Myrtle started in feigned surprise at seeing them still there waiting. “Forgive me. I’ve been summoned to help with Christmastide decorations to be hung.”

“Yar staying through Christmas?” It was the lion who asked, and she was beginning to suspect that the other fellow beside him—the squat, stocky one—was a mute, incapable of sound and capable of only staring. “Yar entire family?”

“Indeed,” she exclaimed, fixing a wide smile on her cheeks. “All eight of us. My mother and father, and my big, very big, brothers, and my two sisters. And did I mention my brothers are very big? My cousins, too, are here. Along with my aunt and uncle,” she added. “It promises to be a joyous holiday.” Enough, Myrtle. Bring it to a stop now. She cast another look back toward the doorway. “I’m cooooming,” she called, adding several syllables to create a sense of sincerity and annoyance. Turning once more to the silent pair peering boldly up, she gave a little wave. “A happy Christmas to you, sirs.”

With that, Myrtle drew the windows firmly shut, clasped them, and rushed off.

Or rather, she rushed headlong over to the gold velvet curtains.

Her heart hammering erratically against her rib cage, Myrtle remained motionless, scarcely daring to move or breathe.

Had they bought it?

She had been very convincing. If she could say so herself.

But thanks to Val, there was now fire coming from a chimney, and at night there’d been the flicker of light from the candles he’d lit and fireplaces he’d brought to life.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Myrtle gripped the curtain and edged the material back a fraction, allowing a slight sliver by which she might stare freely out.

The pair remained, both wearing matching looks of skepticism on their pockmarked faces, both scratching at their brows with opposite hands, twins in actions but polar opposites in appearance. She would have normally been amused by the sight they made.

Leave, she silently pleaded. Just leave . . .

It was several moments that seemed to stretch for an eternity before the pair hastened off, a quickness to their steps that hinted at not two men determinedly leaving, but men rushing to avoid notice.

And no matter how many times she assured herself her mind was merely overactive, and that she was imagining danger in places where none existed, the fear remained low in her belly, churning and twisting.

Just then, the lion looked back.

Myrtle jumped away from the window, setting the curtains into a damning flutter that she prayed he didn’t notice, just as she prayed he’d failed to see her standing there, staring after them . . .

With the clock ticking, she remained, counting the beats on that ormolu piece atop the mantel, one-two-three-four-five—