impressed.
She added, “I’m sorry if I’ve treated you like some sort of dandiprat.”
“I am a dandiprat.” He cocked his head and leaned his arm on the plinth beneath a stone urn. “Why do you think you’re so damned smart?”
She blinked. “I don’t.”
“Why do you think I’m not?”
She laughed a little nervously. She was beginning to feel giddy, like someone turned upside down. “All right. You’re a clever dandiprat.” He liked that better; so much so, in fact, she couldn’t resist adding, “Still, you don’t know much about magnesium.”
“Mag-what? Those big words confuse me.”
“Mag-NEEZ—” She realized he’d said it a few moments before and stopped.
He laughed, shaking his head at her. “I make my own fireworks. From copper and niter.” He shrugged. “I’ve used other things, lately magnesium, depending on what color I want. I know a great deal about magnesium. I’d just preferto brush off the sparks rather than miss them close up.” His smile broadened into something strangely uninhibited. “I rather like it, in fact, when they explode all over me.”
“How very dangerous.”
“It’s thrilling actually. It doesn’t hurt.”
All she could say was, “I’d bet it takes a toll on your clothes, though.”
He began walking, backward again, along the path that ran against the house. He was still looking at her when he said, “Nothing, I’d bet, compared to the toll your caution takes on your sparks.” He turned out of sight.
Submit felt confused for a moment, then turned around and felt an unreasonable embarrassment.
Rosalyn Schild was standing at the top of the stairs. She did not look happy, and beyond her stood a curiously quiet little crowd.
Chapter 8
Submit found Graham Wessit to be paradoxically elusive in this house. He was either everywhere, marching right into the center of things, or nowhere in sight. By early afternoon, she had still not spoken to him about the box; she could not even find him. Finally, in a front corridor, she stopped a servant to ask if he knew where the man was.
“Why, he’s gone home, madam.”
“Home?” This possibility hadn’t occurred to her. She sank onto a little stuffed bench in the hall. Which home? she wondered. Home to the house in Belgravia or home to the flat on Haymoore Street or, she wondered, was the family house in Netham itself “home”? She was right back where she had started last night.
“He’ll return, I assure you, madam,” the servant told her.
Yes, she thought, he probably would. All the same, she felt a little irritated and just plain tired of the whole game. If he had been trying , Henry’s cousin could not have made asking about the box more difficult.
Of course, Graham was trying.
In the aftermath of last night, he had developed a kind of resentful gratitude toward Submit Channing-Downes. The excuses she’d made for him over the box, her repossession of it without so much as a word, were favors he both appreciated very much and minded in the extreme—unsought favors badly needed, which he wouldn’t, on a bet, repay in kind. If Henry’s widow expected any sort of discussion to ensue over that stupid box, she had another think coming.
Cheerful in this knowledge, Graham bounded through the side carriage entrance of his London house, past flutedalabaster columns and up spiral marble stairs. His shoes tapped and echoed throughout the round, wide stairchamber, a tattoo that rose up, around, and above him, spiraling with the stairs toward his private rooms.
“John,” he called, his voice preceding him up three winding flights. High above him, he saw the man’s head pop over the railing. “Draw me a bath! I want to be gone again in an hour!”
Graham was in fine spirits. He looked forward to a change of clothes, then a day of pure fun. He had come home to pick up more magnesium by the bagful. He might even bring back some of the other components of his fireworks. In his shed behind
She added, “I’m sorry if I’ve treated you like some sort of dandiprat.”
“I am a dandiprat.” He cocked his head and leaned his arm on the plinth beneath a stone urn. “Why do you think you’re so damned smart?”
She blinked. “I don’t.”
“Why do you think I’m not?”
She laughed a little nervously. She was beginning to feel giddy, like someone turned upside down. “All right. You’re a clever dandiprat.” He liked that better; so much so, in fact, she couldn’t resist adding, “Still, you don’t know much about magnesium.”
“Mag-what? Those big words confuse me.”
“Mag-NEEZ—” She realized he’d said it a few moments before and stopped.
He laughed, shaking his head at her. “I make my own fireworks. From copper and niter.” He shrugged. “I’ve used other things, lately magnesium, depending on what color I want. I know a great deal about magnesium. I’d just preferto brush off the sparks rather than miss them close up.” His smile broadened into something strangely uninhibited. “I rather like it, in fact, when they explode all over me.”
“How very dangerous.”
“It’s thrilling actually. It doesn’t hurt.”
All she could say was, “I’d bet it takes a toll on your clothes, though.”
He began walking, backward again, along the path that ran against the house. He was still looking at her when he said, “Nothing, I’d bet, compared to the toll your caution takes on your sparks.” He turned out of sight.
Submit felt confused for a moment, then turned around and felt an unreasonable embarrassment.
Rosalyn Schild was standing at the top of the stairs. She did not look happy, and beyond her stood a curiously quiet little crowd.
Chapter 8
Submit found Graham Wessit to be paradoxically elusive in this house. He was either everywhere, marching right into the center of things, or nowhere in sight. By early afternoon, she had still not spoken to him about the box; she could not even find him. Finally, in a front corridor, she stopped a servant to ask if he knew where the man was.
“Why, he’s gone home, madam.”
“Home?” This possibility hadn’t occurred to her. She sank onto a little stuffed bench in the hall. Which home? she wondered. Home to the house in Belgravia or home to the flat on Haymoore Street or, she wondered, was the family house in Netham itself “home”? She was right back where she had started last night.
“He’ll return, I assure you, madam,” the servant told her.
Yes, she thought, he probably would. All the same, she felt a little irritated and just plain tired of the whole game. If he had been trying , Henry’s cousin could not have made asking about the box more difficult.
Of course, Graham was trying.
In the aftermath of last night, he had developed a kind of resentful gratitude toward Submit Channing-Downes. The excuses she’d made for him over the box, her repossession of it without so much as a word, were favors he both appreciated very much and minded in the extreme—unsought favors badly needed, which he wouldn’t, on a bet, repay in kind. If Henry’s widow expected any sort of discussion to ensue over that stupid box, she had another think coming.
Cheerful in this knowledge, Graham bounded through the side carriage entrance of his London house, past flutedalabaster columns and up spiral marble stairs. His shoes tapped and echoed throughout the round, wide stairchamber, a tattoo that rose up, around, and above him, spiraling with the stairs toward his private rooms.
“John,” he called, his voice preceding him up three winding flights. High above him, he saw the man’s head pop over the railing. “Draw me a bath! I want to be gone again in an hour!”
Graham was in fine spirits. He looked forward to a change of clothes, then a day of pure fun. He had come home to pick up more magnesium by the bagful. He might even bring back some of the other components of his fireworks. In his shed behind
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