Page 28 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Cyril cleared his throat. She detected amusement.

“Mrs. Whittemore,” Florrie said, “would you be so good as to excuse me and Violet to freshen up?”

Yes. That. Leaving the room altogether trumped sliding under the table.

“Of course, dear.”

With the help of a hand supporting her elbow, Violet shakily stood, lifted her chin, and turned to Florrie.

“We’ll return shortly, of course,” Florrie said, reaching a hand to walk arm in arm with Violet.

No, no, no. No returning. No shortly.

They left the dining room. Violet’s face burned with the heat of a thousand suns. “Do you have any pixie dust, Florrie? I’d like to fly far away.”

Florrie patted her arm. “I left it in my other bag. You do know how to bring a room to its feet. Mr. Burke practically leaped over the table to assist. Perhaps he has a stash of pixie dust, himself.”

“Mr. Burke? I doubt that man has a whimsical bone in his body,” she lied.

“His rather agile body.”

“Florrie!”

“Just an observation. Anyway, we were all quite concerned. I’m glad it wasn’t a fish bone or hunk of bread. Do you remember poor Mrs. Crenshaw?”

Violet kept a steady course for the lavatory. “No.”

“She choked on a hunk of bread. Stuck tight and swelling, and there was nothing to be done.”

Violet’s hand went to her throat. “That is ghastly. You are not helping.”

“My apologies. Here we are.”

The first-floor lavatory was a thing to behold. They’d modeled the new school’s main-floor lavatories after it. Long and narrow, white tiles on the floor and halfway up the walls, willow-green paint above, and leaded glass transoms crowning the entry, linen closet, and water closet doors. A bank of twin porcelain sinks lined one long wall, the water closet directly across from those, and a green velvet settee against the far wall beneath a Surrey landscape by James Edwin Meadows. There is where Florrie ushered Violet and told her to sit.

“Now, let’s do something about those splotches, shall we?”

Violet groaned into her hands. She hadn’t even glanced in the mirror above the sinks. “Is it very bad?”

“In comparison to what?” Florrie had retrieved a soft, linen hand towel and held it under the cold tap water. “What matters is that it is repairable, and you are alive.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Yes, dear. It’s entirely contrary to my nature to be dramatic.” Florrie lifted her brows in challenge, and Violet leaned forward, allowing her theatrical friend to dab her face with the cool towel. Florrie rinsed it once more and handed it to Violet.

“You continue with that. I’m going to fix some of your hairpins.”

Violet pressed the cloth over her eyes. “Am I a wild creature?”

Florrie spoke through a pin she held in her teeth as her fingers poked and prodded. “Yes, but I’m fixing your hair anyway.”

Violet glared around her towel. Florrie’s blue-eyed gaze maintained innocence.

“There. Good as new. The redness is calming as well. No one would ever guess you’ve just battled to the death with a glass of wine. May it rest in peace.”

Violet moved to the sinks, refreshing the towel and taking account of her appearance. “I do not feel the victor.”

“Trust me, the wine looked far worse. Splayed across the table like that, dripping down the—”