Plop.

Another dollop of dough landed on the tailor’s bill, holding two more questions Chess had written for Lady Eleanor. He shifted the paper slightly and glared at the immovable dough.

He was beginning to suspect she was doing that on purpose. Lifting the blob between his two fingers, he held it high and asked her, “Need this?”

She shook her head no. “Please continue, Lord Chesterwick. This is so diverting,” she said with an eye roll as she gave the dough a mighty punch.

He reached for his hat and pulled two more scraps of paper from inside the brim. She looked up in surprise, and her eyes grew round. “Just how many of these do you have?”

He felt sheepish. “27. My valet counted.”

“And you felt the need to write them all on different pages?”

“I wrote on what I could reach in the dark, as the questions came to me.”

She stood still and silent, watching him shuffle through the rumpled notes as he sat perched uneasily on his stool. Then, as he looked down to find his next thought, she dipped her hand into the flour bowl and tossed a small puff of flour toward his face. He jumped back, spreading paper and tiny pieces of dough.

“I need you to move your elbows and your novel from my table,” she explained. “It’s time to fold the dough.”

“Oh,” he ducked his head to gather his remnants. “Right.”

She seemed to soften like the smooth, buttery dough she poured out onto the flour-covered table, as if she decided to help him somewhere between adding the butter and the salt. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for with all these questions, and I’ll try and tell you if I know it,” she suggested gently.

She picked up her rolling pin, and her face relaxed, even as her gaze locked in on the pile of dough. She smiled the smile of angels, then attacked the pile of dough with a vengeance.

Chess made a mental note never to tangle with her over a rolling pin.

Like what you read? Want some more context?