Give the Devil His Due by Sulari Gentill

movements were gangly, loose, those of an adolescent still becoming accustomed to the length of her limbs.
    Rowland handed her his card. “Why don’t you call by the house tomorrow, Miss Norton. I can tell you what I told Mr. White before his untimely passing.”
    â€œCertainly, Mr. Sinclair. But I won’t be asking the same questions Crispy did. You’ll find that he and I are very different on that score. I am first and foremost an artist, after all.”
    â€œI have no doubt, Miss Norton.” Rowland paused before he asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about what happened to Mr. White?”
    â€œHis throat was cut at Magdalene’s I heard—ear to ear.” She pressed her lips together and studied him. “You know Mr. Sinclair, I think I may have had a premonition about what happened to Crispy.”
    â€œA premonition?”
    Rosaleen glanced at her watch, and sighed. “It’s nearly midnight. I really must go! We can discuss premonitions and art and death tomorrow.” She backed away, blowing him a kiss as she went.
    Rowland stared after her.
    â€œI suppose she’ll want to interview me as well,” Flynn murmured. “Excuse me,” he said suddenly, as he caught sight of Edna again. “I must ask that glorious damsel to dance. You don’t mind, do you Sinclair?” Rowland did mind, but he said, “I don’t own Miss Higgins, Flynn.”
    â€œGood to know!” The actor straightened his bowtie as he strode away.
    Rowland had been watching Flynn and Edna dancing for a few minutes when Clyde joined him. “I wouldn’t worry about Flynn,” Clyde said, handing Rowland a glass of champagne. “He’s too much of a show pony.”
    â€œEd’s not averse to show ponies,” Rowland murmured recalling the actors and artists with whom Edna had been enamoured in the past.
    Clyde shook his head. “You can’t be a star with Ed on your arm, mate. It’s like trying to shine next to the sun. Flynn’s not going to like that.”
    Rowland looked back at the dance floor. Clyde had a point—the eye was drawn to Edna. She was mesmerising, and unsuited to men who wanted the spotlight for themselves.
    Clyde’s presence was wordlessly sympathetic. Once he would have tried to dissuade Rowland’s devotion, to reason with him, for they all knew that Edna’s loves were intense and joyful and frivolous. They came and went. And the sculptress cared too much about Rowland Sinclair to love him, to risk his heart. Unfortunately, Rowland cared too much to do anything else. Both Clyde and Milton had decided some time ago to let it be, and to simply hope that whatever happened, it wouldn’t all end in disaster.
    Still, Clyde almost cheered when Rowland left him to cut in.

    The morning light was still soft and new when Rowland emerged from the stables with a mewling kitten in each hand. The tiny creatures had somehow scrambled under the bonnet of the Mercedes and fallen asleep on the warmth of the engine block. Luckily, Clyde was now constantly fine-tuning the engine in preparation for the race, and they were discovered.
    Rowland stopped, startled to see Rosaleen Norton on his lawn. She was wrapped around a statue of Pan, her gaze focussed intently on the figure’s horned face. He had not forgotten that he’d invited her; it was just her current position, and the hour, that were odd. Rowland doubted the statue had ever been so ardently admired—certainly not at seven in the morning.
    He cleared his throat loudly. “Good morning, Miss Norton.”
    â€œHello, Mr. Sinclair.” The reporter reluctantly released the statue. “He’s beautiful, don’t you think? Is he a Lindsay?”
    â€œNo, but Miss Higgins did study with Lindsay for a time,” he replied, impressed that she could recognise the influence. While similar in its mythological inspiration,