She shakes her head with far too much enthusiasm to be passed off as natural. It looks like a pantomime in a musicale meant to be seen from the galleries. “No, you must be remembering wrong,” she says, then adds in a great rush, “Monty, would you and Percy go fetch the pitcher and glasses? I left them in the kitchen.”
Percy is still entirely focused upon doing some sort of complex calendar math as I take him by the arm and drag him after me into the kitchen before either he exposes Felicity’s lie or Felicity does that herself. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I knock his knee with my foot—my hands being occupied with gathering up glasses—to get him to pay attention to me. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Am I wrong?” he asks.
“About what?”
13
“Felicity’s birthday is in March, isn’t it? Because it fell on Easter one year, and you told her Jesus would be mad at her for stealing his day.”
“Yes, well, that’s related to my proposition.”
“Jesus being angry at your sister?”
“No, the overly elaborate lie she just told to make sure the flat would be empty for us.”
“Oh.” Realization dawns suddenly. “Oh!”
“Yes. Oh.”
“You . . . set a date for it.”
I did, didn’t I? That puts rather a lot of emphasis on it, not to mention a very intimidating countdown. My stomach flips unpleasantly. “Only if you’re ready. Sorry, I should have asked.
We could go out with the crew instead. Or stay here and eat a lot of cakes. Or just lie next to each other in rigid silence without touching until—”
“Yes,” he interrupts.
“Yes to which of those?”
“Yes, I would like to stay in with you for the very specific reasons which you designed this deception.” He pauses, then adds, “As upsetting that I find it that Felicity is involved.”
“Hardly involved.” He raises an eyebrow, and I add, “I was desperate.”
“Yes, I should hope she wasn’t your first choice.” He takes up the pitcher, then leans forward and kisses me on the temple, and I will never not be simultaneously infuriated and amused and a tiny bit aroused by our vast height difference. Though Percy could sneeze and I’d be sporting a partial. “Thank you for being patient with me.”
14
It’s less about being patient and more simply having to get myself off for the last several weeks, but saying that will likely come off rather less romantic than I intend, so instead I reply,
“I’m very good at patience” and am only a tiny bit resentful when he laughs.
When we return to the table with the tea, Georgie has joined us, sitting on the ledge of the garden path and happily demolishing a handful of honeycomb, until he sees Percy and
immediately scoots down to sit beside him. Georgie is, in a word, obsessed with Percy. I’d be jealous if Georgie weren’t ten years old and his devotion to Percy so damn adorable.
“I brought a letter for you,” George says to Percy.
“A letter?” Percy repeats. “From you?”
“Are you writing Percy love letters, Georgie?” I tease.
“From London,” Georgie says, then reaches into the waistband of his trousers—not my
favorite place for him to be carrying things he’s bringing us—and withdraws a folded sheet of parchment with a London port-of-origin stamp, which he hands to Percy.
Percy’s face sobers as he breaks the seal. “It’s from my uncle.” His eyes scan the page, and we all sit, watching him read and waiting to hear the verdict. We’ve been waiting for this letter since we arrived in Santorini, but it has come far quicker than expected. This was the letter wherein we would learn whether Percy’s proposal to his uncle—using his position to grant the crew of the Eleftheria a Letter of marque to sail legitimately in the service of the English crown as thanks for our rescue, and also whether he’d be willing to grant this without letting my parents know what has happened to us, or requiring us to return home immediately—or, in Percy’s case, report immediately to the Holland asylum where he had wanted to see him sent. We all of us have a uniquely weighted stake in Thomas Powell’s answer to his nephew’s plea.
15
“He says he can see a Letter of marque issued,” Percy says to Scipio, then reads, “‘And though your aunt and I do not feel we can support a life for you beyond institutionalization, your choice is outside of our control. We can only trust that you have made the necessary
accommodations.’” He looks up at me. “All right. That’s not bad.”
Felicity and I trade a glance. “He won’t tell our parents, you think?” I ask.
“I didn’t mention it was you I was running away with specifically,” Percy says. “And I didn’t tell him where we’re going. But he doesn’t particularly care for your father.”
“They know we’re safe,” Felicity says. “That’s probably excessive information for Father.”
“He says he remembers you,” Percy says to Scipio, who nods with a faint smile.
“That’s good news.”
“His office is in Liverpool,” Percy continues, studying the letter again. “He wants you to come there and meet with him, and he says if he finds you fitting, he’s willing to grant the Letter of marque.”
“And will you come with us?” Scipio asks.
“To Liverpool?” Percy folds the letter and passes it to Felicity, who holds out an expectant hand. “Not likely. I thought London instead.”
“London?” I repeat. This was the first I’d heard of it.
He looks over at me. “We talked about London, didn’t we? I assumed that’s where we’d go.
It doesn’t seem practical to live outside of England—we’ll get on much better without having to worry about foreign documentation. And we both speak the language—your French isn’t good enough to set up anywhere else. And I thought it would be a decent place for me to find work.
Try to get a post as a music teacher, or a hired musician.”
16
“You have . . .” I look down at the rippled surface of my drink. “Given this quite a lot of thought.”
“Haven’t you?” Felicity asks. I glare at her. It’s not her fault I haven’t looked beyond our time in the Cyclades, but she could be a little less obnoxiously shocked by this.
“Where will you be going, Miss Montague?” Scipio asks, and I’m prepared to offer her an equally smug proclamation of her lack of preparedness, but before I can, she says with great conviction, “To Edinburgh.”
“You won’t be signing on with us, then?” Scipio asks.
Felicity swipes the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “While your offer of a position with your crew is very considerate, I can’t see being a ship surgeon as a truly viable career for me. I’d like more than anything to get a medical education and receive some formal schooling in the subject. And since Edinburgh has the best hospitals in the country and the only university offering medical degrees, I’m going there.”