Free Wilful Impropriety by Ekaterina Sedia Page A

sure of that.”
    Agatha closed the library door behind her and went, with a spring in her step, to find Isobel. Her dearest friend would be walking in the woods at this time of day, as she did every morning while Agatha worked on her own magical studies; the woods of the Tremain estate were apparently bursting with interesting animal life.
    Agatha had finished her studies earlier than usual, though. Something about the scent of her latest experiment had reminded her of Isobel.
    A smile deepened on her face, and she lifted up her skirts to run. Magic sparked in the air around her, carrying the sound of her laughter to the woods before her.
    Isobel was waiting for her there . . . and they were both distracted from their work for the rest of that morning, in the most delightful manner possible.
    The two animal additions to the household, as promised, disturbed Sir Jasper not a whit. The housecat, a sleek black creature with an oddly straight feline nose, kept to the kitchens, where her bad temper made her a perfect mousecatcher and a useful addition to the household . . .
    . . . and the elegant, golden-blond cocker spaniel with her coat of thick, soft fur rarely moved from her preferred spot in front of the fireplace. As Miss Tremain had given explicit orders that a fire always be lit for the dog’s comfort, regardless of what heat might bake the house, she could be certain of at least one thing.
    Clarisse would never be cold again.

Nussbaum’s Golden Fortune
     

M. K. H OBSON
     
    New York City, 1889
    It was a golden October day, bright and sweet as fresh apple cider, but darkness clouded Peter Oesterlische’s brow as he walked along Fifth Avenue toward the Calacacara Club. He was deeply absorbed in thought—so deeply, in fact, that when his old friend Astor Nussbaum rounded the corner in a mad sprint, Oesterlische failed to notice him and was, as a result, knocked sprawling into a decorative pot of frost-wilted nasturtiums.
    “
Ostrich!
” Nussbaum compounded the indignity of the un orthodox reunion by greeting Oesterlische with the nickname he’d been formally saddled with in college. He reached down to help Oesterlische to his feet.
    “
Ass
,” Oesterlische rejoined, using a nickname that had been applied to Astor Nussbaum on several occasions, but never formally.
    Nussbaum had the chubby cheeks and vaguely petulant mien of the Astor family, his storied forbears. He slicked sweat from his forehead and attempted to breathe at a more casual pace.
    “Well! Ostrich!” Nussbaum cast a worried glance over his shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here.” Another glance. “How’re things?”
    “Things?” Oesterlische brushed potting soil from the back of his trousers. “Why,
things
are just peachy, Nussbaum.” Oesterlische caught sight of two large, rough-looking men rounding the corner. “
Things
seem a damn sight better for me than you at the moment.”
    Nussbaum saw the direction of his friend’s gaze, saw the rough-looking men pointing at him. He turned a rather elegant shade of pearly gray. He was about to resume his flight when Oesterlische clapped a hand on his shoulder and pointed toward a brass-handled door at the top of a high stoop.
    “Follow me,” he said. “The Calacacara’s right here.”
    When the young men had achieved the inviolable security of the Calacacara’s carved-walnut vestibule, Oesterlische gave the doorman—a wiry old bantam with flaring gray muttonchops—a meaningful nod. He did not have to explain why there were rough-looking men pounding up the stairs after them—the doorman just nodded back and posted himself at the threshold, thick arms crossed and bandy legs braced.
    “You sure grandad can handle those bruisers?” Nussbaum cast a thumb over his shoulder as they walked through the marble foyer. “Maybe we hang around and make sure.”
    “Old Sullivan’s more than a match for those bully pups.” Oesterlische swept the air dismissively. “He was with the 137th at