Using a linen cloth, Fancy dried the platter that her mum handed her. It was the last of the dishes that needed to be washed after the luncheon they’d shared. It was Sunday, but not the first one of the month, so the rest of the family hadn’t gathered here, for which she was grateful because she had things to say to her mum and would rather say them privately. Besides, her mood was melancholy and wouldn’t serve anyone any good. She probably shouldn’t have bothered her mum, but she’d needed a little distraction.

She could barely recall Saturday. She’d had customers but seemed to have forgotten where she’d shelved books, had been useless in helping anyone find a story they might enjoy reading. In her office, she’d intended to continue working on restoring Little Dorrit. Instead, she’d merely stared at nothing, striving to determine how she could find Matthew. She’d asked neighbors if anyone had seen him moving out. For her trouble, all she got was one account of three wagons and a coach pulling up, and liveried footmen hauling out furniture. No markings on the coach or wagons, but still—liveried footmen. Had she misjudged his means? Surely, he’d not been serious when he’d told her he could afford to purchase every book in her shop.

“All done with that,” her mum said now. “Let’s pour ourselves a bit of brandy and then you can tell me what’s troubling you.”

“Why would you think I’m troubled?”

“Because, ducky, you’ve hardly spoken a word and you look as though you just learned that every book in England was tossed into the sea. So let’s settle in to have a good talk.”

When they were sitting in the chairs beside the empty hearth, Fancy took a large swallow of the brandy and let it spread its warmth through her. Afterward, she slowly ran her fingers around the rim of the snifter. “At the last ball, I was caught alone with an earl. And it’s just not done. To make matters right, he asked to marry me. I told him no.”

“Did you kiss him?”

She furrowed her brow. “The earl? No. Why would I?”

“It’s like that story, The Frog Prince, I remember Gillie reading to you. If you don’t kiss a fella, how will you know whether he’s the prince or just a frog?”

She laughed lightly. Her mum must have been sipping brandy when Fancy wasn’t looking. “That’s just a fairy tale.”

“Have you not kissed that fella that’s helping with your lessons?”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Well, yes, I have.”

“Is he reason you didn’t kiss the other bloke?” She leaned forward. “Maybe the reason you didn’t want to marry the other bloke.”