Maris came up beside him as he began to place jars in the basket. When she was close enough that their conversation wouldn’t be overheard, Chris murmured: “I am sorry about that, but it has to be enough of a load that Missus Faraday would believably send a man and, er, well, you down together.”
The policewoman snorted. When she looked up at him, he saw the first gleam of genuine pleasure in her eye since she’d arrived this morning. “Me?”
“Well—er, that is, I just mean…” he fumbled for words, feeling heat in his face, and Maris actually laughed and shook her head.
“I know what you meant, you blistering barmpot.” Maris shook her head and began transferring jars to her own basket. “And if I can say so… the two of you are actually rather something. I see why her close rate has improved since getting her claws into you. Hah. I couldn’t have possibly imagined that sort of subterfuge from the bespeckled little secretary Olivia hired back in the springtime.”
Chris ducked his head.
When they emerged from the larder, each carrying their basket of twelve-odd jams, Olivia was laughing and playing the eccentric hostess with Livingstone and his nephew. The doctor seemed quite captivated, though Norwood gave them a guarded, skittish little glance as they came forward before clasping his hands behind his back.
“Oh, there they are!” Olivia smiled and made an expansive gesture. “I don’t suppose each of you could carry one of the jugs Mister Norwood brought us? I’m not sure I can manage this whole load!”
“The jugs and the jars, is it?” Maris sounded legitimately annoyed.
“Yes, Maris, both of those things.” Olivia rolled her eyes dramatically while the doctor chuckled. “We’ll see you at the Festival tonight?”
Livingstone winced. “I’m not certain it’s the best idea, Miss Faraday,” he said. “My face is quite well known from the papers, after the trial. A false name wouldn’t do much to hide my presence.”
“Oh. Damn.” Olivia looked sincerely disappointed. “That’s a shame. It really is quite the shindig! Ah, but surely you, Mister Norwood?”
Arthur Norwood snapped to attention. He swallowed and tucked his hair away from his eyes. His monstrous eyebrows twitched. “I… ah, yes, I think? Probably. We’ll see. I don’t want to leave Uncle alone back here. With Miss Banks gone, I worry about him.”
“Arthur, please,” Livingstone patted his nephew on the arm. “Honestly, I hate to think of you back here while there’s actual enjoyment to be had. I insist you attend.”
“See?” Olivia chirped. “He insists, Arthur.”
There was really nothing for the young man to do but duck his head and nod agreeably. Still, Norwood wouldn’t meet Chris’s eyes when he handed the jugs of sloshing fresh cider over, and he could feel his gaze on his back as they left.
While he and Maris attached the baskets to one side of their saddles and the jugs to the other, so as to balance the load, Maris gave Olivia a look. “Not that I’m not impressed, but was all the smoke and mirrors really necessary? Do we not trust the blasted man you lot gutted the justice system to free from the noose, anymore?”
Olivia sniffed primly, one foot in her stirrup. “I thought we’d stopped being crabby about that.”
“I’m not crabby!” Maris snapped, sounding more than a little crabby indeed. Chris kept to his own business, making sure Hobby’s load was balanced before heaving himself up into the saddle. “I’m just damned confused about who is and isn’t on Em’s side, at this point!”
Olivia grimaced. She mounted gracefully, the fine bottle of fresh cider tucked carefully under one arm. “If Emilia had known who to be afraid of, she would have said as much in her journal. And if she knew who to trust… I think she might have said that, too. From now on, information only goes to the people Em acknowledged were on her side: the ones she didn’t lie to about where she was going. Which means, as far as I can tell, that we trust you, Maris, and only you.” She shook her head.
Maris seated herself in the saddle and heeled her mount, starting the whole parade of them off. She was a brilliant rider, to Chris’s disappointment. He supposed, to have her accent so strong, she must have been raised in the wild North and only come to Darrington in her adult years, but still. He’d deeply appreciate if someone else on this entire property wasn’t skilled in horsemanship. “Not sure what to think about that nephew,” she grumbled.
