Page 61 of Hearts of Locke Hill

He bowed in deep and fictitious thanks.

“But, miss, what of the objectafthis thought-grinder?”

They all turned to the chaperone, who looked at them as if they’d be daft not to get to solving this mystery, posthaste.

“Of course, Agnes. Forgive me.” Violet turned to Cy as he stepped toward her. Her eyes widened a fraction as they took in the breadth of his shoulders.

“Yes, Miss Whittemore,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You must tell me. What is aft my thought-grinder?”

She struggled to contain a giggle. Truly, he was surprised he could get the question out so evenly, let alone that he would ever utter such a sentence in the first place. But he remembered the marble, and it powered his self-mastery.

“It is a box,” she said.

He frowned. “A box?”

“Yes.”

Agnes stepped forward. “What sort of box, miss?”

“A dusty box, I’m afraid.” She shifted her compassionate gaze to the woman. “Chained up with a lock. The key forgotten.”

“Hmm,” Cy said. Growled, more like.

Miss Janes shook her head beneath the frothy hat and parasol. “What a shame. Is it …?”

Violet solemnly nodded her head. “Yes. I’m afraid it’s the compartment where his sense of fun is kept. It’s shriveled with neglect.”

Agnes closed her eyes as if the news pained her.

“So it is as I suspected,” Miss Janes said, placing her free hand on her heart. “I knew it was there. I imagine if I were to pick up the box and shake it very hard”—she demonstrated a rigorous shaking motion Cy didn’t altogether appreciate—“it would knock around like a rock.”

Violet nodded forlornly and sighed. “Indeed. Like a hard, shriveled, forgotten rock.”

“Pink, no doubt,” Cy muttered to himself. “Quartz.”

Violet blinked. “What?”

“Nothing. Thank you, ladies, for … aiding me at this time of … forlornitude.”

“Oh, but, Mr. Burke, I beg your pardon, sir.” Agnes hurried up to him, stopping at a proper distance, and bobbed her head. “My mother fancied herself a spiritualist back in the day, what with Prince Albert leaving his queen too soon and so many of her loyal subjects experiencing the thinning of the curtain between here and the spiritual realm. It were a wondrous time. I seldom speak of it—”

“You’ve never spoken of it—” Miss Janes said, a bit put out.

“—but my mother believed the heart were made up of different compartments, much like our dearest Miss Whittemore has observed—”

Violet drew her head back in a look of utter surprise at being referred to as “dearest.”

“She must havethe gift,” Agnes whispered. “For perhaps, too, our minds are made up of compartments. I sense your disbelief—”

Now it was his turn to draw his head back in surprise. He thought he’d been playing his bit quite well.

“—but you must give this credence. Else you risk”—she glanced to her right and left and said—“imbalance.”

He heard the others gasp.

“And we know what imbalance leads to,” she said knowledgeably.

They each leaned forward. “What?”