by Olivia Waite
One hope came instantly to mind.
Chapter Twenty-Five
You ought to have seen his face! Penelope’s handwriting was rushed and flourished with triumph when she wrote to Agatha next. It felt like I’d gotten back all the years of my life I’d spent worrying about offending him, or disappointing him, or being too improper, or too obviously myself. An embarrassment of riches, though not without some pangs of grief. I thought we were friends, and he thought he was my superior. We are not friends any longer—not that either of us will ever admit that aloud—but at least we are now something closer to equals, in both his eyes and my own.
Perhaps it’s not about overthrowing the whole towering edifice of bad government in one fell swoop. Perhaps you can thwart one small tyrant at a time, and get the thing done piecemeal. I don’t have too much in common with the radicals at the Crown and Anchor, but I like to think they’d approve of the general tenor of what we’ve done.
Agatha smiled fondly, and traced her fingertips over the spikes and swirls of her beloved’s handwriting. She could all but hear Penelope’s voice in those words, as if touching the ink were like strumming the string of some instrument. The results set her heart singing like music.
Penelope was still buoyant when Agatha went down to Melliton three days later. She pulled Agatha into an embrace before she’d hardly stepped off the stage.
Agatha hugged her back rather anxiously as Penelope’s arms tightened around her waist. The other woman was laughing, silently, joyously—but Agatha felt too many Melliton eyes on her to enjoy it as she wanted to.
“I’ve got something to show you,” Penelope said, and as soon as they arrived at Fern Hall she brought out a small wrapped bundle. “Open it,” she urged, with a knowing grin.
Agatha unwrapped the cloth to find—honeycomb? Mostly honeycomb, but an odd formation, some of the cells capped, others standing empty. They were misshapen because they’d been built around something else: a small enamel box, brilliantly colored, with a ring of sparkling stones and the shockingly familiar face of an ex-emperor . . .
“The Napoleon snuffbox!” Agatha gasped. “But where . . . ?” She poked at the comb that encrusted fully half the small object.
“Remember when John was captured, and he’d knocked over one of the Abington hives?” Agatha nodded. “Well, when I finally had a chance to repair it, I found this jammed into the straw of the skep. Waiting to be found until the hive was replaced. Isabella must have hidden it there for me to find, because she knew I’d get it safely to its proper owner.” She laughed. “It was the one place she knew where her niece would never go looking for it. I’ve already written to Joanna to tell her the good news.”
“Aren’t you going to clean it?”
Penelope wrapped it back up. “I thought Joanna might like to see it this way first. It’s a little more poetic, don’t you think, if the bees were helping Isabella hide it?”
“Poets.” Agatha said it like a curse, but her heart wasn’t in it.
Penelope’s grin said she knew as much.
They changed into bee clothes and walked the circuit, feeling the heat rise off the earth as spring declined into full summer. Nell Turner’s hives were thriving, though her garden had become rather overgrown in her absence. Mr. Scriven showed them his newest baby goats, two heartbreaking, mischievous bundles of black and tan.
The women bypassed Abington Hall and curved around down the hill.
Grass shushed in the breeze, bees and other insects buzzed from flower to flower, and the wheelbarrow full of beekeeping equipment clanked and thunked as it trundled over the packed earth of the road. Agatha rolled up her sleeves and opened her collar against the warmth—and as they walked through one of the shady, forested sections, Penelope dropped the wheelbarrow, stripped off her gloves, and pressed Agatha up against the cool white bark of a birch tree. “I’ve been wanting to do this for months,” she said, kissing Agatha’s neck, hands clutching at her trousered hips.
Agatha tilted her head back and sighed happily as Penelope’s mouth skated over the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. “I missed you, too, Flood.”
“A week shouldn’t feel like such a long time,” Flood murmured, a nip of her small teeth making Agatha shiver with pleasure. “What if . . .” She nuzzled into the crook of Agatha’s neck. “What if we never had to be apart?”
Agatha’s fingers had slipped into Penelope’s short curls—but at this question, they tightened.
