Page 92 of A Rare Find

Slowly, they lifted their gaze to the ceiling. Write to Harry, already at his wit’s end with them? Write to Mr. Owlett, well rid of his charge?

“I don’t know yet.” They started as a vise closed around their ankle. “What in the…?” It was only Matilda.

“Is there more cheesecake?” she asked.

After the twins had finished the cheesecake, and been deposited in the nursery, right before Georgie turned at the base of the stairs to depart for the night, Elf shook her head, as though she’d arrived at a hard reckoning.

“What?” they asked.

“The hoard,” she said, with palpable reluctance. “We’re wasting our time.”

A sinking feeling threatened to pull Georgie’s stomach down into their feet.

“We’ve been a bit remiss.” They couldn’t help but look at her lips.

“That’s not the main issue.” Her cheeks were turning pink. “There’s too much guesswork. Conjecture nested within conjecture. We might as well search for a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. I had to try. But now I have to remember my priorities.”

They frowned in confusion.

“The bluff. I’m going to start digging on the bluff again.” She reached for their hand and squeezed it, apologetically. “I received a response from Papa. The only workman he’ll sanction in the blue room is the original workman.”

“Who is…?” Their brows went up.

“Dead,” she said, wryly. “This is a medieval hall.”

“Right.”

She released their hand and gripped her own elbows. “And he’s extending the tour another week. I know the Northmen camped on the bluff. I found one artifact. Perhaps I’ll find another while he’s still with the Barrow Prince. If I dig.”

The glance she gave them was apprehensive. “I’m sorry. I understand if—”

“I’ll dig too,” they interrupted, grinning with relief. She didn’t want to stop spending time with them. She wanted to shift her efforts from the hoard to the camp. “I’m a dab at shoveling. Remember?”

“There’s nothing in it for you,” she protested. Her eyes, though, had begun to shine. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find some nails or buckles.”

We. She’d said we. It was decided.

They drew her toward them and kissed her mouth. “Wonderful. Nails and buckles.”

And this. More of this.

They could feel her smile, and a thrill curved their lips in answer as they pulled her nearer still. She wanted this as much as they did, at least as much as she wanted those nails and buckles, and that knowledge flooded them with a triumph so intense it felt perilously close to surrender.

—

The next morning, The Derby Mercury was on the table.

“The fourth of June?” They snatched it up. “How is it the fourth of June?”

Bagshaw was just leaving the breakfast room and paused at the door. “It is the fifth of June. The paper arrived yesterday afternoon.”

They sat down hard. “It is my birthday.”

“Many happy returns,” said Bagshaw.

“Do I have any letters?” they asked.

“No,” said Bagshaw.