Devil in Spring (The Ravenels 3)

Mrs. O’Cairre led her to a sample room brimming with materials. Moving along a wall of shelves and drawers, Mrs. O’Cairre began to collect pieces of paper, card stocks, boards, binding canvas and muslins, and a variety of type-specimen lettering sheets. Pandora followed closely behind her, receiving handfuls of pages and dropping them into her valise.

They both paused at a discreet knock.

“It’s likely the warehouse boy,” Mrs. O’Cairre said, heading to the other side of the room. While Pandora continued to browse among the shelves, the printer opened the door just enough to reveal a boy in his teens, with a cap pulled low over his forehead. After a brief, muttered exchange, Mrs. O’Cairre closed the door. “Milady,” she said, “I beg your pardon, but I have to give instructions to a deliveryman. Will it trouble you if I leave you here for one minute?”

“Certainly not,” Pandora said. “I’m as happy as a clam at high water.” She paused to look more closely at the woman, who was still smiling . . . but distress had exerted subtle tension over her features like a drawstring bag being cinched. “Is something wrong?” Pandora asked in concern.

The woman’s face cleared instantly. “No, milady, it’s only that I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m with a customer.”

“Don’t worry on my account.”

Mrs. O’Cairre went to a set of drawers and pulled out an open-ended envelope. “I’ll be back sooner than you can take a hop, skip, and a jump.”

As the printer exited through the warehouse door, closing it firmly behind her, something fluttered to the floor in her wake. A slip of paper.

Frowning, Pandora set down her valise and went to retrieve the small piece of paper. It was blank on one side and printed on the other with what appeared to be different samples of typographic lettering, but it wasn’t organized like the type-specimen sheets. Had it fallen from the envelope that Mrs. O’Cairre had just pulled from the drawer? Was it important?

“Bother,” she muttered. Opening the door, she went after the printer, calling her name. When there was no reply, Pandora proceeded cautiously through a dimly lit gallery that opened to a warehouse working space. A row of segmented windows near the roof let in a wash of greasy light that fell over lithographic stones and metal plates, rollers, machinery parts, and stacks of filter troughs and vats. The heavy smell of oil and metal was cut with the welcome pungency of wood shavings.

As Pandora emerged from the gallery, she saw Mrs. O’Cairre standing with a man, next to the massive bulk of a nearby steam-powered printing machine. He was tall and solid-looking, with a square face and a broad, bunchy chin, as if more than one chin had gone into the making of it. Fair-haired and moon-pale, he possessed brows and lashes so light as to appear nonexistent. Although he was dressed in inconspicuous dark clothes, his stylish chimney pot hat would only have been worn by a gentleman of means. Whatever else he might be, this was no deliveryman.

“Forgive me,” Pandora said, approaching them, “I wanted to ask—” She halted in her tracks as Mrs. O’Cairre whirled to face her. The flash of undisguised horror in the woman’s eyes was so startling that Pandora’s mind went blank. Her gaze darted back to the stranger, whose lash-less cobra eyes regarded her in a way that made her flesh creep.

“Hello,” Pandora said faintly.

He took a step toward her. Something about the movement sparked the same instinctive response she felt upon seeing a spider’s articulated skitter, or a snake’s undulation.

“Milady,” Mrs. O’Cairre burst out, quickly moving into his path and taking Pandora’s arm, “the warehouse is no place for you . . . your fine dress . . . there’s grime and oil everywhere. Let me take you back inside.”

“I’m sorry,” Pandora said in confusion, letting the woman bustle her quickly to the gallery and into the shop offices. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting, but—”

“You didn’t.” The woman forced a light laugh. “The deliveryman was just telling me about a problem with an order. I’m afraid I must see to it right away. I hope I’ve given you enough information and samples.”

“Yes. Have I caused a problem? I’m sorry—”

“No, but it would be best if you left now. There is much to do here.” She ushered Pandora through the office, snatching up the valise by its handles without stopping. “Here is your bag, milady.”

Confused and chagrinned, Pandora went through the shop with her, toward the front where Dragon was waiting.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how much time it will take,” Mrs. O’Cairre said. “The problem with the order, that is. If it turns out that we’ll be too busy to print your game, there’s a printer I can recommend. Pickersgill’s, in Marylebone. They’re very good.”

“Thank you,” Pandora said, staring at her in concern. “Again, I’m sorry if I did something wrong.”

The printer smiled slightly, although her air of urgency remained. “Bless you, milady. I wish you very well.” Her gaze flickered to Dragon’s unreadable face. “You’d best go quickly—the construction and street traffic worsens toward the evening.”

Dragon responded with a short nod. He took the bag from Pandora, opened the door, and whisked her outside unceremoniously. They proceeded along the wooden plank walk toward the waiting carriage. “What happened?” Dragon asked brusquely, reaching out to steer her around a rotting hole in the planks.