back from the table and stood up.
Grey looked up in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“Well, Uncle, you said that I might end up inheriting the care of Miss Chase someday. It only stands to reason that I ought to introduce myself.”
Chapter Six
“Are you feeling all right, Fanny?” Amelie asked, the impish smile fading from her face. “You’re quite pale.”
No, Fanny was not feeling all right. Her brief encounter with Vicar Oglethorpe had shaken her.
The man had snuck up behind her as she watched Amelie and Grammy Beadle. “Wickedness!” he’d spat close to her ear. She’d jerked around to find his bland face suffused with purple and his small frame shaking as he stared out into the street.
“It’s theater, Vicar,” she’d replied with characteristic coolness, though inwardly disturbed by what, even for Oglethorpe, seemed unusual vehemence.
That “disturbance” had accounted for the ravens’ reaction. Over the years, Fanny had learned to extinguish the communication she shared with animals by keeping careful control over her emotions. Only when she was overwhelmed by an unexpected reaction did she make an inadvertent connection. It had been nearly a year since the last such event.
“It’s blasphemy,” the vicar said. “I won’t stand for it.” He leaned down until he was nose-to-nose with her. His eyes burned. “This will end! Mark my words!”
He stabbed a finger at her before spinning on his heel and leaving. Her pulse pattered in alarm as she watched him go. She’d always thought of Vicar Oglethorpe as negligible, a pedant whose superstition and fear, rather than any religious values, drove his hostility. But he’d never been this openly antagonistic before. It frightened her. He frightened her. And the ravens had felt it.
Of course, she couldn’t tell Amelie this.
“Fanny?” she repeated, concerned.
“If I am pale,” Fanny said smoothly, “it is the result of shock. ‘Ipse dixit’ and ‘ad nauseam.’ You grow more incorrigible by the day.”
Her diversion worked; Amelie smiled.
“I was just having a spot of fun,” Amelie said. “Though perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken Latin. Suppose someone recognized one of the phrases and told Grammy? She’d be humiliated beyond speech.”
“Oh, I think you underestimate Grammy’s compulsion to speak,” Fanny replied dryly. “Besides, given that I’ve yet to meet a native Little Firkian with more than a rudimentary knowledge of the English language, I sincerely doubt you need worry about any one of them identifying Latin idioms.”
“What about Vicar Oglethorpe?” Amelie asked. “Didn’t I see him stop beside you? He knows Latin, and he abhors anything to do with spirits and such.”
“With the exception of the spirits that inhabit the bottle he keeps in his desk drawer.”
Amelie gasped in delighted horror. “Fanny! Even if they’re true, you oughtn’t say things like that.” She assumed a faux prim expression. “Please recall you are supposed to be my mentor.”
Fanny raised a brow. “When one seeks to fill the post for a companion who must relocate to the Scottish hinterlands, one is bound to find the employment pool limited. As I’ve mentioned before, your father was forced to make do.”
Amelie laughed and linked her arm through Fanny’s. “Do not attempt to convince me you are anything but an aristocratic lady and entirely wonderful.”
“Far be it from me to disillusion you,” Fanny said, her alarm fading. Still, something was causing pinpricks of sensation, like kitten claws, to shiver up her spine and tickle the nape of her neck.
They continued down the sidewalk, unhailed by any of the other people on the streets. Not that anyone avoided looking at them or seemed in the least discomforted by their appearance. They simply paid no attention to them. Like we’re ghosts moving amongst the living , Fanny thought, and not for the first time.
A thin, low-heeled
Grey looked up in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“Well, Uncle, you said that I might end up inheriting the care of Miss Chase someday. It only stands to reason that I ought to introduce myself.”
Chapter Six
“Are you feeling all right, Fanny?” Amelie asked, the impish smile fading from her face. “You’re quite pale.”
No, Fanny was not feeling all right. Her brief encounter with Vicar Oglethorpe had shaken her.
The man had snuck up behind her as she watched Amelie and Grammy Beadle. “Wickedness!” he’d spat close to her ear. She’d jerked around to find his bland face suffused with purple and his small frame shaking as he stared out into the street.
“It’s theater, Vicar,” she’d replied with characteristic coolness, though inwardly disturbed by what, even for Oglethorpe, seemed unusual vehemence.
That “disturbance” had accounted for the ravens’ reaction. Over the years, Fanny had learned to extinguish the communication she shared with animals by keeping careful control over her emotions. Only when she was overwhelmed by an unexpected reaction did she make an inadvertent connection. It had been nearly a year since the last such event.
“It’s blasphemy,” the vicar said. “I won’t stand for it.” He leaned down until he was nose-to-nose with her. His eyes burned. “This will end! Mark my words!”
He stabbed a finger at her before spinning on his heel and leaving. Her pulse pattered in alarm as she watched him go. She’d always thought of Vicar Oglethorpe as negligible, a pedant whose superstition and fear, rather than any religious values, drove his hostility. But he’d never been this openly antagonistic before. It frightened her. He frightened her. And the ravens had felt it.
Of course, she couldn’t tell Amelie this.
“Fanny?” she repeated, concerned.
“If I am pale,” Fanny said smoothly, “it is the result of shock. ‘Ipse dixit’ and ‘ad nauseam.’ You grow more incorrigible by the day.”
Her diversion worked; Amelie smiled.
“I was just having a spot of fun,” Amelie said. “Though perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken Latin. Suppose someone recognized one of the phrases and told Grammy? She’d be humiliated beyond speech.”
“Oh, I think you underestimate Grammy’s compulsion to speak,” Fanny replied dryly. “Besides, given that I’ve yet to meet a native Little Firkian with more than a rudimentary knowledge of the English language, I sincerely doubt you need worry about any one of them identifying Latin idioms.”
“What about Vicar Oglethorpe?” Amelie asked. “Didn’t I see him stop beside you? He knows Latin, and he abhors anything to do with spirits and such.”
“With the exception of the spirits that inhabit the bottle he keeps in his desk drawer.”
Amelie gasped in delighted horror. “Fanny! Even if they’re true, you oughtn’t say things like that.” She assumed a faux prim expression. “Please recall you are supposed to be my mentor.”
Fanny raised a brow. “When one seeks to fill the post for a companion who must relocate to the Scottish hinterlands, one is bound to find the employment pool limited. As I’ve mentioned before, your father was forced to make do.”
Amelie laughed and linked her arm through Fanny’s. “Do not attempt to convince me you are anything but an aristocratic lady and entirely wonderful.”
“Far be it from me to disillusion you,” Fanny said, her alarm fading. Still, something was causing pinpricks of sensation, like kitten claws, to shiver up her spine and tickle the nape of her neck.
They continued down the sidewalk, unhailed by any of the other people on the streets. Not that anyone avoided looking at them or seemed in the least discomforted by their appearance. They simply paid no attention to them. Like we’re ghosts moving amongst the living , Fanny thought, and not for the first time.
A thin, low-heeled
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