The Hidden Gallery: Chapters 11–12

Now that Penelope had returned, Margaret would spend the rest of this lovely day cleaning fireplace grates, sweeping carpets, and tending to the whims of her high-strung mistress whenever Lady Constance rang the bell.

“Anyway, I’m usually able to make friends with even the most skittish beasts. Runs in the family. My great-uncle Pudge, the sailor, tells the story of how he cozied up to an albatross once, out at sea—but honestly, the children showed a knack for it the likes of which I’ve never seen. They even helped give some medicine to a sick elephant.”

Simon looked abashed.

...grew thrillingly dramatic as he told what happened next: “When we arrived at the elephant cage, the zookeeper was at his wit’s end trying to persuade the ailing pachyderm to take his pill. Before anyone could stop them, the children scrambled over the bars! Beowulf shimmied up the elephant’s trunk to hold it out of the way. Cassiopeia...

...out of the way. Cassiopeia petted his great gray knee to calm the beast, and Alexander calmly took the pill from the zookeeper and popped it down the elephant’s gullet, one two three.”

“I assure you, Mr. Harley-Dickinson, your zoo story was nothing short of riveting, and I would hear it again in a heartbeat. But the children have a somewhat unusual background,” she said cautiously.

“That would be amusing,” she remarked, trying to sound casual.

“Visiting the poor? Say, that’s admirable. This Lady Constance must be a good egg, as rich ladies go.”

Penelope felt the deep satisfaction one can only enjoy when in the company of a kindred spirit.

Make no mistake: The Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females was an excellent and highly regarded school, but this was the sort of question that Penelope’s education had utterly failed to address.

Even with the bright morning sun streaming in her bedchamber window, Penelope’s hair looked dull and drab.

“But I fear such judgments can only be made with the gift of hindsight.”

All in all, it seemed to Penelope that a modest amount of optimism could safely be given free rein.

The dark wood paneling, sparkling chandeliers, and patterned carpets were as luxurious as one would find in any fine house, but there was a subtle, masculine difference in the feeling of the place.

“It would be hard to forget,” he said wryly, “seeing as how you crashed it into my carriage.”

And with all this talk of hanging, how could she dream of accusing a poor waif of a child, who likely had no one to teach him right from wrong to begin with?

“Your complexion seems rather pale today. I hope you are not coming down with a cold.”

Penelope adjusted her hat to cover as much of her hair as possible, for she knew the dark hair made her face look sallow by comparison.

What sort of people were they, who could talk in such a callous way?

It was a spiderweb indeed, and Penelope felt as if she were trapped in one of those frightening dreams that everyone has now and then, in which a miniature Penelope was pinned to the sticky middle of the web, with a giant, black-robed arachnid bearing Judge Quinzy’s face scuttling ever nearer.