"Miss Butterworth
and the Mad Baron," Sebastian said approvingly. "Excellent
choice."
"You have read this?" Alexei asked.
"It's not as good as Miss Davenport and the Dark Marquis, of course, but worlds better than Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel."
Harry found himself rendered speechless.
"I'm reading Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman right now."
"Silent?" Harry echoed.
"There is a noticeable lack of dialogue," Sebastian confirmed.
"Are you all right?" he asked Olivia. His heart was still racing with terror that she'd been hurt. "I heard a woman scream."
"Ah, that would have been me," Sebastian said.
Harry looked down on his cousin, face frozen in disbelief. "You made that noise?"
"It hurt," Sebastian bit off.
Harry fought not to laugh. "You scream like a leettle girl."
She'd ceased spying upon him, that was true, but the damage was done. Every time he sat at his desk, he could feel her eyes upon him, even though he knew very well she'd shut her curtains tight. But clearly, reality had very little to do with the matter, because all he had to do, it seemed, was glance at her window, and he lost an entire hour's work.
It happened thus: He looked at the window, because it was there, and he couldn't very well never happen to glance upon it unless he also shut his curtains tight, which he was not willing to do, given the amount of time he spent in his office. So he saw the window, and he thought of her, because, really, what else would he think of upon seeing her bedroom window? At that point, annoyance set in, because A) she wasn't worth the energy, B) she wasn't even there, and C) he wasn't getting any work done because of her.
C always led into a bout of even deeper irritation, this time directed at himself, because D) he really ought to have better powers of concentration, E) it was just a stupid window, and F) if he was going to get agitated about a female, it ought to be one he at least liked.
F was where he generally let out a loud growl and forced himself to get back to his translation. It usually worked for a minute or two, and then he'd look back up, and happen to see the window, and the whole bloody nonsense cycled back to the beginning.
Most people would have probably lost count around seven. This was, Harry knew
from his extensive reading on logic and arithmetic, the largest number that most people
could visually appreciate. Put seven dots on a page, and most people can take a quick
glance and declare, "Seven." Switch to eight, and the majority of humanity was lost.
How I Would Like to Kill My Brother,
Version Sixteen
By Olivia Bevelstoke
No. really, what was the point? She could hardly top Version Fifteen, which had featured both vivisection and wild boar.
"Come along, Sally," she called out to her maid, who was lagging at least a dozen steps behind.
"It's early," Sally moaned.
"It's half seven," Olivia told her, holding steady for a few moments to allow Sally to catch up.
"That's early."
"Normally, I would agree with you, but as it happens I believe I am turning over a new leaf. Just see how lovely it is outside. The sun is shinning, there is music in the air..."
"I hear no music," Sally grumbled.
"Birds, Sally. The birds are singing."
Sally remained unconvinced. "That leaf of yours - I don't suppose you'd consider turning it back over again?"
"What is this 'baronet'?" the prince asked.
"Endlessly in between," Harry replied with a sigh. "A bit like purgatory, really."
He felt a bit like Romeo to her Juliet, minus the feuding families and poison.
And with pigeons.
When a man writes a romance, the woman dies. When a woman writes one, it ends all tidy and sweet.
"What?"
"You're so neat," she said, looking almost embarrassed.
He glanced pointedly over his shoulder. "There are four hundred on the other side of this door."
"But you're ruining me."
"I can't do it neatly?"
"It's good that you can be horrid when neccesary. It's a useful skill."
She leaned on her elbow, settling her chin onto her hand. "Funny, my brother never seemed to think so."
"You should be thankful that dark colors suit you. Not everyone wears black well."
"Why, Lady Olivia, is that a compliment?"
"No so much as a compliment to you as an insult to everyone else," she assured him.
"Thanks heaven for that. I don't think I would know how to conduct myself in a world in which you offered compliments.
Forget Romeo and Juliet. This was much closer to The Taming of the Shrew.
"You have read this?" Alexei asked.
"It's not as good as Miss Davenport and the Dark Marquis, of course, but worlds better than Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel."
Harry found himself rendered speechless.
"I'm reading Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman right now."
"Silent?" Harry echoed.
"There is a noticeable lack of dialogue," Sebastian confirmed.
"Are you all right?" he asked Olivia. His heart was still racing with terror that she'd been hurt. "I heard a woman scream."
"Ah, that would have been me," Sebastian said.
Harry looked down on his cousin, face frozen in disbelief. "You made that noise?"
"It hurt," Sebastian bit off.
Harry fought not to laugh. "You scream like a leettle girl."
She'd ceased spying upon him, that was true, but the damage was done. Every time he sat at his desk, he could feel her eyes upon him, even though he knew very well she'd shut her curtains tight. But clearly, reality had very little to do with the matter, because all he had to do, it seemed, was glance at her window, and he lost an entire hour's work.
It happened thus: He looked at the window, because it was there, and he couldn't very well never happen to glance upon it unless he also shut his curtains tight, which he was not willing to do, given the amount of time he spent in his office. So he saw the window, and he thought of her, because, really, what else would he think of upon seeing her bedroom window? At that point, annoyance set in, because A) she wasn't worth the energy, B) she wasn't even there, and C) he wasn't getting any work done because of her.
C always led into a bout of even deeper irritation, this time directed at himself, because D) he really ought to have better powers of concentration, E) it was just a stupid window, and F) if he was going to get agitated about a female, it ought to be one he at least liked.
F was where he generally let out a loud growl and forced himself to get back to his translation. It usually worked for a minute or two, and then he'd look back up, and happen to see the window, and the whole bloody nonsense cycled back to the beginning.
Most people would have probably lost count around seven. This was, Harry knew
from his extensive reading on logic and arithmetic, the largest number that most people
could visually appreciate. Put seven dots on a page, and most people can take a quick
glance and declare, "Seven." Switch to eight, and the majority of humanity was lost.
How I Would Like to Kill My Brother,
Version Sixteen
By Olivia Bevelstoke
No. really, what was the point? She could hardly top Version Fifteen, which had featured both vivisection and wild boar.
"Come along, Sally," she called out to her maid, who was lagging at least a dozen steps behind.
"It's early," Sally moaned.
"It's half seven," Olivia told her, holding steady for a few moments to allow Sally to catch up.
"That's early."
"Normally, I would agree with you, but as it happens I believe I am turning over a new leaf. Just see how lovely it is outside. The sun is shinning, there is music in the air..."
"I hear no music," Sally grumbled.
"Birds, Sally. The birds are singing."
Sally remained unconvinced. "That leaf of yours - I don't suppose you'd consider turning it back over again?"
"What is this 'baronet'?" the prince asked.
"Endlessly in between," Harry replied with a sigh. "A bit like purgatory, really."
He felt a bit like Romeo to her Juliet, minus the feuding families and poison.
And with pigeons.
When a man writes a romance, the woman dies. When a woman writes one, it ends all tidy and sweet.
"What?"
"You're so neat," she said, looking almost embarrassed.
He glanced pointedly over his shoulder. "There are four hundred on the other side of this door."
"But you're ruining me."
"I can't do it neatly?"
"It's good that you can be horrid when neccesary. It's a useful skill."
She leaned on her elbow, settling her chin onto her hand. "Funny, my brother never seemed to think so."
"You should be thankful that dark colors suit you. Not everyone wears black well."
"Why, Lady Olivia, is that a compliment?"
"No so much as a compliment to you as an insult to everyone else," she assured him.
"Thanks heaven for that. I don't think I would know how to conduct myself in a world in which you offered compliments.
Forget Romeo and Juliet. This was much closer to The Taming of the Shrew.
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