The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(43)
“I’m sure Ebenezer won’t mind,” she said sweetly. “He doesn’t have a choice, does he?”
“Sir.” Swansea came up behind her father, the day’s paper in his hands and an anxious expression on his face.
“What is it?” Xavier asked.
Swansea held out the paper. Agnes couldn’t see the headline, but whatever it was had her father out of sorts in a flash. “Get Kiernan back here at once. And Roth. Now.” He gripped the paper so hard Agnes thought he would tear it in two. “At last,” he said, and his tone was almost reverent.
Without a word of explanation or even a goodbye to his daughter, Xavier strode off to his study, leaving Agnes thoroughly confused.
Eneas popped his head into the dining room. “All set, miss?”
His thick, wavy black hair was spilling out from under his chauffeur’s cap, and his usually cheerful expression was tempered with pity. He knew where they were going and why. Agnes nodded and followed him out to the car.
“Have you seen the papers today?” she asked as he opened the door for her.
“I have not, but Olive Town was abuzz with some news about a discovery on one of the Lost Islands. Not sure if I believe it, though,” he said, starting up the engine and backing out of the driveway. “No one has seen a Lost Island in . . . well, not in my lifetime, or my mother’s, or her mother’s. That’s why they call them Lost, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” Agnes murmured. Eneas was from Thaetus, the southernmost island of Pelago, and he always talked about it lovingly, the olive trees and vineyards, the rolling hills and warm crystal waters, and the big bustling market in the main city of Arbaz.
The Granges lived on the west side of Old Port, in an area called Ellsbury Park, not as posh as Upper Glen but still a nice neighborhood. It took forever to get across town, though—they were stopped for a full ten minutes in Central Square when a hansom cab wheel got stuck in one of the tram rails. Any other day Agnes would be pestering Eneas to teach her a new Pelagan word or phrase, or maybe wheedling some more information out of him about her mother.
But not today.
Whenever Agnes had thought about getting married, usually Susan Bruckner was the first person who came to mind. Susan had been in her class at Miss Elderberry’s Finishing School—her family was from Pearl Beach but they had sent Susan to Old Port for one year. She hadn’t minded Agnes’s eccentricities the way the other girls did; once she’d asked Agnes to help her with her corset, her smooth dark skin glowing against the white lace, her breasts spilling up in a way that set a sweet ache between Agnes’s thighs.
She opened the drawstring on her red satin purse and fingered the jewelry inside, her most expensive pieces. It wasn’t much, but Agnes hoped it would be enough to buy her a ticket at least to Arbaz. Thaetus was closer than Cairan, the main island where Ithilia was located, and hopefully less pricey a voyage. She had never arranged for her own travel before.
The motorcar stopped and she was brought abruptly back to reality. The Granges’ brownstone was only two stories, made of red brick with white trim, a large bay window on the ground floor and a small balcony above the front door. Agnes swallowed and found her mouth had gone completely dry. The car idled for nearly a minute before Eneas said, “I think it’s time to go in, my dear.”
Her legs felt disconnected from her body as she walked the path to the house, up four steps; then somehow, she was pressing the ivory doorbell. A great booming clang rang from inside. A few moments later, an aging servant with graying hair and a large Solit triangle pinned to his breast answered the door.
“Miss McLellan,” he said, bowing. “Young Master Grange is expecting you. Do come in.”
She followed the man into the drawing room, her stomach crawling with spiders. The room was decorated in light-colored wood with blue and copper accents. An oil painting of a ship in a storm hung over the mantel. There was a small bar cart with crystal decanters in one corner and a bookshelf with leather-bound volumes in another. The coffee table was set for tea, and there was a bouquet of lilacs and lilies on a side table. The air was muggy, even though the windows were open.
Ebenezer Grange sat on a periwinkle sofa, looking nearly as anxious as Agnes felt. He jumped at the sight of her, shoving something behind a throw pillow and standing.
“Miss McLellan, sir,” the butler announced.
“Thank you, Peter,” he said. His voice was slightly nasal. He had thick brown hair and a very simple beard, Agnes was pleased to see—she hated all the ornate ways men in Old Port wore their beards, with ribbons or pins or curls or, worst of all, perfume. Ebenezer’s olive skin had a sallow quality, and his wire-rimmed glasses slid down the bridge of his nose; he pushed them up and blinked at her. He gave her the overall impression of a very thin owl.
“How do you do, Agnes?” Ebenezer said, stepping forward and offering his hand, before seeming to remember that men and women did not shake hands. He put the offending appendage in his pocket, took it out and wiped it on his trousers, and then put it back in again.
“Very well, thank you,” Agnes said stiffly, making her traditional awful curtsy. Her father must have had quite a laugh at this pairing. Two misfits who couldn’t do anything right.
“Would you like some tea?”
Agnes thought she might have preferred whatever was in the crystal decanters—she never drank hard alcohol but was willing to make an exception on this day.