Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(14)

The last time he’d been in the building was on the night the garden had burned. Asa Makepeace was an old friend and the only one Apollo had trusted to keep his whereabouts secret when he’d been rescued from Bedlam. He’d hidden in the garden for only a day before the place had burned down. Then the theater had been smoldering and had stank of smoke and devastation.

Now there was still the faint smell of charred wood, but there were other changes. Miss Stump had obviously attempted to make the place more comfortable—a table and chairs were in the center of the room, and a print of ladies in bright dresses hung on the wall. A fire crackled on the grate, and a rack had been erected nearby to dry clothes. Someone had been knitting, for two knitting needles and a half-finished sock were stuck in a ball of gray yarn on a stool near the hearth. A tiny side table held a messy sheaf of papers, a corked bottle of ink, and a chipped mug with several quills. On the mantel sat a single, rather ugly black-and-green enameled clock—working, unlike Makepeace’s. Before the fire was an incredibly plain purple settee, one corner propped up with several bricks.

It wasn’t much—certainly not as grand as some of the houses he’d once seen as a young buck new to town, before his fall from grace—but it was homey. And that was all that mattered.

“Well?” Maude demanded, pointing to one of the chairs at the table. “Have a seat, milord.”

For a terrible second Apollo couldn’t breathe. Then in the next moment he realized that the honorific had been meant sarcastically. He nodded, hoping his face hadn’t betrayed his surprise, and pulled out a chair to sit.

Maude was still scowling. “What’s wrong with him? Can’t he talk?”

“No, he can’t,” Indio said simply, saving Apollo from having to do his dumb show.

“Oh.” Maude blinked, obviously taken aback. “Has he had his tongue cut out?”

“Maude!” Miss Stump cried. “What a horrible thought. He has a tongue.” Her brows knit as if from sudden doubt and she peered worriedly at Apollo. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t even bother resisting the urge. He stuck out his tongue at her.

Indio laughed and Daffodil began barking again—obviously her first reaction to nearly everything.

Miss Stump stared at Apollo for a long second and he was aware that his body was heating. Carefully he withdrew his tongue and snapped his mouth shut, giving her his most uncomprehending face.

She humphed and abruptly took her seat.

“It’s a fair enough question, it is,” Maude defended herself. “Why can’t he talk, then, if’n his tongue works well enough, I’d like to know?”

“I don’t know why he can’t talk.” Indio took the chair next to Apollo. “But he saved Daff from drownding today.”

“What?” Miss Stump paused in the act of reaching for the plate of sliced chicken on the table. “You’re not to go near the pond, you know that, Indio.”

“I wasn’t near the pond,” Indio explained with a boy’s complicated logic. “Daff was. Caliban went in and took her out and wrapped her in his shirt. And then Daff spewed on his shirt.”

Both women swung their heads to eye his shirt askance.

Apollo repressed an urge to lift his arm and sniff to see if the shirt still stank of dog vomit.

Miss Stump blinked. “Spew isn’t a nice word, Indio, I’ve told you before.”

“Then what is?” Indio asked—rather reasonably, in Apollo’s opinion. “Can I have some of the chicken now?”

“Yes, of course.” Miss Stump began to serve the chicken, the skin crisp and brown, the meat tender and moist. “Actually, we don’t talk about such things at the dinner table.”

“Never?” Indio looked very puzzled.

“Never,” his parent said quite firmly.

“But if Daff eats an earthworm like she did last week, how—”

“So how did Caliban come to be nearby when Daffodil went into the pond?” Miss Stump asked loudly.

“He was chopping at a stump with a funny-looking ax,” Indio said, and Apollo wanted to tell him, adze, but instead he took a bite of the chicken. “And me an’ Daff were walking. But not,” he added, “to the pond. We was walking not near the pond.”

Apollo chanced a glance at the ladies and winced. Neither woman had swallowed that particular story.

“Then he’s a gardener.” Miss Stump picked up her wineglass and eyed him with far more interest than was safe.

“Not just any gardener,” Indio said. “He tells all the other gardeners what to do.”

At which point Apollo nearly swallowed his bite of chicken the wrong way. He choked and gasped and Miss Stump pounded him hard on his back.

“Does he indeed?” she asked, with a pointed look at him.

How the hell did the boy know that? Not even the other gardeners knew he’d designed the garden. He had a rather complicated method of leaving written instructions for the lead gardener—a slow but methodical man named Herring—so that none of them realized their employer was working right under their noses.

“Why do you think that?” Maude asked interestedly.

Apollo flicked his wrist and knocked his plate to the floor. It was a sad waste of good roast chicken, but not to be helped. The plate smashed on impact, shards skidding across the charred boards, gravy and meat oozing everywhere. Daffodil rushed over and began gobbling chicken as Indio and Maude tried keep her from inadvertently eating a piece of crockery.