Penelope’s head bent back at the pressure, her smile sly, and her eyes wanton.
“How do you mean?” Agatha asked.
“What if you came to live with me, Flood?” Penelope went on. “Harry and John won’t be staying past the coronation, and the house will feel so empty when they’re gone. It’s felt empty since Christmas, even with them here. Because you’re gone. You should be here. With me.” Penelope bit her lip. “I’m rambling, I know—how about I stop talking and let you answer the question?”
Agatha had forgotten how to breathe. Spending every day with Penelope Flood. Every night. No more empty beds, no more dull and solitary sleeps. To have someone again—not a husband, not something legal—but someone real, and loving, and true.
It was everything she’d wanted for herself, and it was going to break her to have to turn it down.
Because the truth was: “I can’t, Flood,” she said, through the iron bands tightening around her chest. “I can’t leave Griffin’s. There is so much to do in London still. Eliza and Sydney need me too much.”
The light went out in Penelope’s eyes. She smiled, but she stepped back, her hands tugging at her cuffs and smoothing down the curls Agatha had been so glad to tousle. “Of course,” she said with a laugh. Agatha feared Penelope was laughing at herself: it was such a small and brittle sound. “Not being a mother, I forget how it is sometimes. You have to put your son first.”
Agatha nodded miserably. “It’s not the answer I’d prefer to be giving you, Flood.”
“I know.” Penelope’s smile began to crumble at the edges. She turned hastily away, taking up the wheelbarrow again and getting back on the road.
Agatha gulped a little and hurried to catch up. “Penelope . . .” she said.
“It’s alright,” Penelope said at once. “I’m just . . . I’d been hoping, that’s all. But I suppose . . . you can only have one queen in a hive.” She glanced over her shoulder, and her smile was almost back to normal. “I’ll ask you again next summer. Maybe you’ll be in a position to give me a different answer.”
“I hope so,” Agatha murmured, and fell in step beside the wheelbarrow.
The day was still beautiful, and before long Penelope was reciting pastoral poetry again, as always. She seemed to have shaken off the sting of Agatha’s rejection entirely. The bees hummed sleepily in spruce-and-lavender smoke, there was plenty of honey in the skep jars, and everywhere they turned, Melliton looked like a maiden decked out in her finest frock to meet a long-missed lover.
So why did Agatha feel so damn dismal?
Penelope barely waited until the household was abed before tugging on her dressing gown and slipping into Agatha’s bedroom.
She nearly ran right into the woman, who’d been in the act of reaching for the door handle. “Penelope—?”
Penelope wasted no time. She all but yanked Agatha’s mouth down to hers.
Agatha gasped against Penelope’s lips, but something of the shorter woman’s desperation must have caught her in its tendrils, because soon her hands were sinking into Penelope’s short hair and her fingertips were almost painfully tight against Penelope’s scalp. Her mouth opened, dark and hot and hungry as the kiss deepened. Penelope welcomed the little sparks of pain, as they kept her distracted from the larger cloud of hurt and worry that stormed in the center of her breast.
She’d known the affair was doomed from the start. This may not be the last night, but it certainly felt like a last night. Something had changed, and it was no use pretendin
g otherwise. The sliver of hurt that had slid into her heart from today’s denial was an injury that she would be a long while recovering from. If she ever did.
The fear made her move, had her backing Agatha up hard against the bed and following her down into the blankets. Skirts tangled up knees and calves—Penelope tugged insistently at Agatha’s hem, until she felt the other woman’s hands close soothingly around her wrist. “Hold on,” Agatha whispered.
Penelope froze, trembling.
Agatha gently worked the linen out from under them both, tossing her own nightclothes aside and then slipping Penelope’s over her head. Penelope shivered in the chill air—it was supposed to be halfway to summer, but she felt as cold as winter in her bones.
And then Agatha tugged the bedclothes up around Penelope’s shoulders, and over her head, and pulled the whole pile down to her long, soft self: blankets and sheets and Penelope and all.
