Cecilia nodded wearily. It was, after all, the story of her life.

“Run away to find some guns and shoot the place up,” Miss Brown amended with a wink.

“Hm,” Miss Darlington said. “Let’s call that Plan B.”

“And look, ladies,” Gertrude Rotunder said cheerfully, holding up a bottle of whiskey. “Weapons!”

“Hurrah!” whispered the pirates.

18

a ladies’ craft-making session—first impressions—the villain’s denouement—a new theory—explosions (informational, literary, garnishes)—melee—the riddle of the door—scraped—the telltale heart

Observe a lady when she has some woman’s work in hand, and you will see the image of peace, calmly intent on her task. Thus were the matrons of the Wisteria Society; holding themselves in humble, feminine focus, they smashed bottles between cushions, sharpened swizzle sticks, and handed out corkscrews. Olivia Etterly fashioned a knuckle-duster from teaspoons, and Millie the Monster took the drapes’ braided cord as a garrote.

Cecilia stood guard at the door as they worked. She stared out at a corridor that formed a shadowed groove in her memory, its tallow candles smoking dolefully on sconces along the walls. She tried to envision herself as a little girl dancing its length but could not do so. That part of her was so distant now, it seemed to be a different girl in a different life, as if Cecilia herself had always lived with Miss Darlington, reading aloud from moralizing works in the mornings, training to rob and swindle people in the afternoon, and never daring to dream in case she encountered in her heart a sad-eyed little ghost hugging a math textbook.

“Are you all right?” came a quiet male voice at her shoulder. Cecilia turned and was momentarily alarmed to see Alex O’Riley standing beside her. Candlelight flickered in his dark blue eyes and against the silver hook earring hanging from his left ear as if trying, but failing utterly, to haunt him.

“You look rather melancholy,” he said, his voice tinted with a slight Irish accent.

“I am perfectly cheerful,” she replied, and gave him a smile to prove it. He winced.

“Any more cheerful-looking and you’d be in a coffin.”

Cecilia snapped her smile back. “Your perception is confused, Captain O’Riley.”

“I won’t disagree with you there,” he said, leaning back against the doorjamb. “Having grown up with stories about the infamous Wisteria Society, I did not expect to see a group of old ladies in petticoats. My perception is very confused indeed.”

“Only a man would feel that way,” Cecilia retorted.

“No doubt. I’m also confused about you, Miss Bassingthwaite. You look nothing like your mother.”

A sudden dizziness of emotion swamped her, and she drew herself more erect, eyes tightening. No one had ever said such a thing to her in all her life. She was outraged annoyed astonishingly pleased.

“How do you know?” she asked.

He took a ring from his thumb, tipping back its ruby to reveal a secret compartment wherein was set the portrait of Cilla Bassingthwaite. Cecilia swallowed a sound.