Olivia hummed. She glanced over her shoulder, back at the guest house, as if ensuring that the squirrely Mister Norwood wasn’t watching from a window. “In all honesty,” she murmured, “I’m not, either. I know why Em didn’t tell Livingstone about the lab—she wanted to keep it as secret as possible, and he would have been far too frail after his protracted stay in the nick. But Norwood? Living in the same house and young and perfectly fit? Why go to the stablemaster when she could ask him?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure—”
She cut off suddenly. Chris swung Hobby to look at her. She pulled back on Alouette’s reins and was blinking at something in the apple trees.
Chris followed her gaze.
Ah, Gods.
It was the scarred man, Jones. They were right on top of him, but he was nearly hidden amongst the low hanging apples and leaves. Chris swallowed and averted his eyes. Guilt rose hard, adding to the acrid taste in his mouth, but by all six Gods, it was damned hard to look at the poor man.
“Billy,” Olivia said mildly. There was a furrow in her brow. “Goodness, what are you still doing all the way back there? I’d assume Mother would have all hands on deck for the Festival.”
Jones came farther out from behind the trees. He kicked at something with his foot. A heavy bushel, half full of the large golden apples that weighed down the trees in this area. “Ah,” he said. When he spoke, it stretched his face and the melted skin around his neck. “Missus Elouise wants a bushel for candy apples, Miss Olivia. Didn’t have enough in the kitchen. She, ah. She thought it would be best to have me out of sight. You know how it goes.”
“Oh, dear.” Olivia nodded and broke into a smile. “Mother! How very like her. Carry on then, won’t you, Billy? You wouldn’t want to incur her ire.” She kicked Alouette into a quick trot. Rather than continuing to ride up the side, she turned her mount’s head to duck beneath the trees, onto the winding paths through the orchard. Chris and Maris exchanged a glance. Maris rolled her eyes expansively and shrugged with both hands, Chris shook his head, and they followed their rogue Deathsniffer dutifully.
“So,” Maris said, once they were under the trees and Olivia slowed her gait somewhat. “Tell me again why this damned party is supposed to help us help Em?”
Olivia stood up in her stirrups to pluck a few of the golden apples from the branches above, still cradling the bottle of cider in one arm. “Because the Harvest Festival is the absolute centrepole of Summergrove and its environs,” she said. She spoke slowly and with exaggerated patience, as though Maris were a foolish girl. “Absolutely everyone attends, Maris, and I do mean everyone. All the family and staff from Spencer Dairy, from Goldbrook, from the parish, from Bluebell Farms. Oh, and all the citizens of Summergrove proper. Attending the Festival will allow us to have eyes on absolutely every potential suspect imaginable.”
“Unless they’re off somewhere with Em, locked away and hurting her,” Maris snapped.
Olivia gave her a long-suffering look before tossing them each a shining, golden apple. Maris caught hers in midair. Chris fumbled his, and it landed somewhere behind him. He’d never felt so clumsy in all his life.
“Well done, Chris,” Olivia snorted, throwing another apple. He caught this one. “Did you not hear me, Maris? Everyone attends. Which means that whoever was stalking Em will either be present… or conspicuously absent.”
“I… oh.”
“Yes, oh is quite the way of it. Before you have another little anxiety attack and ask how I will notice who is missing when I am never home, and there are so many present, allow me to remind you that this is the country. Ev
eryone knows everyone and everyone gossips. There’s simply nothing else to do out here. Whoever is absent will be the talk of the event.” She glanced up at the sky. “So long as those clouds don’t break and ruin everything, this is the best shot we’ll get to find Em.”
Maris scowled up at the dark clouds covering the sky. Chris hadn’t even noticed the change in the weather. He lifted the golden apple to his mouth.
“I swear,” Maris continued. “If we get this opportunity and lose it to bleeding autumn rains, I’m going to absolutely—”
A horrified sound lodged in Chris’s in his throat the moment the hard apple flesh touched his tongue. He spat and sputtered. “Ah, Gods!” he exclaimed. “That’s bloody awful!” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Tastes like… used tealeaves!”
