A Compendium of Ever-Increasing Mayhem by Courtney Milan

Author:Courtney Milan [Milan, Courtney]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Courtney Milan

Crash’s aunt—and his uncle, when the man was in England—lived in a flat over a cooper’s shop. At night, with all the customers departed and the apprentices off, the neighborhood was quiet. As quiet as anything ever was here, a quarter mile from the eternal hum of the St. Katharine docks.

He stepped close to the door and detected the muted sounds of spirited voices.

His aunt had guests over. She often did; her husband was the first mate on a trading vessel, and in the months when he was away, she entertained.

He knocked and waited. The door opened, and a brilliant dazzle of light met him. For a moment, his aunt was nothing but a dark silhouette lit by the oil lamps from behind. Then she moved back a pace and the palette of her skin shifted from midnight to umber.

She tried, oh, she tried, to frown at him disapprovingly. Alas. His aunt was terrible at disapproval, particularly where he was involved.

He embraced her. “Aunt Ree.”

She gave him a grudging pat on the back in return.

The other two women seated at the card table smiled at him over Ree’s shoulder, as if the evening’s entertainment had just arrived. Three white-haired women looking at him with that particular expression might have put another man off, but Crash knew them better.

Harriet Cathing had been his aunt’s friend since before he was born. She’d been a laundress then, before she married a ship’s lieutenant. Now she was… Well, technically, she was a laundress married to a ship’s lieutenant.

May Walsh hadn’t married anyone—at least not in a legally binding ceremony. She swore by the strategy to any of the young girls who would listen to her. She had a strong jaw and dark freckles spattering brown skin.

Once, Martha Claving had been the fourth whist player in their little quartet, and May’s longtime partner and companion. A little pencil sketch in a black crepe-draped frame marked the place she would have taken.

His aunt was shaking her head at him. “Crash,” she said, “Crash, Crash, Crash. You know Saturday night is whist night, and still you chose to invade. Ladies, you all know my scapegrace nephew. Crash, do try to be respectable.”

It was a bit of a joke between them, that word.

Crash gave the gathering a sweeping bow. “I am always respectable. If anyone chooses not to respect me, however…” He gave his aunt a low grin. “There’s very little I can do about that, is there?”

“Pish-tosh,” Miss Walsh said. “I so hate when men are respectable. It usually involves rather too much posturing.”

“Nonsense. You remember old Barnabas Tucker? Well, he…”

And they were off, as they so often were, on the sort of conversation that would have offended the more proper households three-quarters of a mile to the north.

“Speaking of Barnabas and his unfortunate predilections,” Miss Walsh said, “have you all heard what happened at Redding Copy House?”

The other two women shook their heads and made little tsking noises.

“Badly run,” Harriet said. “Staff constantly embezzling. No discretion in the clientele.

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