Free Copperhead by Tina Connolly Page B

heroine’s place ransacked—but it was all so the bad guy could plant the murder weapon on her.”
    “And if the murder weapon’s a face?” Helen said. There were lots of meanings to that, and Frye didn’t even know about Millicent, but she laughed anyway.
    “Yes, I like your style,” Frye said. “You can work on my face. I’ll be your first victim.”
    “You don’t know a thing about me,” protested Helen as she tried to wedge a broken chair leg back in place.
    Frye shrugged. “I’m a good judge of character. And my mind’s made up. Even Jane had to start somewhere. You have all her stuff, don’t you?” She pointed dramatically at the carpetbag. “I always saw her carrying that.”
    Helen nodded. “But I couldn’t possibly make the fey power work. Jane studied all summer to learn how to do it. And … she’s just good at that kind of thing.”
    Frye swung around and stood there casually studying her, hands slouched in pockets as if they were discussing where to eat lunch and not how to replace her face. “Jane said you were cleverer than you knew,” she said.
    Helen felt suddenly, strangely, lighter. Buoyed up. “I … I could try,” she said at last. “I make no promises. But I could put the clay on my hands and see how it feels. If I think I could do what she could.”
    “Excellent,” said Frye. “Shall we find a bed then?” She gestured at Jane’s slashed cot.
    “Gah, no!” said Helen. More calmly: “I mean, no. Not tonight. I have to rest.” And the memory of that botched operation was so fresh, so cutting. What was this woman thinking, trying to entrust this to her?
    “Tomorrow, then. You can come to my place.”
    “I can’t,” said Helen. “I’m not supposed to—”
    Frye looked at her curiously.
    “I mean. It’s dangerous on the streets for us without the masks. And I’ve … misplaced mine. You’ll have to come to me. Some early morning would be the best time to sneak in.”
    “Fine,” said Frye, who was apparently willing to let Helen win some of the arguments, as long as she got the main point she wanted. “Next Monday, perhaps—no shows on Monday. Can I wear slacks? Or is your neighborhood too stuffy?”
    “Well…,” said Helen.
    “Your face says it all,” said Frye. “I have a dress, don’t worry. I’m an actor, darling. I’ll blend in so I can sneak in.” She paused, studying Helen curiously. “Why are we sneaking me in?”
    “Well,” said Helen, again, but this woman threw her off balance. “That is. My husband doesn’t know I’m carrying on Jane’s work.” The words, slipping out, startled her. She was carrying on Jane’s work. She was going to convince The Hundred. She was .
    “Say no more,” said Frye. “Your marital affairs are absolutely your business and I am not going to pry. You find a good time next week and I will sneak in wearing a perfectly acceptable dress to see you.”
    “And I will only try the clay,” put in Helen. “I’m not promising anything beyond that.”
    “Yes, yes. Agreed?”
    “Agreed,” said Helen, and for the first time that day a genuine smile broke through the worries and fears.
    “You’re much prettier when you smile,” said Frye.
    “I thought I was pretty already,” said Helen cynically.
    “It’s not about the face, you know? I have learned that. Should’ve learned it sooner, but we all have our upbringings to contend with. When you entered the door you looked grim, but just now you look as though you could move mountains.”
    “Maybe I can,” said Helen. This woman thought she could do things. And she didn’t even have the excuse of being family, who maybe only thought it was good for you if they said they believed in you. Maybe she could move mountains. Maybe she could try.
    “So tell me,” said Frye. “What can I do for you in return?”
    Helen looked down at the piece of furniture she had been trying vainly to lift. “Help me move this trunk,” she said.
    With Frye’s help the