Lack of sight descended on Penelope like sweetest relief. Everything was taste and touch and sound—the sweet weight of Agatha’s breast beneath her hunting hand, the soft sigh warm from her lips, salt from the day’s long walk in the sharp hollow at the base of her throat. Penelope tried to touch her everywhere, carving Agatha’s shape into her memory: the curve of her hip and the softness of her belly, the long line of muscle in her calf. Agatha welcomed all of it, yielding softly to Penelope’s grasp, tilting her head back on a gasp when Penelope’s mouth began moving lower, spreading her thighs so Penelope could reach between.
She cursed when Penelope pressed hard where she was most sensitive, and arched up instantly into that stroking caress. Penelope was in no mood to be delicate, and soon was pumping two, then three fingers into Agatha’s cunny, the scent of arousal curling around her like smoke and setting her own nerves afire like lines of powder. She sucked in a breath, sank her teeth into Agatha’s shoulder, and thrust harder.
“Yes,” Agatha breathed. And: “More.” Her fingers scrabbled at Penelope’s shoulders, and she pressed her heels into the mattress to better thrust her hips up off the bed, fighting to get as wide and deep as possible, to take more and more.
Penelope gave her everything—and nearly came herself when she felt Agatha tighten around her fingers and choke out a breathy, telltale cry.
Penelope fucked her higher and higher until Agatha’s hand once more grasped her wrist, slowing her movements. She took Penelope’s hand up to her mouth, and sucked gently on the fingers that had brought her to her peak. Her breath was hot, still panting, and her tongue swirled gratefully around Penelope’s fingertips.
Penelope felt a moan tear itself from her throat, low and vibrant. She was shaking in the darkness, dripping wet, aching to be touched and horribly afraid she would shatter beneath Agatha’s hands.
And somehow, Agatha knew—sensed it, perhaps, in the fevered press of Penelope’s thighs against hers, or felt the trembling in her hands that had been so greedy and grasping before. She pulled Penelope down into her arms, cushioning her against her own body, arms banding tight. Penelope burrowed as close as she could, taut with fear and anguish and unsatisfied desire, while Agatha murmured words of comfort against her hair.
Penelope could only shake her head. Comfort was the last thing she needed. Comfort would destroy her completely. “I love you,” she whispered against her lover’s collarbone.
The heartbeat there jumped beneath her lips. “I love you, too,” Penelope whispered.
And that was it. Four little words that broke her entire heart. Tears sprang to her eyes and she sat up, horrified, to dash them away.
“Penelope—?” Agatha said, reaching out to pull her back.
But Penelope only shook her head roughly, staggered free of the bed, and fled back to her own cold hearth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Agatha was unhappy and sluggish when it was time to return to London the next morning. Last night had frightened her: there had been pain laced with joy in a way she was finding it hard to untangle in the clear and levelheaded light of day. Penelope had seemed almost herself at breakfast—except for the slight shadow that lingered in the corner of her eyes.
But as Agatha sat on top of the swaying stage, watching the hills and woodlands give way to the cobbles and walls and cathedrals of the city, she realized that Penelope’s question had given her an opportunity. I’ll ask you again next summer, Penelope had said.
That gave Agatha one year to get the London print-shop into shape. Three hundred sixty-five days to bring Sydney around to his responsibilities.
If she hadn’t been surrounded by other travelers, she’d have rolled up her sleeves on the spot. As it was, she leaned forward, into the wind of the coach’s motion, until her eyes watered and her cheeks went numb with the early morning chill.
The journeymen were hard at work already when she arrived. She could hear the muffled thumps even in the shop front, where Eliza was behind the counter showing young Jane the finer points of slicing the graver into the waxed ground. Agatha waved hello but didn’t interrupt: instead, she dropped her things in her bedroom, and went straight to her desk to catch up on her paperwork.
She unlocked her desk, got out ink, paper, and quill, and began rifling through the stack of her correspondence.
