Alistair helped Westie to stand.
“And who do we have here?” Lavina asked when Isabelle crawled out from her back corner. Her head was down, cheeks flushed crimson. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Isabelle Johansson. My parents own the apothecary,” she said to the ground.
“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” Lavina said. Isabelle looked up then, her smile like an exploding sun. “I could eat you up.”
Alistair clutched Westie’s flesh hand. Lavina looked at Westie as if gauging her reaction. Westie’s entire body was frozen; she couldn’t look frightened even if she wanted to.
“What are those pamphlets I’ve seen you carrying around?” Westie asked Cain to take the focus off Isabelle. She didn’t like the not-so-subtle looks Cain was exchanging with her friend.
“Information about Nigel’s magic amplifier—costs and sales projections, mostly. Things a girl wouldn’t understand,” he said with a dismissive shrug.
James huffed out laughter. “You see, Westie, a girl homeschooled by the most brilliant man of our time couldn’t possibly keep up with Cain’s fifth-grade education.” His smile faded when he saw Westie and Alistair’s interwoven fingers.
With an ugly scowl, Cain pushed James into the bolts of fabric, knocking them off their rollers and onto the floor with a startling clamor. James might have been small compared to Cain, but he was scrappy and got right back on his feet. He tackled Cain to the ground, knocking down a shelf. Bags of flour broke open, filling the room with white dust.
The shopkeeper grunted something from the front of the store. Isabelle hid her open mouth with her hand. It would’ve been a fine time for them to slip out had Lavina not been blocking the way.
“Boys! Stop that at once.” Lavina looked to Hubbard for help. “Please deal with this.”
Hubbard grabbed James and Cain by the collars of their jackets, lifting them off the ground as if they were oily rags. “Always nice to see you, Westie,” James called out as he was dragged from the store. Olive rode her father’s shoulders, clapping and shouting, “Punish them, Daddy. Punish them good.”
Lavina appeared genuinely embarrassed when facing Westie again. “I must apologize. I hope you’ll still welcome us to the ball. I promise my children will be on their best behavior.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Westie said, tugging at Alistair’s hand once Lavina had moved enough to clear a path.
There was a painful throbbing at the back of Westie’s neck from tension, and her teeth hurt from clenching her jaw. She couldn’t remember ever being as wound up as she was in Lavina’s presence.
Twenty-Two
For the next two days, Westie watched the Fairfields from the shadows, finding excuses to go into town or bring up their names in conversation to local busybodies who thrived on gossip. In a conversation she had with Huan Zhao, a Chinese woman who sold dumplings at morning market, she learned Lavina was dull and mostly talked about expensive dresses Huan could never afford. From the accounts of the whittler in front of Doc Flannigan’s office, she knew the mayor, Hubbard, and Cain were all about politics and Emma, and from everyone else Westie talked to, James cared only about fun and games. In all that time she hadn’t learned a single useful thing.
When it was finally time for the ball, Westie felt as if she were about to combust. She’d wring her hands, pace the room, sit, then repeat. Outside her bedroom window, she heard the creaking joints of carriages, the clopping of hooves, and the excited murmur of voices blending together as guests arrived for the ball.
Westie let a slow breath deflate her lungs and shook out her arms. “Are you sure James and the Fairfields have arrived? This entire party will be a waste of time if they don’t show up,” she said to Bena.
“As sure as I was five minutes ago.” Bena stood behind her, pulling curlers from Westie’s hair. Each curl was pinned and tucked just so, and adorned with gems to match her eyes. For a wild thing, Bena could pin and curl with the best of them.
Westie let out a bleat of impatience.
She’d spent the afternoon in Bena’s care. Her friend had used a homemade concoction of plant oils and springwater to make Westie’s auburn hair shine as bright as her polished machine. Her body and nails were scrubbed, and she was in full war paint.
When all was done, Westie stood in front of the mirror wearing the dress Nigel had given her. She’d given up on trying to find one she liked better after running into the Fairfields at the general store.
She laughed at her reflection. “Have you ever seen anyone look as silly as I do right now?”
Bena’s smile was a straight, unmoving line. “You do not look half as ridiculous as Nigel.”
“He’s not wearing his red suede shoes with the brass buckles, is he?”