Unraveled (Turner #3)(63)

“Well,” Miranda said. “That went...” She couldn’t think of a word sufficiently calamitous.

Parford stared after his brother. “It always does,” he sighed. “Tell him—no, never mind supper tomorrow; Richard will be over. And the day after, I’ve a meeting...” The man sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. The gesture looked so akin to something Smite might do, she frowned at him. “Tell him that I’d love to have his company two days from now. For tea. Conversation. Surely he can manage a few hours.” He glanced at her. “I wish to God he’d married you.”

“He would be ostracized,” she said in shock.

“Indeed.” Parford shrugged, and that faint hint of sarcasm in his voice seemed like a pale echo of Smite. “Because he isn’t now.”

SMITE COULD HEAR HIS brother leave, could hear Miranda’s soft footsteps trudging up the stairs. His head pounded. He didn’t know what to say to her.

So, he imagined her saying, you have a dead twin sister. Odd that you never mentioned her before now.

So. Care to explain why you claimed ownership of your younger brother?

Instead, she entered the room quietly and came to stand next to him by the window. She didn’t touch him, which almost made him cringe more—she’d learned that when he was upset, he couldn’t bear to have skin-to-skin contact.

“So,” she said softly.

He flinched.

“Did your mother kill Hope the way she almost killed you?”

He shook his head. “Different. Infected rat bite.” That was all he could manage. He took another deep breath. “My mother wouldn’t let her be treated. She told Hope when she became ill that the heat of her fever was the fires of hell, come to claim her.”

“What a terrible thing to say to her own daughter. If Hope was anything like you—”

“She wasn’t,” Smite interrupted. “She was a hellion. In her own way, she was worse than Ash. She was forever getting me into trouble. I was forever holding her back. Don’t give me that look. You’re giving me that look that says, ‘Oh, a twin.’ I know what people say about twins. She wasn’t the other half of my soul or any other such ridiculous claptrap. We were never in perfect sympathy. We had the most magnificent rows. The only time we weren’t fighting with each other was when we were fighting with someone who was trying to separate us. We never shared a secret language. Hell. Sometimes I wondered if we both spoke English, as I never understood her.” He glanced at Miranda. “If she’d lived, I would never have introduced the two of you. It would have been a disaster. She wouldn’t have simply stolen into the box at the opera with you; she’d have convinced you to do some other horrific thing to draw attention.” He sighed. “After she died, nothing ever seemed fun again.”

“Shocking,” Miranda said. “After that, you had only to keep your brother safe from your mother’s madness, escape a cellar, dodge a few floods, and frolic about the streets of Bristol. What could be more amusing?”

She soothed some deep, wary part of him. He reached out and took her hand. “I don’t believe I would like you half so well if you weren’t sarcastic.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You don’t like by halves. You don’t have casual acquaintances and people you hold in mild distaste; you have best friends and bitter enemies. You don’t have an occupation that takes up the daylight hours; you have a calling that requires that you devote your entire life to it.”

“True,” he said.

“Have you ever considered doing things in smaller portions? You don’t have to give your brother your undying and unconditional affection; you just have to enjoy his company from time to time. You don’t have to exonerate your brother-in-law of all harm. You just have to tolerate his presence.”

“You make it all sound so reasonable.”

“Only because you’re unreasonable in the first place.”

“I am not,” he protested.

She folded her arms around him. “Yes, you are. You can’t even be sentimental by quarters, and so you’ve apportioned it off to a specific time. You’re utterly unreasonable.”

He was silent for a little while longer. “Are you…are you doing me by quarters, then?” He spoke in a casual tone of voice, as if the question were scarcely of interest. Still, he felt himself holding his breath.

“No,” she said. “You know I’m not. I don’t believe anyone can do you by quarters, no matter how hard she might try.”

“Good.” He leaned into her and inhaled her scent. In truth, he feared he’d taken on too much of her.

But she gave him a brilliant smile. “I’m giving you at least thirty-seven percent.”

Chapter Sixteen

“APPARENTLY,” MRS. TIGGARD SAID on the next morning, “there’s a new fashion in mystery. Last night it was an unannounced gentleman. Today, a boy brought this by.”

Miranda turned to see her housekeeper holding out a single envelope.

There was no name stamped on the paper, no card attached, and no return direction. She took the envelope, turned it over, and then tore it open.

A sheet of paper was inside. The writing on it was thin and spidery. Portions had been crossed out, but the import was clear enough.