Saira resisted pulling on her hair with the brush for a second round of hundreds. Her gaze shifted in the dressing mirror from Miss Emma coming in with a basket of pins and combs to the wardrobe behind her. Pressing her hand to her chest, she felt the wardrobe key hanging under her chemise, a reminder that the cabinet hiding her Shroud outfit was secure.
Miss Emma tightened Saira's stays in place and began to manipulate her long, straight strands with skilled hands. A simple plait had always been her daily style, but this morning, she was required to appear more English than she preferred. Within minutes, Emma held out the hand mirror to her, and Saira peered at the elaborate pattern of rolls and plaits, held with flower-headed pins to the back of her head.
"Do you need help with dressing?" she asked, but Saira declined, wanting a few more minutes to herself. A day dress in bright reds with deep blue embroidered trim called to her, and a bright yellow shawl settled around her shoulders. She nodded approval to herself in the full-length mirror, deciding that all the Lord Garfields of England could drown their drab British preferences in the river Avon if they failed to appreciate her subcontinental flair.
In this small way, she would at least be herself.
Matilda would be present at breakfast too, a fact that calmed her more than she thought it might. She had a guest in her house to distract her from Tuesday's tea, which should have been ancient history by now… although with Matilda around, the talk of men never seemed to cease.
The way her friend's eyes sparkled when she mentioned her secret letters, or the sordid details of their 'togetherness' (which were, to Saira's relief, far less scandalous than some of her Sittings, since Lord Knapp's hands never traveled above those garters she had gifted to him) gave her a sense of closeness she hadn't realized she'd been craving.
Still, the discussions had Saira's imagination running in wild directions. It wasn't as much the 'what' as it was how she felt it deeply when Matilda sighed, or smiled to herself, or stared off into the distance when she thought Saira wasn't paying attention.
She identified with those feelings a lot more than she cared to admit. Mostly, she wanted to swat them away like pesky flies at a picnic, especially when they led to memories of Five holding her hand, or presenting her with the fan… or abruptly leaving without an explanation.
Her chest bumped painfully against her ribcage, a now common, yet unwelcome occurrence.
It was like one of her dreams, where she pretended she could be perfectly normal, discussing with her best friend the merits of a man who had caught her interest. But in this waking version, her best friend was, until most recently, estranged, and the man in question had abruptly dis-interested himself from her.
As if that wasn't enough turmoil in her life, her father had the audacity to dictate how Saira should present herself to this suitor whom he'd declared as 'suitable'. Hardly acknowledging their guests and dinner, and almost in the same breath as "hello", had announced that Avonburgh House would host a breakfast for Lord Archibald Garfield this morning at ten o'clock. Then, after uttering the most words he'd spoken to her since she could remember, Mr. Russell promptly locked himself in his study, leaving Mr. Tinley to unpack the carriage from his latest outing. No one commented on how much lighter the trunk seemed in the butler's arms as he carried it up the stairs to the bedroom.
The ire he'd stoked in Saira burned like a bonfire. If Matilda hadn't been present to distract her, making derisive comments about Lord Garfield's character behind closed doors, Saira surely would have done something or said something rash - which would have made matters worse.
The sudden decree from her father was accompanied by other unusual things. The sconces downstairs were all empty of candles. Aunty Bava had started using stubs from The Shroud's old candles for her bedroom to compensate. Her mother's portrait had gone missing from the parlor. Miss Emma fretted, thinking she would be blamed for the absent brass tray from the entry table. The vase, still filled with flowers from Wednesday afternoon, was the only life left in the foyer.
Saira's apprehension about the letter from India weighed on her, along with her father's unspoken plans regarding this breakfast. Was her father planning to have her removed from the house without a word, like the missing candelabra in the dining room that no one dared to mention?
To top it all off, her father had left early this morning, not even staying to oversee the visit. He would surely get a report from Garfield later, so Saira's aunties, Miss Emma and Cook were taking the endeavor seriously. Whether she liked it or not, Saira was entertaining a suitor in her own home.
During the off-season, she scoffed.
The growing mountain of concerns around her should have been enough to fill her thoughts both day and night. But staring into the mirror, the same three words ran around her brain in an endless circle, as they had the first time she'd heard them.
"Good day, Miss."
The glove-maker had meant "See you next time you need my services."
"Good day, Miss."
The tea shopkeeper's words translated to, "Until next week."
"Good day, Miss."
