were no more than fifteen years older than Hetty. While that didn’t seem like much at times, those years carried a weight that became significant every so often. Perhaps it wasn’t wisdom coming from Thomas, but it was certainly experience and a reminder that she should know better than to let arguments fester.

Life was so unpredictable that you couldn’t put off things. The apologies that you said you’d make soon might not ever get said. And all you’d be left with were regrets. She’d had that with Esther, but wasn’t going to allow that to happen with anyone else.