Page 32 of A Deal with the Devil

An hour later and Kitty had probably avoided going home long enough. Her still slightly-inebriated but at least no-longer-bleeding-all-over-himself guest had left, and she had put away the ladder and her brushes. There was nothing left to do except walk home.

And relive every moment of that blasted kiss now that there was nothing left to distract her.

The feel of Devil pressed up against her. His breath in her mouth, his fingers gripping the back of her neck, keeping her still for his taking.

What was locking the money box, and then walking down the street now crowded with more young men getting ready to carouse? What was any of it compared to the thrill of being kissed by Devil?

She was being a goose. A kiss did not change anything, not really. It secured her aid. It got Devil what he wanted: the wager she had safely hidden in the jar with her paintbrushes. She moved it daily: in the sugar canister, now mostly empty, under the plant in the back parlor, inside Galahad’s bag of carrots when he was not satisfied with the bugs hunted in the commons. Inside her best Christmas hat. Inside her shoe, more often than not.

She would keep the kiss the same way: a memory that moved around too fast for reality to touch. A small thing just for her.

She allowed herself to feel his mouth claiming hers again, to relish the strength of his crowding her against the table, the hitch in his breath. It was hers the whole length of her walk home.

And then she was Kitty Caldecott again. Sister, daughter, niece. Embarrassment to the family.

In a house drafty in the winter with lack of coal for the grates, with most of the rooms empty of furniture that had been sold and faded squares on the walls where paintings had been taken down. Except for a seascape that covered the damage left by a man who stopped by to collect money owed to his gaming hell.

They had one small parlor left for use, because her father still fancied himself a baron with a baron’s lifestyle, still gentry enough to be called upon by wealthy merchants if not the aristocracy proper. And because Aunt Priscilla was determined to act as though she were a duchess until someone made it so. They both sat by the window, only two candles burning for light when once there was a forest of beeswax tapers with little notice to the cost.

“Where is your sister?” Aunt Priscilla demanded as soon as she saw Kitty. Her cheeks were red, a clear indication that she was in high dudgeon and had been for some time.

“Isn’t she here?” Kitty asked innocently.

“Don’t play the fool with me.”

The trouble was that Aunt Priscilla was also so much more clever than Kitty’s father. She could spot a lie, a weakness, inside a mere hesitation. And she descended on it like a hawk on its supper. There would be blood and feathers in the parlor before bedtime.

“Are you listening to me?” Aunt Priscilla seethed. “We need her back in this house this instant!”

“No.” Kitty did not know what else to say that had not already been said. “Father is the one with the debt—he can pay the price. Not Evie.”

Her father, soft, gentle, and often bewildered, looked as though he might cry. He sniffled once. Kitty could not let it soften her. He was always sorry. Genuinely sorry. For a little while.

And it never made a difference. Not really.

There was always another wager, another debt. The only reason the bookshop was still running was because her grandmother technically still owned it. She was in a seaside cottage, not dead—as she liked to remind everyone, usually through summons to visit her and odd packages of pulled taffy and seashell art sent as gifts. Kitty missed her fiercely. Granny demanded the accounts be sent to her so that she had something good to read, along with every story written by the Nightingale.

“These aren’t like the others,” her father said miserably. “These are not gentlemen, poppet.”

The man who had punched a hole through their wall had not been a gentleman either. He had looked at Evie as though she were chattel to be bartered or taken. That was when Kitty had first started to find hiding holes for her sister. The gentlemen that followed suit, it had to be said, were no better. Not one whit.

“Evie is not coming home,” Kitty said firmly. “Find another way.”

“There is no other way,” Aunt Priscilla said with all the resonance of a funeral bell. “Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

“I’ll find one.” Kitty rubbed at her breastbone. She wished she were back at the shop—back on the rooftops, even. Anywhere but here. She’d considered convincing her grandmother to sell the shop, but she knew even if they sold every single book and tract and every shelf down to the fastenings, it would not be nearly enough. And her father had other debts that needed paying.

Kitty wanted to scream.

Followed by a strong cup of tea and an entire strawberry cake. And wine.

Instead, a knock sounded at the door.

She gave very serious consideration to crawling under the settee and staying there until whoever it was went away. They never did. She knew that from long experience.

As they did not have a butler, nor a housekeeper, Kitty answered the summons, the usual anxiety swirling in her stomach. Another collector? Someone more violent than the last? What story could she spin to buy them time? What promise? What lie?

But it was worse than a debt collector with a smug smile and an iron pipe in hand.