Miss Darlington had shaken her head sadly at it all. “Black Beryl would be horrified at how her incantation corrupted the hearts of men everywhere. But we Wisteria Society ladies must rise above it.”

“In our flying houses!” Cecilia had added excitedly.

“In our noble hearts. But that’s enough history for today. Come and learn how to kill someone with a teaspoon.”

As an adult now, Cecilia felt glad she had missed the war. It seemed a messy kind of venture, involving far too much irregularity for comfort. Even the sight of Darlington House’s steering array in a jumble of pieces on the cockpit floor disturbed her enough. Miss Darlington, on the other hand, was entirely unbothered by the disorder Pleasance had created. In fact, when Cecilia had suggested they reassemble the wheel and fly to a location nearer the Bath library, she’d spurned the idea. She rather liked the rural view and had decided to paint some cows (which is to say, their likeness, not their bodies) since several of the species were grazing near the house. It was, she’d declared, a nice change of pace from the rigors of entertaining society in Mayfair, and the cows were more interesting conversationalists.

“You did say I might go to the library,” Cecilia had argued gently.

“I did? Goodness, that doesn’t sound like me. Oh, my dear, do stay safe at home, at least until Pleasance has ascertained there are no evil spirits in our navigation system. The countryside is rife with scurvy.”

“That is caused by fruit deprivation, Aunty.”

“Precisely! Do you see any orchards out there?”

Cecilia could make no sensible reply to this. But her eyes spoke volumes—specifically, of anguished poetry in which heroines meet a sad end. By the third day, Miss Darlington had relented. Despite the risk to ankles, lungs, and fair complexion, Cecilia was given leave to walk into town and visit the library.

She’d donned a long-sleeved, high-collared dress, boots, gloves, and wide-brimmed hat, thereby leaving no part of her exposed to the evils of sunlight. Then, having selected a book to read along the way, she’d raised her parasol, promised her aunt she would be on the alert for bad air, and at last set out across the waste.

Nothing more dire than honeysuckle and cowpats troubled her, and she made it quite intact to the edge of the field. Pausing, she looked back at the house.

It was a somber edifice, pale and narrow, with three stories and two modestly haunted attics: the sort of building that would sigh mournfully into its handkerchief before proceeding to scold you for fifteen minutes for holding your teacup incorrectly. A building after Miss Darlington’s own heart, or perhaps vice versa; Cecilia had never been able to decide which.

The circular window in its gable, curtained with lace that had been spun by a convent of elderly Irish nuns made mad by the haunting pagan song of selkies, could dilate open for the deployment of cannons without affecting the window box of petunias set beneath.