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“You had a general condition.” There was a new note in their voice. “Of wanting me to kiss you.”
“Comical.” She gave a weak laugh. “Your turn.”
“How is it comical?”
“Because. Because you. And me. We were enemies. Enemies don’t kiss. Now we’re friends, and friends don’t kiss either.”
“Who kisses, then? People with purely neutral feelings?”
She felt cornered and tried to hide it with a dismissive snort. “We’re not debating this.”
“The condition.” They said it delicately. “Does it afflict you still?”
“Not in the present circumstances. Obviously.” Was it obvious? Maybe the present circumstances called for kissing. Their surroundings felt like a tomb, but she was alive, and Georgie was alive, and she wanted more aliveness, wanted to touch it and taste it.
She touched the floor. “We need an implement, for digging. Do you feel any loose rocks?”
She began to crawl, feeling her way.
“It still afflicts you, though.” They’d begun to crawl too. “Generally?”
She stopped. “There’s no generally if we don’t unbury ourselves.”
“My God.” They barked a laugh. “That’s a bracing thought.”
The cave floor was covered with smooth clay in some places, rough grit in others. None of the loose rocks were sized or shaped remotely like chisels.
She crawled straight into Georgie.
“Was that your head again?” She sat up, gripping her shoulder.
“It was my nose that time.” Georgie’s voice was right by her ear. “Elf, I was thinking. The last time we saw each other, before I went to London—”
“Mrs. Pattinson’s?” Surprise and displeasure sharpened her voice. “You’re bringing up Mrs. Pattinson’s? Now?”
“I didn’t follow you to the library.”
“Honesty. Please.” She hunched, instinctively guarding her middle. “We’re friends. You don’t have to lie about how things were back then.”
“I’m not lying.”
Why did they persist? Why return at all to that night?
The ball had been a torment from beginning to end. Aunt Susan had dragged her in front of every bachelor in the neighborhood. She could still feel the crisp ringlets twinging her scalp, and the flood of relief when she’d managed to sneak up the stairs. She’d stolen into the quiet library, tucked herself behind the curtain in the window seat, opened a book on her lap, and escaped into the pages—an escape that proved temporary.
“I went to the library to hide.” Wallflowers did such things during dances. Georgie didn’t. “You and your friends followed, to entertain yourselves at my expense. Otherwise, how do you explain your presence? Did you come to read?” Her tone jeered at the very possibility.
“Erm. Yes, in fact.”
A scoffing laugh burst from her. “Conduct manuals? Religious tracts?”
“Bawdy pamphlets. With pictures, we hoped.” Georgie muttered it, sheepishly. “Supposedly, Mr. Pattinson kept a secret shelf of them.”
She shut her eyes. The memory was crystal clear: Georgie yanking back the curtain and staring down at her, exultant. Their brows had tilted with wicked amusement, and a moment later, the Janes appeared behind them, and two or three others, everyone rosy from dancing and equally hilarious.
“All of you laughed,” she whispered.
“I wish we hadn’t.”
