Twelfth Night Read Free Page B

Mother Stone had dabbled in anything more demanding than nettle rash, it would have likely been women’s troubles. And I wasn’t certain how much Benedick would approve of my encouraging his children to ponder such things.
    “There were potions and charms,” he went on in a sepulchral voice.
    “Yes, yes,” I hurried him on. “Then what?”
    He hesitated, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. “Well, then nothing, I suppose. Except that she has returned.”
    I blinked again. “Returned? What are you talking about?”
    “We’ve seen her,” he told me.
    “We saw a ghost,” Quentin corrected. “If she died, what’s in the cottage now is a ghost.”
    “But we don’t know that she died,” Tarquin argued. “Witches know things. She might have just flown off for a bit and decided to come back.”
    “Unlikely, old man. Where has she been for the last twenty years? And who did they bury?”
    Tarquin considered this. “Excellent question, Quentin.”
    Quentin puffed a little, his expression solemn. “There’s much investigating to be done.”
    I felt a flicker of interest stirring. “Not without me.”
    Tarquin and Quentin exchanged glances and looked at me with identical grins. “Do you mean it?” Tarquin asked.
    “Of course. If you’re going to go hunting witches and ghosts, you’ll want an experienced hand,” I told him.
    “Mr. Brisbane’s own right hand,” Quentin breathed.
    “Partner,” I corrected gently.
    “Of course,” he said, his excitement scarcely dampened. His eyes shone. “Do you think if Mr. Brisbane returns, he’d like to help us?”
    “I have no doubt,” I promised, crossing my fingers behind my back.
    The boys shook hands, eyes shining with enthusiasm, but before they could make further plans, there was a commotion at the door. Portia had arrived, her hair in disarray and her skirt marred by a suspicious stain. She went directly to the buffet table, taking a glass out of Aquinas’s hand as she went. She downed it and handed it back just as I reached her.
    “Do not speak to me. I cannot believe you left me there all day with that...with that creature ,” she said, lifting a plate and surveying the contents of the table. Dishes had been arranged atop a snowy damask cloth interspersed with vast displays of winter greens and berries and hothouse flowers. Aquinas had spared no glory, putting out the Cellini salt cellars and epergnes and a vast dish for holding ice and oysters. Portia seized the oyster tongs and began to load her plate.
    “Don’t finish them off,” I ordered. “I haven’t had a single one.”
    She turned, picked up the very last oyster and raised it to her lips. She slurped it down without a word and handed me the shell.
    “That was uncalled for,” I said, a trifle hurt. “But I cannot imagine how one small baby could upset you so terribly. He’s very tiny.”
    She gave me a quelling look. “I don’t mean the child. I mean that Scottish hell hag of yours.”
    “Morag? What has she done?”
    Portia helped herself to a large serving of pheasant and quince jam.
    “What has she not done? She spent the entire day elbowing me out of the way, making me feel the most wretched fool. Every time I touched him, she snatched him away as if she thought I were going to heave him into the fire. She crooned and fussed and made the most appalling cooing noises at him.”
    I felt my blood run cold. “You mean Morag likes him?”
    “She adores him. I think she wants to keep him for a pet,” she told me.
    I laughed. “We have quite enough of those.”
    As if on cue, a tiny furred head peeped out of my décolletage. Portia sighed. “Hello, Snug.” She popped a tiny grape onto her finger and dropped it down my bodice. “For the dormouse,” she said with a malicious smile.
    I twitched and twisted, trying every which way to retrieve the grape as Snug chased it down, tickling as he went. “Oh, you are foul,” I told Portia bitterly. “I didn’t want anyone to know I had