Page 15

“Your drink,” he said, delaying the inevitable. When Ponsonby approached and claimed the glass, he clinked it hard with the bottle.

“Cheers.”

“Where are the pictures?” Ponsonby glanced at the glass, then at Kit, then again around the room. “Where’s your easel?”

“Burned it.” Kit swigged from the bottle, the sear of the liquor spreading through his body in tandem with the memory.

“You’re not serious.”

“Grave as a mustard pot.” Kit swigged again. “Art bores me.”

“That’s a lie.” Ponsonby blinked. “Some art bores you. Maybe most art bores you. But you’ve always been fiendishly impressed with your own. Not that I blame you. If I could paint half so well, I’d be twice as insufferable.”

Kit was beginning to regret opening the door. “I’m still insufferable, don’t worry.”

Ponsonby gulped his whiskey. “What does Coover say about this? And the rest of your Sisterhood? Didn’t you all pledge to transform the art world?”

“We did.” Kit reached out with the bottle and refilled the glass. “As women artists.”

“And you’re…You don’t…Right.” This time the whiskey went down the wrong pipe. Ponsonby coughed until his eyes watered. “I hadn’t thought it through. Too heady. Sorry, Griff.”

Kit shrugged.

“I wish Lucy had told me you were in St. Ives.” Ponsonby fiddled absently with the iron vise at the end of the table. “We talked about my trip, at Burgess’s salon, but she didn’t let on.”

Kit said nothing. Ponsonby assumed Lucy knew where he was living. And shouldn’t she? Only miserable gits lied to their best mates. Kit had lied to everyone about his time in the West Country, claiming for himself a merry, Turneresque itinerancy designed to stave off visits.

He cycled to different towns to mail his correspondence and supplied, for a return address, the post office in Camborne, where he paid a clerk to hold letters and parcels.

Lately, they’d been few and far between.

“I understand why.” Ponsonby sounded only slightly grudging. “She didn’t know I knew. That you go by Griff.”

“I don’t.” Kit rolled his eyes. “No one calls me that but you.”

“Hmm.” Ponsonby looked pleased.

Kit wondered how he’d react to the truth.

You knew before Lucy.

He’d probably feel more confused than flattered.

“I sent her a telegram.” Ponsonby missed Kit’s violent start. He was wandering toward the New Rapid.

“You…what?” Kit’s heart hammered.

“I sent a telegram to Coover. Turns out I found you without her help. I had to rub it in a bit.” Ponsonby ran a finger along the rim of the New Rapid’s front wheel. “Shiny.” He turned and caught Kit’s eye. “Is something wrong?”

Kit tipped the bottle, whiskey rushing down his throat, taking with it the ugly stream of curses.

Thomas Everett Ponsonby, trump and bungler of the first water.

He’d wired Lucy.

“Did I do something wrong?” Ponsonby’s face was falling.

Kit had to massage his neck to coax out an approximation of human speech. He wanted to roar. Instead, he croaked, like a rook.