Belatedly Edwin remembered that quiet was not an advantage, to someone like Robin. But Robin just grinned at him and said, “Then we’ll go day-tripping, and avoid the fuss,” as though the prospect of chasing down Reggie Gatling’s dubious relatives with Edwin was honestly appealing.
Like Robin with the pain from the curse, Edwin had hoped he was becoming immune to that grin, when in fact the opposite was true. A hot, greedy pulse of want tried to make itself known in Edwin’s intractable body.
No. Edwin pushed it down and focused instead on the guilt that had sprung up when Reggie’s name was first mentioned. Reggie, who was still missing; Miss Morrissey would have sent a message to tell them if he’d resurfaced. Edwin had been distracted by the more immediate danger of Robin’s worsening curse. But it was all part of the same damned mess, wasn’t it? The thought cooled the breath in Edwin’s lungs to a thickening mist of real fear about Reggie’s fate.
Not least because Robin’s attackers might very well intend Robin to share it.
Robin dashed off a message for Maud immediately after dinner, and left it folded on the dresser in his room. He and Edwin could call at the telegraph office in the nearest town before they set off for Sutton Cottage the next morning.
Mrs. Courcey had confided to him over the dessert course that she hoped they could have a telephone installed within the next few years. Robin imagined such a thing could make a world of difference to a housebound invalid. He thought about the way Edwin looked at her, as though storing up grain for winter. Edwin saying, It’s better in the city. Robin was only now realising how much Edwin must dislike everything else about being at Penhallick, for it to trump even his beloved mother’s presence.
Guidelight bobbing above his shoulder, Robin followed a footman’s directions to a large parlour, where the others were gathered for drinks and cigarettes and, from what Belinda had been saying at dinner, some new sort of game. Robin’s afternoon doze had left his mind grumblingly awake. He didn’t fancy groaning his way through another bout of the curse’s punishment in company, but even less did he fancy retiring early to the willow-bough room and staring at its ceiling. He liked being with other people. Too much time alone and he felt his colour leaking out.
All right, he was coming around to the strong opinion that he didn’t like this crowd overmuch, but they were better than nothing. And even though he was smartly wary of Belinda Walcott’s games, he thought his chances of being shot at or drowned or swan-mauled were fairly low, indoors.
The parlour was a striking room even by the standards of Penhallick House. The Morris paper on the walls held a dense pattern of leaves and clusters of flowers in red and blue and yellow, woven through with thorny tendrils studded with tinier flowers in startling white. It filled the walls in wide panels between dark, carved wood that stretched from the floor and formed arching ribs where it met the ceiling. There were shelves cunningly set into the wall to show off books or glasswork or panels of mosaic. Plants grew from enormous brass pots; rugs formed a rough chessboard over the floor. The furniture was slender and upholstered in cloth embroidered to within an inch of its life, and most of the chairs had fabric flung over them to create yet more contrasts of pattern.
There were almost no paintings. Robin felt a brief, unexpected pang of longing for his own family’s house in London, but banished it. This room didn’t need paintings. It would have smothered them. It was almost too much even on its own—almost, but not quite. Robin had no doubt that you could scrape twenty people off the street and most of them would proclaim this entire endeavour to be in ludicrously bad taste, but he adored it. It was jubilant and restorative. It was impossible to feel colourless, surrounded by so much colour.
Robin turned away from inspecting the nearest shelf to acknowledge Billy’s greeting, and stopped.
There was a motorcar parked in the middle of the room. It had not been there when he entered; Robin was reasonably certain that even he would have noticed a car before the wallpaper. But there it was, gleaming innocently from tyres to top, as though a country house’s parlour were a normal showroom.
Trudie smirked and walked through the car, towards him. Watching the dark-green bulk of metal swallow her to the collarbones made Robin’s stomach squirm, but she emerged unscathed as though from mist. “We’re playing at illusions,” she said, waving a glass of sherry. “Charlie’s got such a knack for them. Doesn’t it just look as though it’s about to speed into the fireplace?” Her dark gaze was full of an expectant amusement that seemed to say she was waiting for Robin to entertain her—or rather, for something entertaining to happen to him.