The Art of Inheriting Secrets(68)

I nodded, just as faintly. The atoms of my skin whispered the news to each other, Soon soon soon. I had to look away from him to break the spell. His hand fell on my shoulder, slid beneath my hair to my neck, then dropped away, as if he, too, had to find a different focus.

We worked in silence, making sure nothing terribly important was left behind in the wardrobe, though it really did appear that the paintings and the box of photos were all that was in there.

Samir poked his head inside and pressed on the back. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“Just making sure there’s no hidden passageway to Narnia.”

“Or the kitchen.”

He looked at me, then back at the wardrobe. “The kitchen?”

“A lot of these places have secret passageways.”

“Ah, so that’s how they would get together without people noticing.”

I lifted a shoulder. “Nandini was Violet’s lady’s maid or whatever. She would have been able to come and go whenever Violet summoned her.” I imagined her padding through the hallways in her slippered feet, her sari fluttering behind her, then slipping into Violet’s room and bed. “I wonder if she slept overnight.”

Samir rubbed his diaphragm, looking back over his shoulder at the bed. “I wonder if they were happy.”

“Me too.”

“I hope they were.”

Finally, finally, we carried the paintings, five or six at a time, through the hallway and down the front stairs.

A faint awkwardness had risen between us, and impulsively, I reached out and took his hand. He smiled softly and shifted his hand so that our fingers could weave together.

At the top of the wide, carved staircase, I halted. “Look!” On the ledge of the gallery, another floor above us, sat the cat, his tail draped in luxurious fat length over the edge. It swished as he looked at us, yellow eyes alert and unafraid.

“Hullo,” Samir called. “Won’t you come down and visit?”

Swish, swish.

“No, I suppose not.”

“I worry about him, now that the construction has started.”

“He’ll be all right. Ferals are wise.”

“Yes, but nature is cruel, isn’t it?” I looked back up at him. “If you’ll come live with me, I’ll give you liver and milk and everything else you can imagine.”

He meowed.

“Oh, you like to talk, do you?”

Meow.

“Here kitty, kitty,” I called.

He only stared at me.

“We could bring him some food next time, if you like,” Samir said, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.

“I would like.”

Samir brought his car around to the front, and we loaded as much as we could into it, then waited just inside the door for Peter. Across the open fields, framed by the trees on either side of the house, was Saint Ives Cross, a blurry tumble of houses in the rain. “There’s my house, on the hill.”

“Can you really pick it out?”

He laughed gently. “No. But I can in my imagination.”

Peter drove up and without a blink helped us load everything left into his trunk. I rode with him to direct him to the new flat.

“I heard you had some excitement up here,” he said.

“Yes—a part of the roof collapsed, and a skeleton was discovered, all on the same day.”

“Eventually everything comes to light, don’t it, milady?”

I thought of my mother. “I hope so, Peter. I really do.”

“Ye’re not canceling the picnic, now, are you?”

“No, no. Pavi and I—do you know Pavi Malakar, who runs Coriander?”

“Course I do. Known her since she was a wee thing. And her brother too. Got all famous, then just came back to Saint Ives like an ordinary fellow.”

“Samir is famous?”

“Ye didn’t know? He was in all the papers with that book. They almost made it into a movie!”

“No kidding.” Of course the residents of a small village would burst with pride over one of their own making a splash. “Did you read it, the book?”

“Nah. I’m not much of a reader, you know. Just like my football and the garden.”

I nodded, patted my belly. “I need a little more gardening, a little less reading, I think.”

“Ah, love, ye’re a beauty, just as you are. Skinny might be in fashion, but we fellas always appreciate a different kind of woman.”

I laughed at the faint praise. “Thank you.”

Samir was waiting at the flat, holding an umbrella so that we could each haul a box into the foyer, which smelled of bleach and fried fish and mold. When we’d unloaded them all, Samir said, “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.”

Peter tipped his hat. “No worries.”

I handed over a clutch of pound notes. “Thanks for your help. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“If you’re staying, you might want to learn to drive.”

“Yes. As soon as I get a moment.”

It took another twenty minutes to haul everything into my flat and find spots for it, and by then we were both sweaty and hungry. “Do you want something to eat?”

“No.” He took my hand and drew me close. “Let’s go to my house.” His hand moved up my arm, over my shoulder. “I have snacks there.”