Free The Dark Unwinding by Sharon Cameron Page A

occurred. What if Fat Robert did have a sizable fortune? Aunt Alice was cunning; she could hide the extent of it from me, if she wished. And now that this idea had presented itself, it seemed quite clear that this would be exactly what she would do. No matter what might happen in the meantime, I would have to go back to London, and doing so armed with that particular piece of knowledge would be greatly to my advantage. Mrs. Jefferies dabbed her eyes while Davy’s round hand caressed the rabbit.
    “If I were to agree to this plan,” I said slowly, “then you would have to tell me everything. Nothing secret and no more hiding, whether it helps your case or it hinders it. I cannot … make a decision without the facts. And in return for your candor, I would give you one month. Could we agree upon that?”
    Lane leaned back in his chair, dark brows furrowed, arms crossed. He nodded once.
    “Then I think I should start by spending the afternoon with my uncle, in his workshop.”
    “No,” he said immediately. “Mr. Tully doesn’t mean harm, but he just doesn’t …” Lane’s jaw set. “The workshop is Mr. Tully’s, and Mr. Tully sets the rules. He won’t allow you back in it.”
    My own brows came down, and Mrs. Jefferies put a hand on Lane’s arm. “Davy says to let her.” I looked in surprise at Mrs. Jefferies, and then at Davy, silent as always, his small hand rubbing the long ears of the rabbit, his large eyes on Mrs. Jefferies. “And Mr. Tully, he did take to her….” Mrs. Jefferies shot me a glance, as if there was no accounting for taste. “Maybe it’s for the best.”
    “I won’t have him upset,” Lane said. He looked at me. “In the workshop, we abide by Mr. Tully’s rules. If he won’t allow it, then he won’t allow it.”
    “Davy says not to worry,” Mrs. Jefferies said. My gaze darted back to Davy, brows raised.
    Lane flung his napkin down onto the table. “Fine, then.”
    “Thank you,” I replied. “And sometime before tomorrow, if you please, I will also require the address of a Mr. Babcock.”
    Mrs. Jefferies’s shoulders slumped, and Lane’s gray eyes narrowed at me appraisingly. But despite the ferocity of his gaze, I had the feeling that somehow we’d just shaken hands.

 
    I sat on a cushion on the floor of the workshop, watching my uncle, kept silent by both my fascination and fear of offense. I was back in the worsted — after a tirade from Mary that would have impressed my aunt Alice — and Uncle Tulman had not only accepted my presence, he had welcomed it, to everyone’s shock, as if previous transgressions had never taken place.
    Now Lane stood at a worktable, supposedly painting a small square of wood, but with his stony eyes on me like a mother hen’s on a hawk. Spending the afternoon with my uncle would not really further my purpose, I knew that; it might even hinder it were I to trample again on some enigmatic rule. But people, in my experience, could be sorted like numbers: evens, odds, groups that could work together, and others that could not. My uncle was someone I could not sort at all. I did not like that.
    Lane’s brush tapped against the paint jar, and Uncle Tulman sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning over a wrinkled sheet of paper, making alternating numbers and shapes that captivated and yet meant nothing to me. A gaslight gave a soft pop, just audible over the engine hum. My uncle jotted two sets of three numbers on the paper, one upon the other, drew a line, and wrote four numbers beneath, all in the space of a breath.
    “Uncle,” I said, “do you multiply in your head?”
    Lane shook his head fiercely at me in warning, but Uncle Tulman looked up, as if surprised to find me there. “Simon’s baby!” he said. “Why aren’t you playing?”
    Lane’s brows came together, and he looked to his paint, his expression now confused.
    “I’m just watching today, Uncle,” I replied carefully.
    “Simon watched me play,” Uncle Tulman said. “We