Free The Clockwork Scarab by Colleen Gleason

word Stars ?”
    I frowned and peered down. She was correct   .   .   .   now that it was pointed out to me, I saw the small dots. “But that means nothing,” I protested. “A drip of ink from a careless scribe.”
    “Miss Stoker, please observe. Those dots were made purposely. See how perfectly uniform and round they are? A drip would have an oblong shape. And aside from that, noticethat the text is engraved upon the card, while those markings are not. Finally, although you likely cannot see it in our faulty light, the shade of ink used to draw the beetle is precisely the same shade of indigo ink as the two dots. From Mr. Inkwell’s specialty shop on Badgley, I’d wager.”
    “So what’s the purpose of these markings? Some sort of message?”
    “That would be the logical assumption,” she said crisply. “But what, I’m not yet certain. We’ll both have to be vigilant this evening to determine what it could mean. I suspect that the nine might refer to a time, thus at nine o’clock, I shall be quite attentive to anything related to stars.”
    “What else?” I asked as she clicked her light closed and tucked it away. I could see her face only during the brief flashes of illumination from the streetlamps as we trundled along.
    “We found no envelope or seal. So we have no way of knowing who made the marks or when—whether it was before it left the Cosgrove-Pitt residence, or afterward; whether Miss Hodgeworth did it herself for some reason or whether it was given to her that way by someone else who received the invitation or someone involved in the sending of the invitation.”
    “And so the rest of the plan for tonight is to   .   .   .   what? Look for more beetles?” I asked, trying not to sound bored. I was going to be subjected to simpering young men and gossiping ladies simply so Miss Holmes could look for beetles? The most dangerous and exciting part of the night wouldbe to avoid getting my feet trod upon or a lemonade spilled upon my gown.
    “Of course. We must look for more beetles or Sekhmet scarabs and attempt to direct conversations whenever possible to the topic of Sekhmet. Even superficially,” she added as the carriage pulled up to the drive at Cosgrove Terrace. “If anyone should show interest in Sekhmet, that could be a lead. As well, I should like to gain access to Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s study to see if we can find the list of invitees.”
    “Do you mean break into her study?”
    Miss Holmes once again managed to look down at me from her seated position. “I prefer to think of it as accidentally stumbling upon the chamber. Regardless of how it occurs, once we ascertain whether Miss Hodgeworth is on the original invitation list, we will then have narrowed down the identity of the person who made the marks.”
    “How?”
    Miss Holmes sighed. “If Miss Hodgeworth isn’t on the original list, then we can assume someone else marked up an invitation—presumably his or her own—and sent it to her. Narrowing down who the invitation was originally meant for, or who marked it up, will assist us in identifying the messenger, and hopefully provide us a connection between Miss Hodgeworth and Miss Martindale.”
    I blinked at her convoluted explanation. Yet it made sense. “But her mother or sister would have known whether Mayellen received an invitation to one of the most talked-aboutparties of the year.” The carriage lurched forward, then stopped. I peeked out the window to see a long line of people disembarking from other vehicles. “The Roses Ball is the event of the season, and only the cr è me de la cr è me would be invited.”
    “Of course,” my companion replied with a hint of aggravation. “That was my first question to the Hodgeworths. Neither Mrs. Hodgeworth nor her other daughter were aware of an invitation from Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt.”
    I nodded and handed back the notecard, which she might need to gain entrance. I had my own, of course. “Very well, then.”