She turned her back on him. “Never mind.” If he cared for Isabelle, she didn’t want to know.
He took Westie by the shoulders, forcing her to face him, and signed, I fancy Isabelle the way a snail fancies a block of salt. I promised Nigel I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, but I’m bored. Can we go home?
It was difficult reading his hands with his mouth covered up. A lot of signing had to do with facial expressions, but she understood him for the most part.
“Does he think I’ll end up with my face planted in a pool of vomit at the Tight Ship?”
Alistair shook his head. If I had to take a guess, I’d say his distrust has something to do with the Fairfields. He finds your eagerness for this party worrisome. And I have to admit, so do I.
He and Nigel had every right to be concerned. If she was in a room with the family who killed her own, there was no telling what her emotions might force her to do, but she was willing to take the chance if it meant learning their secrets.
Isabelle called Westie into the store, dragging her over to the fabrics in the back. Westie was eyeing a swatch of white silk when bells chimed over the door.
“Oh look,” Isabelle said, “it’s Lavina and Olive Fairfield.”
Westie whipped around, nearly knocking over a shelf of flour. She held her body against the wooden case to steady it, but when it continued to wobble, she realized it was she who trembled. She watched Lavina and her sour whelp walk up to the front counter, where the clerk smiled with his moon-shaped face. Westie sought out Alistair and met his gaze with a silent plea.
Alistair rushed toward her, grabbed her by the machine, and tugged her to a crouch behind the bolts of fabric stacked near the wall. If one didn’t know better, one might think the two were lovers looking to be alone.
Isabelle squatted beside them. “What in blazes are you doing?”
Westie’s thoughts buzzed in her ears. She didn’t know how to explain her actions to Isabelle. She wished for Alistair’s quick lies, but without a voice, he was of no assistance to her.
“Have you ever had a conversation with Lavina Fairfield?” Westie asked.
Isabelle thought about it. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Pray you never do. That woman’s got more lip than a muley cow. She’ll talk your ear clean off, and she will . . . she will . . .” Westie couldn’t think of a single thing to follow.
Isabelle smiled, all gums and tiny square teeth. She wasn’t so much beautiful as she was cute, which gave her an innocent quality that boys and men alike adored.
“Don’t be silly,” Isabelle said. “Lavina has wonderful taste in fashion. She could be most helpful—”
Westie yanked Isabelle down when she tried to stand. Isabelle’s smile was gone, replaced with an unbecoming scowl. “What has gotten into you? I swear the two of you become odder as the years pass. Before you know it, you’ll be holed up in Nigel’s strange mansion and people will whisper rumors about you like Mrs. Shelley’s monster.”
“I’m dressed in rags.” Westie waved a hand, bringing Isabelle’s attention to her outfit, the same clothes she’d worn that morning to feed and brush the horses. “I’m not fit for an audience with someone like Lavina Fairfield.” Not that she actually cared what Lavina thought of her attire. It was just her attempt at avoiding the woman. After her last encounter with Lavina, Westie had sat in the doc’s office, gnawing on a piece of devil’s claw root to get rid of her headache. It had taken hours for her knees to stop shaking.
“Please. You are Nigel Butler’s adopted daughter. She will not mistake you for common.”
When Isabelle tried to stand again, Westie grabbed the girl’s fingers with her machine and squeezed. She knew by the shocked look on Isabelle’s face that she had read the threat.
Westie was stormed with guilt about using force against such a fragile thing as Isabelle, but she was given no choice.
“I’m sorry, Isabelle. Please forgive me,” Westie said. Isabelle yanked her hand back, rubbing her fingers. “If we can avoid Lavina just this once, I’ll give you the white French dress I wore at the airdocks.”
Isabelle watched her, the fear in her eyes leaking away. “You ruined that dress during your seizure.”
“Not ruined. Nigel sent it in for mending. It’s good as new, maybe even better. I’ll send for my own personal dressmaker to fit it to your body just right. It’s far richer than anything you’ll find in Rogue City.”
Isabelle looked up in thought, the gears in her head turning like clockwork. “I don’t know . . .” It felt like an eternity while Isabelle swished the idea around. Each second she spent thinking, Lavina drew nearer. Westie couldn’t remember a time when her friend had been more tiresome. “Everyone has seen you in that dress before.”