“What did you want to see me about?” she asked, noticing that what she thought was a headband was really a pair of strange goggles with interposing lenses on tiny brass arms.
Ropey red hair swung as Emily’s head shook. “Lord, I’m a dunderhead this morning. I need a wee bit of your blood. Griffin wants me to do some tests, see if I can’t figure out what’s going on with these abilities we all seem to have.”
“What’s wrong with you?” It didn’t come out as Finley intended. She didn’t mean to make it sound like Emily had a disease or something. She was just surprised that they had something in common. So surprised that she wasn’t even alarmed that Emily wanted her blood.
Pale cheeks turned light pink. “I can talk to machines.”
“Do they…talk…back?” It was all she could think to ask.
Emily actually laughed. “Not with words, no. But I can sometimes tell what’s wrong with them, how to fix them.”
“How very extraordinary.” Finley smiled. “Much more useful than tossing footmen through doorways.”
“I don’t know about that,” Emily replied. “I’ve often wished I could toss a particular fellow around.”
“Sam. He’s what’s got you so distracted, isn’t he?” Too late she realized it was really none of her business.
Emily blushed again, but she nodded. “Yes. He’s been spending as much time as possible away from here lately.”
Away from her—that was what she didn’t say and didn’t have to. Emily was as easy to read as an open book.
“He’ll come ’round,” Finley assured her, even though she had no way of knowing for certain. “You just wait. I wager he’ll be home tonight.”
Emily didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t look quite so down in the mouth anymore, either. “Perhaps. I suppose it’s out of my control, so I shouldn’t worry about it.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t be concerned for a friend.”
The red-haired girl smiled at her then, and Finley was struck by how pretty she was when she was happy. “Thank you, Finley. It’s properly pleasant to have another lass in the house. The lads are lovely, but they’re rubbish at trying to make one feel less morose.”
Warmth filled Finley from the inside out. So this was what it was like to have a friend.
“I really should get a sample of your blood,” Emily remarked. “Then you can go on and have your breakfast. I’m sure I’m keeping you.”
Finley protested that she wasn’t doing any such thing, and they went to one of the parlors regardless, where Emily swabbed the crook of her elbow with a strong smelling liquid and then expertly pierced the flesh with a sharp needle. A few seconds later and she was done, placing a bandage on the spot and wrapping it in place. She could have told the little redhead not to bother—her blood clotted fairly quickly—but she liked having the company a little longer.
“I wonder if my blood looks like everyone else’s,” Finley thought aloud. “Or if it looks as different as I feel.”
“Everyone’s pretty much the same under the skin,” the other girl replied, putting her needle away. “Except for Sam, of course.”
“Why, what does he look like?”
Emily blinked, then smiled. “Sorry. I’d forgotten that you’d only been with us a short time. Sam’s what I term a mandroid—part man, part machine.”
Finley’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “How?”
The smaller girl’s smile faded. “I couldn’t let him die. Now he hates me for it.”
What was she supposed to say to that? She couldn’t argue it because she didn’t know Sam, but he had seemed like an angry young man the few times she saw him. If he blamed Emily like she blamed her father for making her what she was, then there was nothing she could say to make the girl feel better.
“I don’t think he
She and Emily locked gazes. The other girl said nothing, so Finley had no idea if she was upset or not.
“I’ll let you know if your blood looks any different,” Emily said, smiling slightly. She gathered up her gear. “You should go get breakfast.”
Finley stood, feeling like a student being sent away by the headmistress at school. She went to the dining room, hoping she hadn’t offended the girl she looked at as her one chance to have a friend.
The dining room was empty when she walked in, but the serving dishes were still on the sideboard, the top of which was like a radiator, circulating hot steam to keep the food warm. She helped herself to coddled eggs, ham, tomatoes and toast, then poured a cup of coffee and took the mouthwatering bounty back to the table.
She was just finishing her last piece of toast and jam when Mrs. Dodsworth came bustling in, high color in her round cheeks.
“Begging your pardon, miss, but His Grace requests your presence in his study immediately.”
The harried look on the older woman’s face and the nervous twisting of her hands had Finley instantly on her feet. “Did he say why?”
“No, miss. Just that you should come right away.”
Finley stood and followed after the round little woman. She had to hurry to keep up despite the housekeeper’s much shorter legs. When they reached Griffin’s study, Mrs. Dodsworth announced Finley and then walked away, leaving Finley to face the room alone.
Griffin sat behind the massive desk, looking every inch the lord of the manor. His gray-blue gaze flickered briefly to hers, lingering just long enough for her to know that everything was going to be all right.
“Sit down and let Griffin do most of the talking,” whispered a voice in her head. It wasn’t her own, but sounded very much like Lady Marsden, who she noticed was also in the room, along with a tall thin man with thinning brown hair and a pleasant face punctuated by an unfortunate nose.
Obviously it was easier for the lady to put thoughts in her head rather than take them out. Regardless, the man had the look of authority about him, so Finley reckoned she’d take Lady Marsden’s advice, just this once.
“Miss Jayne,” Griffin said, rising to his feet as did the other gentleman. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your breakfast, but Constable Jones would like to speak to you.”
How had he known she was having breakfast? And…constable? Dizziness teased the edges of Finley’s mind and she felt that familiar surge that often precipitated the arrival of her darker side. She pushed it down. The last thing she wanted was to reveal her other nature to Scotland Yard, or worse, throw a police officer across the room.
She moved cautiously closer, enough of her other self coming to the surface that she felt calmer. She even managed a smile for the Peeler. “Good day, Constable Jones. What is it you wish to ask me?”
The officer waited until she’d sat down before returning to his own chair. They sat together in front of Griffin’s desk.
“My apologies, Miss Jayne,” said Constable Jones in a melodic, slightly Liverpudlian accent. “But I understand that you worked for Lord August-Raynes until recently?”
“I did, yes.” She had to bite her tongue not to offer more information.
“You left that household in a bit of a hurry I’m told.”
“Yes.”
“And why was that?”
Do not lie, a voice in her head—her own this time—whispered. More sound advice. Better to omit facts than tell a bold-faced lie. “Because I no longer felt safe under that roof, sir.”
The constable was writing all of this down in a little notebook. He looked up from it now. “Why did you not feel safe?” He asked it in much the same way one might ask a child why they hadn’t eaten all their turnip.
Finley glanced at Griffin, who sat there with a perfectly serene expression on his face. Either he was terribly adept at hiding his feelings, or he simply didn’t care what happened to her. His aunt had said to let him do the talking but so far he hadn’t made much of an effort. “Because Lord Felix August-Raynes made unwanted advances toward me.”
