“Knave!” she retorted.

“Sure, but—”

At that moment the guard with the rifle appeared in the gallery. Seeing them, he raised his gun.

“Caught her,” Ned called out, grinning, as he began to shove Cecilia back along the gallery. “And I didn’t even have to use the knife in my coat pocket.”

“I’m surprised you resisted,” the guard said.

Ned’s smile dipped into a mockery of sorrow. “Why does no one trust me? You’d almost think I went around stabbing people as soon as they got close to me.”

“What, you mean like an assassin?”

“I would never stab a lady. At least, not in the house of her very dangerous father. I do stab men, of course, probably in the arm or maybe the throat if I’m being serious, and only when I can’t shoot them because the noise would cause a problem. I’d have to use a fair bit of force, though, to make sure I disarmed them before they could react.”

“God you talk a lot of nonsense,” the guard said. “I myself don’t mind stabbing ladies, if you know what I mean.” He slid a lewd gaze over Cecilia’s body.

“By all means, have at it,” Ned said, and pushed Cecilia at him.

The guard yelled, then gurgled, and then his gun clattered to the floor. He stared idiotically at the knife Cecilia had thrust right through his arm. She twisted it, and as he collapsed with a cry, Ned met his forehead with a knee. Bone cracked against bone, and the guard slumped unconscious to the floor.

“Nicely done,” Ned told Cecilia as he bent to retrieve his knife. Blood poured from the wound, and he grimaced, wiping the blade on the guard’s coat. “I think we make a good team, don’t you? I appreciate that you trusted me.”

He turned to smile at her—

And sighed as he watched her run away down the gallery.

17

a hearty discussion—death at a séance—two alexanders—into the dark—ned silences cecilia—ned is assaulted—a traitor discovered—pox and other infestations—the dead mother’s secret garden

Life was too short to not be spent in nursing animosities or registering wrongs: thus Miss Darlington had educated Cecilia, according to the ideals of the Wisteria Society. So Cecilia had spent the past several years planning for the moment she encountered her father. The speech she would give. The explanations she would demand from him. And the weapon she would introduce to his toxic heart.

Then she actually saw him, and all those careful, precious plans shattered like a teapot at his feet.

As she ran, she imagined what her mind had contemplated so coolly over the years—his body beneath her boots, his voice crying out and then breaking into breathless silence. She envisioned beating him, hanging him, throwing him out a high window while flying above a very pointy mountain. Violence swelled the muscles in her body and heated her breath. She liked its feeling. And yet, the thought of turning around, going back, doing those things to him, made her want to cry like an anguished child.