The coachman's farewell carried a graciousness for her patronage, saying, "it was a pleasure serving you, and please call again."
Saira had felt all of their intentions in that one phrase, but Five's words had landed so heavily that it still made her want to cry.
"Good day, Miss."
He'd meant, "I can't be your friend. This will be the first and the last tea shop meeting we shall have, because I am too exhausted to make this work."
She knew he had secrets. She'd Seen the locked gate. But nothing could have prepared her for how he had balked at the simplest of questions.
How old are you?
If she had known, what would she have asked, instead?
What kind of work do you do?
How long have you been hiding anonymously in Bath?
What is your favorite color?
She was certain that all of his answers would have been the same.
Good day, Miss.
Maybe she should have just stared at his handsome face, gotten lost in his compelling eyes, and enjoyed the view while it lasted. Instead, she had allowed herself to dwell on him too long, and had gotten her feelings bruised. Better that it had happened sooner. Later would have hurt so much more. It was a minor consolation for her heart, which felt the loss even as she denied herself ever having had any part of him. They hardly knew each other to begin with.
It had been a mere fourteen days since she'd first laid eyes on Five.
At least her emotions would not get tangled up in whatever this morning was about. Matilda had told her enough about Garfield, and hadn't included one positive comment in her tirade. She could remain pleasantly detached and feign semi-interest in bland conversation for an hour. Matilda would be there to buffer her, which would help.
People paid her to be interested. This should be no different.
"By the grace of Mata! He's coming down the hill already!"
The exasperated cry from Aunty Rame downstairs did not spur Saira to run to the window. She knew exactly what Lord Archibald Garfield looked like on the inside, from both Matilda's description and what Saira Saw from her friend's experiences, and did not fancy a preview of the rest of him.
"Saira, get the door and do something to entertain him!" Aunty Bava called out to her. "We are still setting up breakfast in the back. Where is his coach, and why did he have to be so early?"
Saira sucked in a deep breath, moving down the stairs. She'd Seen how women endured visits from undesirable men. Matilda had promised to come straight back to Avonburgh House after breakfast with her own father so she could buffer their conversations, so Saira wouldn't get in too deep, or worse, insult a Lord in her own home. But her friend had still not returned.
She checked the wall clock and gasped. He was an entire hour too early! The impropriety of it rang her nerves out like rags.
The door bell rang. Saira forced another breath and gave herself a quick pep talk. Best do it quick and get it over with. The sooner she let him in, the sooner the clock would start ticking on the minutes she must endure before she could issue a graceful and socially acceptable exit. She opened the door without looking through the glass, intending to issue a completely vapid and insincere greeting…
And froze.
A different man stood on the other side of the door, not Lord Garfield at all. The returning bump against her chest knew who he was even better than she did. Wordlessly, she took the calling card he handed to her.
"Five," she breathed, and then looked at the calling card, stifling a nervous laugh. "Mr. Quintus" it read in clear, professional script. Well, wasn't that just like him?
She should be angry. She should be indignant. But her chest wouldn't allow her to feel anything but relief and… delight? No, she should be upset. He'd left her. Rudely. Without preamble.
But here he was, right in front of her, taking off his hat, which she had to admit, was of good fashion. Something had shifted about his demeanor since his hasty departure from the tea shop. The whole of him looked purposeful and focused, from his business-like expression, to the riding crop and polished boots. He definitely hadn't been this put together at the tea shop.
She had no idea in the world why he was at her doorstep. But his reasons were all overshadowed by her singular thought that his previous words to her, the words which she'd been obsessing over all morning, would not be his last.
His eyes told her, 'I have something to tell you. Something urgent, or I wouldn't have come all this way.'
His mouth said, "Good day, Miss."
***"Why are you here?"
Saira had every right to ask him that question. For some godforsaken reason, Five's practiced reply died before it left his lips. She was dressed like an Indian princess, or rather, what he imagined an Indian princess to wear if she answered her own door. The bright dress set off the silky sheen in her dark hair, Her warm brown skin almost glowed from the pop of deep yellow around her shoulders. Something in her eyes flashed, and then softened, and then flashed again.
"Are you upset that I came?" he asked, partially because he didn't want her to be, and also needing confirmation before he moved on with his pertinent information.
"No," she said quickly, though her answer was strained with a good amount of upset. "I am bothered because you left without an explanation. Now that you are here, am I to have one?"
