Spitting Gold by Carmella Lowkis

Author:Carmella Lowkis [Lowkis, Carmella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical, Mystery, Fantasy
ISBN: 9781668024959
Amazon: 1668024950
Goodreads: 199797612
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2024-05-13T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN March 13, 1866

THOUGH I didn’t see Florence again for some while, I was bouncing about at the thrill for days to follow. I hadn’t told Papa a word of it. He did ask the next morning if anyone had been in the house with me—claimed he’d heard women’s voices. But I told him it must’ve been a dream. He’d only have called me stupid for agreeing to Florence’s scheme. Or worse: he’d think I’d agreed to it just because… well, because Florence was quite pretty. I didn’t need to get into all that again.

And besides, I didn’t want him finding out about the money—he’d demand a cut, and why should he have that when I was the one putting myself at risk?

Keeping it from him made it all the more exciting. I’d not had a secret from Papa for a long time. Maybe it was childish to enjoy it, but I didn’t care; it was like my whole life had a fresh glow. Even something simple as sewing had a new sheen to it; I’d sit with my threads in the kitchen and think, here’s where she dripped all over the floor, there’s the chair where she put her cloak.

My latest work was stitching buttons onto shirts. They were of a cheap, rough cloth that made my palms itch like anything, but the soldiers they were destined for weren’t exactly in a position to be choosy. The work was dull as you like: line up a button, poke the needle through the holes, trace patterns with thread till it all held together. No wonder I kept drifting off in my thoughts, coming back to find a pricked finger and great cranberries of blood on the fabric. ’Course, they’d get blood on them eventually, but you hoped it wouldn’t be French blood.

Thankfully, Papa didn’t seem to notice how daydreamy I’d grown, despite how I must’ve been walking round half the time with a ridiculous big smile on my face. It was like being in love, only without the heartache.

Then again, Papa had been a tad off-kilter himself these past couple of months. I didn’t know what’d got into him—well, besides the usual drink. One day, I caught him putting his shoes on the wrong feet. Another day, he went on and on about the racket of rain at the window, though it was sunny as anything outside—one of those bright February days that hurts your eyes. But he didn’t take well to my pointing these things out.

“Not raining? Don’t try to be funny with me, girl. I’ve already got a headache and you know I’ve no sense of humor. I lost it at a game of faro.”

“Why don’t you take a look out the window, then?” I asked.

“Where’s my boots?”

Then he went tearing about the kitchen, looking for them everywhere bar the cupboard where they were actually kept.

I had a little fun watching him work himself up, not bothering to help, till he turned on me and it got less fun.

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