When he looked up, Olivia was smiling knowingly at him. “Yes, rather disgusting, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Why did you give me this? Why do you grow this?”
Olivia laughed like he’d just told a grand joke and turned her eyes back to the path. “That’s a Miller Gold apple. The pride of our family’s legacy. They’re not for snacking. They’re for cooking, or drying… or pressing. Combined with Miller Reds, they’re the secret ingredient that makes Miller Ciders so special.” She looked over her shoulder sternly at them. “Repeat that, and my mother will kill all three of us, and whoever you told, just to preserve the secret. As for why I gave it to you….”
“Bloody hell,” Maris said. She stared at her apple, lip curled into a snarl. “Oh, bloody hell. That grotesque blighter said he was picking these for candy apples!”
“Which was preposterous to even try because I’m a Miller. I know they taste like tree bark rubbed with a lemon peel. I think he’d prepared to use that explanation on someone considerably less knowledgeable. It isn’t as though he had a great deal to work with. They are the only apples that grow in sight of the guest house.”
Maris went still and then deflated in her saddle. Chris felt anxiety claw at his middle.
“I knew I saw him last night. And this morning, out the attic window, too. He’s looking for Em.” Chris dragged a hand down his face. The beginnings of a headache were pounding at his temples.
“Quite likely.” Olivia nodded. “It could be unconnected to her disappearance. Or it could be entirely relevant. Who’s more likely to be working for the Albany reformists, with all their talk of revolution, than a man who lost absolutely everything at the Floating Castle?”
“We need to do something!” Maris said, turning her horse’s head about to go back.
“Mn, or not. He’s been parked outside there all day, as far as I can tell. And based on what Christopher just said, all yesterday, as well. If he knows where Emilia is, why would he be sitting there watching for her? And if he doesn’t, then it would be a damned waste to go after him now and risk disrupting the Festival. I don’t think he saw me notice the apples were Miller Golds.”
“But—” Maris began.
“Believe me, it’s going to drive me wild, not knowing exactly what he’s up to, but it’s best for Em if we leave him for later.” Olivia growled under her breath. “I hate leaving a lead unexplored. You know that as well as I! Believe me, this hurts me more than it hurts you, Maris.”
Maris sighed. Chris glanced over at her, and for just a moment, he saw the hopeless despair on her handsome face before she hid it by scratching her nose. “I doubt it,” she whispered.
he Festival grounds behind the estate had completely transformed. Olivia clasped her hands in barely-hidden glee at the canopies hung over the polished wooden dance floor, the tables upon tables of apple treats and games, the gourds and apples and orange ribbons stacked in seasonal arrangements. The grounds still buzzed with staff, all of them with one mission or another, but even in its unfinished state, it all looked quite amazing.
While Olivia gazed about, grinning, probably reliving memories of her childhood, Maris hung her head and excused herself. Chris watched her go. There was a slump in the policewoman’s shoulders, which nevertheless seemed tight with anxiety. He had to keep reeling himself back from empathizing with her. That way lay all manner of pain.
Olivia delivered the fine fresh cider to a man even taller than Chris, who grinned and thanked her profusely and doffed his hat. It seemed the common sentiment toward her. Staff all waved and called exuberant greetings as she and Chris trotted past. Rather than wincing or rolling her eyes or glaring, Olivia squealed and waved back. By the time they made their way to the stable, a glow had effused her cheeks.
Olivia slid down from her saddle with a happy sigh, handing her mount’s reins off to a broad-looking stable hand who had to be at least twice Mabelle Greene’s age.
Chris watched her as he dismounted with considerably less aplomb. She started off down the long hallway of the stables, a hearty bounce in her step. He hurried after her.
He heard himself speaking before realizing he’d intended to. “The staff are all so fond of you.”
She started and then shot him a fanged little smile. “Is that such a surprise?”
“I—well, I, ah.” Yes, obviously. He blinked at her helplessly.
She snorted. “Oh, I see how it is.”
“You… well, you aren’t the easiest person to get along with!” he protested, cheeks heating. He hated how the words felt oddly like a betrayal.