On top was a letter from Penelope, talking about blackmailing the vicar. Then another, telling Agatha in more detail what the signs were of a hive about to swarm. The letter discussing Melliton’s reaction to the Pains and Penalties bill. An earlier letter where Penelope had brazenly told her about playing with the he’s-at-home while Agatha was away (she blushed and tucked that one hastily into her pocket for later rereading). More and more papers, every single one in Penelope Flood’s sweetly looping hand: the Mendacity Society, Christmas plans, thoughts about the Crown and Anchor, stories from Penelope’s childhood, anecdotes from evenings at the Four Swallows.
Nothing to do with Griffin’s: no invoices, no editorial correspondence, no proposals from hopeful new writers or authors accepting an invitation to place a piece in the Menagerie. Agatha couldn’t even remember the last time she’d sent one of those out. Not since . . .
Not since she started delegating the correspondence to Eliza Brinkworth. Somehow, during the past half year, she’d managed to offload most of the business of the London shop onto her apprentice. Who’d taken the burden up so ably that Agatha hadn’t even noticed until now.
Agatha had unwittingly exiled herself from her own hive.
She slumped back in the chair, turning the revelation over and over. She’d been so focused on Sydney—on how to square his political leanings with the needs of the shop, on his frequent absences—that she’d overlooked a much better successor.
Eliza Brinkworth was more than capable of stepping into Agatha’s shoes.
In fact—Agatha rifled through her older files—ah, yes, Eliza’s apprenticeship had been set at five years, and would be complete at summer’s end. Most journeymen changed shops at such a time, either to return to hometowns closer to family, or to start a shop of their own, or simply to see a little more of the world. But Eliza’s father was in London, and she’d never mentioned wanting to start her own shop . . .
What if there was a shop ready and waiting for her? All it needed was for Agatha to step aside.
After all, like Penelope said: you couldn’t have two queens in a hive.
She shoved up from the desk and strode impatiently down the stairs.
Young Jane had a good few inches of the wooden block carved away already—not terribly quick, but she was being careful to be precise. Agatha approved: quickness would come in time, with practice. “Jane, could I ask you to run to the Queen’s Larder for a bottle of cider?”
Jane nodded eagerly at the reprieve and was off, summer sun winking brightly off the glass in the doorway as she departed.
“May I see you in my office, Miss Brinkworth?”
Once the door shut behind them, Eliza brushed her hands down her skirts and fidgeted in her chair. From the look
on her face, she expected the worst.
Agatha could only grin, the anticipation getting the better of her. “My dear Eliza,” she said, leaning forward and resting her forearms on Thomas’s desk. “If you could change one thing about Griffin’s—the way we do business, the type of work we do—what would you change?”
Eliza’s eyes went wide, and she blinked several times, as if the sunlight had dazzled her vision. Then Agatha saw her brain engage with the problem, all the gears lining up and the machinery beginning to turn.
Good god, but young folk were glorious.
“We’d produce a lot more sheet music,” Eliza said after a moment. “Regularly, both reprints and commissioned pieces, not merely the odd job or short run. More people are buying the new six-octave pianos, and the demand for music is growing. I’m good with music notation, and I enjoy it. We could afford to buy a font of type, if we were printing more of it. Also, Griffin’s has plenty of plates in the warehouse from past years—older pieces, a few practice books, even one or two popular arias—we could add something in to each issue of the Menagerie, just like we do with the silk samples. It would take a bit of time away from the broadsides and the jobbing, at least initially—but I think it’s a steadier market, and leaves us less open to . . .” she coughed “. . . certain legal complications.” She bit her lip. “I’m sure you’re going to ask what Sydney thinks about all this.”
“Let’s,” said Agatha, and went to fetch her son from his compositing.
Eliza explained her idea again, at Agatha’s request. Sydney’s eyes lit. “It seems a very solid plan to me—do I get a vote?”
“Do you want one?” Agatha returned. “What I mean is: Sydney, do you really want me to leave Griffin’s to you? Not just right now—but ever?” She took a bracing breath, as his eyes went wide with surprise. “I know we raised you with that expectation—Lord knows I’ve all but beat you over the head with it—but, well, I’d like to find a way to make you happy. Not just burden you with a duty that brings you no joy.”