Page 99 of Bane Bloom

I was stepping down from the stool when he slipped his arm around my waist, the other hand coming to the back of my head. He pulled me in for a soft, lingering kiss. “I’ll be quick,” he murmured as my knees threatened to buckle.

After he’d gone, I got down a frying pan for the eggs. Papa and I often dined on eggs when Nancy was ill or having a day off, so they were one thing I could cook well enough. I went out to the garden after that and was able to pick a handful of small, bright-smelling lemon balm leaves.

I was breaking eggs into a bowl when Thomas returned with the cress, along with some wild garlic for the eggs. He mixed the cress with the lemon balm leaves, murmuring:

“Soft heart, open mind,

Harken to reason,

Rewarded in kind.”

“Is that one of your mother’s?” I asked.

“Used on me so many times I learned it.”

“You were a stubborn child. Shocking.”

He lifted his gaze from his greens but refrained from comment. His expression called back the heat of May Eve so intensely that for a moment I forgot what I was doing.

When he finished with the salad, he filled a pitcher with water and, while I cooked the eggs, went up to see if Mr. Harding wished to wash and come down. A few minutes later I heard silver and crystal tinkling as Thomas set the table.

I was serving scrambled eggs and charmed greens onto plates when I heard the opening notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata being played on the pianoforte—followed by a short, sharp cry of surprise.

I hurried out of the kitchen, spoon still in hand. The dining room was empty, and I went to the sitting room. Thomas was there already, and Mr. Harding . . . he stood near the hearth, grasping something in his hand, staring at the piano . . . which was playing by itself. The sight of the keys depressing with no one seated on the bench was almost enough to chase me out of the house, even knowing its nature. And Thomas . . . he seemed transfixed by the spectacle.

I steeled myself and went to Harding. The object he grasped was familiar—the mandrake manikin.

“Sir, where did you . . . ?”

Glancing around, I found the manikin’s wooden box, open, resting on the carpet. I stooped to pick it up, then gently took the manikin from Harding and replaced it in the box. I tried to lead him to the chair by the fire, but he refused to move. His gaze remained fixed on the piano, still releasing the ghostly melody.

Thomas let out an audible breath, and the melody fell apart, a few final broken notes sounding before a heavy silence descended.

After a moment, Harding said, “That was mandrake root, was it not?”

“Yes, sir. The manikin was made by Thomas’s mother. It seems to hold a connection to Lily Bane, Thomas’s grandmother. May I ask how it came to you?”

Still wide eyed and slightly glazed, he said, “I was standing before the hearth and heard something behind me. As I looked around, I noticed the box on the floor. It had fallen open, and I went to inspect it.”

Prudence. It had to be. Had she set out to frighten the poor man? Perhaps worried about his intentions toward the house, as Carroll seemed to have been?

Maybe she’s trying to help.

I touched his sleeve. “Sir, we’ve made a light lunch. Why don’t we go and eat while it’s hot? After that we can discuss all of this further.”

He nodded, and I led the way to the dining room, going around to pull out the chair closest to the fire. Thomas went to the kitchen and brought out two plates of food. He filled two cider glasses, and I shot him a questioning look.

“I thought to eat in the kitchen,” he said.

Before I could argue, Harding said, “Nonsense, join us at the table,” and I liked him more for it.

Despite the shocks of the day, I found I was famished, as I was sure Thomas must have been. Harding’s shock would certainly have been greater, but even he seemed to have an appetite. No one spoke before we’d finished, and then it was Harding who did so first.

In a musing tone, he said, “Did you know a woman has opened a school for witches on an estate in Yorkshire? An article in the Society’s journal said that the school had received so many inquiries they’d had to turn young ladies away.”

Unsure whether he expected an answer, I hesitated. His eyes came to my face, and I said, “Indeed?”

He drank from his cider glass before continuing, “Am I to infer from the manikin that Prudence Bane was in fact a witch?”