“Are you saying you agree with my mother’s opinion on the matter, Christopher?” Olivia asked. Her voice was innocent enough, but he saw the shadow pass beneath her eyes.
A needle of sadness jabbed at his heart. He shook his head and never broke eye contact. “You know I don’t,” he said firmly.
She swallowed and looked away. Her hand came up to brush back hair that wasn’t anywhere near her face. “Well, I—” she said, postured as if she were going to say something curt and clever, but then she just flicked her eyes in his direction and nodded. “Thank you.”
“I don’t mean anything by it,” he said,. “You struggle with empathy. You’re occasionally mean, or even cruel when it strikes you to be. You can be a difficult person to know. Harder still to like.”
He wasn’t good at speaking hard truths respectfully, and he felt uncomfortable, pained, anxious—like there was a mouse trapped in his belly, scrabbling to get out. But the look Olivia gave him was almost grateful.
“All true,” she said. She shrugged and clucked her tongue. “If you must be nosy, I… oh, I don’t know. They were all very fond of my father. Perhaps they transferred their love for him onto his favoured child after he died?”
“But it’s not just how they see you,” he murmured. “You treat them differently than you treat anyone else.”
Olivia nodded, not looking at him. Her concentration on her feet was almost laughably exaggerated like she was a child just learning to walk. She shrugged one shoulder. “The easy answer is that it bothers my mother to have me court their favour. She loves them, all of them. Miller staff are Millers, as far as she’s concerned. So it drives her absolutely nutty that they don’t hate me the way that she so badly wants them to!”
Chris nodded. He chose his next words very carefully. “It seems… rather more sincere than that.”
Olivia glanced up at him, and then quickly away. “It’s not that I don’t feel things, you know,” she murmured. “Just that it’s… very easy to not. When it suits me.”
“Which it almost always does.”
“Just so.” She danced a few steps forward and then turned back to glare at him, shaking a finger. “But lest you think some saintly part of me is lurking just beneath the surface, allow me to say it really is partially motivated by spite! If they all see the best of me, Mother looks like quite the harpy for hating me so, doesn’t she?”
He cracked a smile. “I suppose so.”
It felt like there was more unsaid, but just then they stepped into the open air in front of the Miller holdings. Olivia searched about and her gaze locked onto the massive, open-roofed
four-in-hand carriage sitting at the base of the road leading back up the hill and into town. She squinted. “Oh, my,” she said. “I believe that Mabelle doesn’t intend for you and me to head into town alone! I thought it passing strange that she didn’t appear to help with Alouette and Hobby.”
Before he could inquire further, she was skipping off down the stone path. “Yoo hoo!” she called, doffing her little bowler to wave it like a hankie. “Mabelle! I hope you’re not stewing, over there! I didn’t forget, I swear!”
He sighed and followed her at a more restrained pace.
When he was close enough to make out the other passengers in the four-in-hand, he stopped in midstep. Olivia was pulling herself up into the back and sitting down beside a familiar rose-coloured day dress and gibson-rolled curls. Chris swallowed hard.
Why was Rachel Albany coming with them into town?
He forced himself to keep moving.
“Do you need help getting up, Christopher?” Olivia asked when he reached the carriage, peering down at him with a teasing twinkle in her eye and an archly-inclined eyebrow. She offered him a hand. “The step is quite high.”
“Certainly not,” he replied quickly, slapping her hand away. She pulled it back, laughing, and Chris tried his level best not to look at Rachel as he pulled himself up into the conveyance. He may not have known how to ride horseback or climb into a fly, but a four-in-hand was a perfectly respectable vehicle, and Olivia was just trying to make him look like a bloody idiot!
He sat on the far seat, facing the road. He straightened his waistcoat and the folds of his trousers, clearing his throat and avoiding looking at Rachel. Mabelle Green sat in the driver’s seat with another girl, and she twisted about in the seat. “Everyone ready?” she asked.
“Absolutely, Miss Greene! Get us moving, won’t you?” Olivia slapped the back of her seat, and Mabelle turned about and hefted the reins. The horses leapt into action, and the four-in-hand began to roll forward.
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