Five sighed resolutely. He'd practiced this part. "I left because you asked me a very personal question which I cannot answer freely. And it's stupid, because any normal person should be able to answer it. You didn't know. You couldn't."
Saira frowned. "Explain it to me."
Five waffled, feeling weirdly like she was mirroring what he would say if their positions were reversed. In his head, she hadn't been so direct with him. But he had to remind himself that she was not a figment of his imagination. Of course, Saira would have uniquely Saira-like responses, and not the ones he'd made up for her.
The part of the plan where she invited him inside was, apparently, also imaginary. But wishful thinking didn't solve problems. He was running out of time and needed to make his point before she closed the door.
"I can't… right now… just, look. Garfield is an opportunistic ass."
Saira's frown deepened, but she opened the door wider anyway. "You don't have long. He'll arrive within the hour."
Five didn't have to be told twice. In the foyer, he noticed the flowers that almost matched the brightness of her dress. It was very Saira. He set his hat on the entry table next to the exotic vase and out of curiosity, peered down the hall. The dark paneling with the imposing door at the far end didn't look like Saira at all.
Remembering the modiste's instructions, he took the package out of his coat pocket.
"Mrs. Lanchester sent this for you," he said, and laid it next to his hat.
She nodded and kept walking to the parlor. He followed her through the doorway to the worn-yet-loved couch, yet she didn't offer for him to sit. He couldn't help noticing a bare nail in the wall above it, where a portrait might have once hung.
Saira turned to face him, the frown still firmly in place. "Why should you take such an interest in Garfield's affairs?"
"I don't. I care about what he intends to involve you in."
"And why do you care about what happens to me?"
"I don't know," Five said, internally flailing. This was not part of the rehearsed conversation.
"You went through a lot of effort, coming here to be unsure of things," she said in an uneven tone that caught his attention. Was she… sad? Had he made her sad?
Did she deserve the truth as much as he wanted to give it to her? Could she handle it?
"I'm older than I look," he said, observing her features. "By a lot more than I care to admit."
Saira's frown turned into a tight smile. "Well, that is something. But it doesn't explain why you came all this way to warn me off an undesirable suitor who covets the ownership of my father's failing estate."
Her father's failing…
A second survey of the room revealed sheers pulled back from the windows, but no drapes. Compared to Sir Newman's parlor with half-closed, heavy curtains, and miles of tapestries flanked by ornate side tables at every corner, the parlor of Avonburgh House was downright barren.
And then he noticed the set of folded tea tables leaning against the wall and the empty sconces. Not even stubs, just… nothing there. He would bet that Garfield didn't know the state of Saira's father's affairs, or he wouldn't be so eager to court her.
The wide window offered a raised view overlooking the back garden. Five saw the heads of two women who looked like Saira, bustling along with a maid, hefting platters and goblets and… was that a mustard jar?
Garden Breakfast. For Garfield. He gritted his teeth at all this effort they were putting into entertaining the buffoon. It made sense to set up outside, if they were hiding the state of the house.
Saira's defiant manner told him that Garfield's pending visit displeased her, which meant that she wouldn't be blindsided by anything he might try to pull. Her awareness of how the world worked, her clear understanding of Garfield's intentions underneath the masquerade of preparations outside, gave him assurances that she was prepared, if Garfield came to bully her into an undesirable arrangement. According to Daniel, under normal circumstances, a lady still had the power to decline a proposal. She hadn't needed Five to come all this way, telling her things she already knew.
This seemed to be the path where Five could have said "Good," and walked away, satisfied that his mission had been a success.
However, his feet wouldn't turn towards the door, no matter how successful he told them he had been. No, they seemed to say, stubbornly digging into the hardwood floor, you've gone through all the trouble to come here, and you're not done yet.
Five had never had to argue with his own feet before. He was usually in sync with his body, having precise mastery of his faculties. The whole of the Bath Fencing Club could attest to his exquisite body control. It was inexplicable that a simple request to carry him to the door had been denied.
"Why are you here, Mr. Quintus?" she said, softer this time, because somehow he'd moved closer, unaware that he'd moved at all. It was like the world had tilted and he'd stepped forward to keep his balance.
Her eyes pulled him in, called to him without making a sound. She was closer, or he was closer. Something pounded in his ears. It took him a few beats to realize it was the blood rushing through his veins.
"Five?"
She said his name like she knew him. As if she was searching for the same answers as he was, wanting an explanation for the energy that continued to flow between them, invisible as it was inexplicable. But he'd made his decision, hadn't he? He should order his feet to move in the opposite direction, lecture them with a long list of reasons for putting a healthy distance between himself and Saira.
