Cinderella Six Feet Under(42)

“Ah, the beautiful little orphan who nobody wants.” Lady Cruthlach was all bundled up on a sofa. “Dear Lord Cruthlach is abed, I am afraid. Such a pity, for he did so enjoy seeing you last night.”

Hume shoved Prue down onto a chair. He retreated to a post against a wall.

“My name’s Prue. Prudence Bright. And somebody does so want me.”

“Oh, but your mother shan’t ever return.”

Why did Lady Cruthlach sound so certain? “She will,” Prue said. Tears prickled. “But anyway, I ain’t talking about Ma. I’m talking about my—my friend. Hansel. He’s to be a doctor, and maybe we’ll marry someday.”

“You? Marry a doctor? Oh, good gracious, no!”

“It ain’t so tough to think of! I’m learning housewifing, and—”

“No, no, my dear, the fates have other things in store for you. Tell me. This Hansel person—is he in Paris?”

“Well, no. He’s in Heidelberg. Studying, like I said.”

“Then he abandoned you, too. Just like everyone else has.”

Prue’s throat swelled. “He’s waiting for me. He—he writes me letters. Or, leastways, he used to.” She had sent along her mother’s address to Hansel, but she’d yet to receive a letter from him in Paris.

“Now, you see? He has already forgotten you. My advice to you, my lovely, is to forget Hansel. He is nothing. You, however, you are something quite, quite extraordinary. Now. I wished to ask of you a favor. Not especially for my sake, you must remember, or Lord Cruthlach’s, but for Dalziel. You liked Dalziel’s picture in my locket, yes? You would not make him an orphan?”

Something thawed inside Prue. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. Sweet?” Lady Cruthlach held out a dish heaped with orangey-red candies with white dots.

Uck. Looked like poisonous mushrooms. “No, thank you,” Prue said.

“Come, now.” Lady Cruthlach shoved the dish closer. “I shan’t take no for an answer.”

Prue took one.

“Go on, then. Try it.”

Prue’s stomach turned, but she bit. Marzipan. Only marzipan, though sickly sweet and with a hint of dust.

“Now, then.” Lady Cruthlach replaced the dish on a side table next to a music box with a golden crank. “I need you to bring me—bring us—something from H?tel Malbert.”

Prue stopped chewing. “Steal something for you, ma’am?”

“It wouldn’t be stealing, heavens, no. The item does not rightfully belong to anybody in the house. It belongs to me, and to my husband. And we mean to have it. It is a book. A book of great age, written in Latin. It must be quite thick, for all the wondrous secrets it holds.”

“Pardon me, ma’am, but there are hundreds, maybe thousands of books in the house. I saw a whole library chockablock with them.”

“But this book will appear to be different. Special. Alluring, even, to all but the dullest mind. It will likely have pictures.”

Prue swallowed dry marzipan.

“You’ve seen it!” Lady Cruthlach lurched forward.

“I—”

“Tell me! Tell me what it looked like!”

“Well, there’s a sort of cookery book I found in a cupboard down in the kitchen, in some peculiar tongue—”

“Latin, you beautiful little dullard. Latin.”

“—and it’s got all kinds of receipts and household hints and whatnot.”

“Bring it to me.”

“Some of them soups and stews in there don’t look too appetizing, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Not soup, you nincompoop . . .” Lady Cruthlach’s words dribbled off, because someone had opened the door.

“I beg your pardon,” a youthful, British-accented voice said. “I did not know, Grandmother, that you were entertaining a visitor.”

“No, no, Dalziel, please! Please come forward, into the light. Come, closer—that’s it!—closer, meet our charming young visitor.”

Dalziel strode closer and stood with his back to the fire.

A quick, bright energy bounced off of Dalziel, and his expression, though grave, had a sweetness to it. He was about twenty years old, dressed in a subdued, tailored black wool suit, a white linen shirt, and a gray silk waistcoat and cravat.

He glanced at Prue. Then his eyes flew to Lady Cruthlach. “But she is—Grandmother, what have you done?”