One… his mind drew an absolute blank what any of those reasons should be.
Two… what kind of list was he supposed to be making?
Oh, hell. He was so far past caring about plans and intentions and contingencies. He'd faced opponents with, and without weapons, fended off madmen and hitmen, and been the last man standing in a room full of corpses. He'd even grappled with life versus death, and right versus wrong. But until now, in all of his years, had he ever done more than simply survive?
"What are you doing?"
Her breath skimmed across his face, she was so close. He could almost feel her heartbeat vibrating through the space between them. That was it. That was the problem. There was too much space between them. He needed her closer. He needed to apologize for putting that hurt look in her eyes when she'd answered the door, when he'd left her without explanation.
His reply came out in a hoarse whisper. "Trying to answer the damned question."
But that coherent thought fizzed out as well. Five sucked in air like there wasn't enough of it to go around. 'I need her like my next breath'... wasn't that how Daniel had described it? Was there ever a question? Was there ever any answer, other than this?
He kissed her.
Everything he thought he knew about this place and time twisted, rearranging into an unrecognizable scramble, with Saira at the center of it all. He felt the pressure of her leaning into him, the universe rapidly condensing around him.
She was all cinnamon and nerves, with her fingers jittering up along his arm. The heady contact spurred him to get as close as he possibly could, wanting more than her warmth, more than her sighs against him. Just more and more.
And then reality hit him in the gut. Not only had he lost control of his feet, but his arms were wrapped around her, one hand pressing into her back, the other skimming up her shoulder into the curve of her neck.
Disoriented, Five pulled back, shocked at what he'd done, chastised at who he'd done it with, and at a complete loss for what was supposed to happen next.
Saira appeared caught in stasis, with her lips parted, her eyes closed. She was a vision he couldn't tear his eyes away from. Even if a thousand watts of light were pouring into his eyes, he would still watch, if only to go blind in the next second.
Then she blinked, a smile half forming, and then disappearing under a mask of indifference that he began to understand as her way of maintaining control. If she denied being affected by him, he would know for certain that it was a lie.
Somehow that knowledge pleased him more than he'd expected.
"Saira?" someone called from above. She jerked back. The glow of her skin diminished by at least half, and Five could have sworn the room had grown darker for it.
Finally, his feet obeyed, taking half a step away from her.
"You shouldn't be here." She looked angry, but he couldn't tell what she was angry about. Him? What he'd done?
She prodded him with a finger, backing her way into the foyer. "Next time you need to give me a message," she whispered, putting too much emphasis on the word, "it would be prudent to arrange an outing on horseback, and conveniently lose the chaperone. These walls have eyes."
She smoothed her skirts, raised her chin and snatched the modiste's package off the entry table, along with his calling card, which she fingered delicately. "You can see yourself out, Mr. Quintus."
Five was glad that he was the only one in the room at the moment so he could have harsh words with his traitorous feet, his wayward arms, his entire face that had betrayed him and done things without following specific instructions from his brain. He'd practically manhandled her by this society's standards, touching her in places… touching her at all.
Not that he could make himself regret any of it. In fact, he was pretty damned proud, since she'd practically given him veiled instructions on how to manage it again.
Then the rest of Saira's words registered, throwing river water all over his newly minted exuberance.
The walls have eyes.
The room shifted back into focus, threadbare couch, folded tea tables… no, where were the folded tables? The maid who he had seen outside just moments ago, scurried out of the room with them, pretending not to see him frozen in the doorway. Then a door to his right opened, and a butler passed through, giving him a raised, hairy eyebrow that would put Mr. Smithers' primness to shame.
Ah, hell.
He hurried through the foyer, pausing at the front door to get his bearings, which was difficult because he was pretty sure his brain wasn't getting enough oxygen. His horse, or rather, Sir Newman's horse, Torchbearer, was still tied to the fence in the shade where he'd left him.
Then the door opened behind him, and Saira, a hint of red still in her cheeks, shoved his hat into his hands. She paused, biting her lip. Just above a whisper, she told him, "I'll see you Tuesday," and turned away. Before she closed the door, he thought he imagined a smile ghost her lips.
Her lips where his had been.
And now he had to leave, and hope to hell that Garfield wouldn't get anywhere near those lips, or any of the rest of her.
Hell, indeed.