Chapter 8 Three Hemlocks #3
The cheat in question, Patrick Gamble, was a loud, arrogant, good-looking-in-a-rat-faced-way man who hosted the weekly quiz, relishing the spotlight and the microphone.
The greatest kick of his existence came from deducting points from their team for “disruption” whenever Sage dared to question his answers and argue that, actually, she was right and he was wrong.
On more than one occasion, her insistence had cost them the win.
She was not one to let go of an injustice.
No one boiled her blood quite as much as Patrick did—not even Casimir.
Sage, although often quiet in these situations anyway, was particularly distracted.
Casimir’s mention of the uncatalogued delivery had remained on her mind, and she had been trying to work out when a socially acceptable moment to slink back to the museum to open it might be.
At least, she thought, she was doing a good enough job of hiding the fact and none of the others seemed to notice her lack of attention.
“You’re thinking about that box, aren’t you?” Casimir said, thoroughly unimpressed.
Hiding thoughts and feelings from her face was evidently not Sage’s speciality.
“What? No, I…”
“No expletives for Patrick? No ranting about his deceitful dictatorship? No furious death wish aimed at him for ruining the sanctity of pub quizzes? Not like you, Specs,” Casimir said.
“Also, you’ve barely touched the chips, which means you’re either dying or distracted by work,” Robin added.
“And your foot is tapping so quickly that you’re making the table shake. You haven’t listened to a word we’ve said for the past fifteen minutes,” Laurel said.
“That’s not true!”
“Oh, really? What was I just saying, then?” Casimir asked.
Sage chewed at the inside of her cheek. “You were talking about your new shampoo.”
He glared at her. “Lucky guess. It really does smell extraordinary.”
“I just want to make sure the delivery is put away properly, that’s all,” Sage said. “Books get damaged easily, and we don’t even know where it’s come from.”
“You get anonymous donations all the time, don’t you?” Robin asked.
“Exactly. It’ll be a load of old junk from someone’s loft,” Casimir told him.
“Sounds creepy,” Laurel said excitedly. “Be careful with that sort of unlabelled thing, though, Sage. What if it’s some kind of ancient, demon-ridden, wraith-drawing almanac?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Sage said into her coffee.
“I’m serious, Sage. You mess with some crazy stuff as it is. If it’s particularly suspicious, then you absolutely should not open it. What if it’s accidentally been delivered from a disturbed ancient Egyptian tomb or a desecrated sacred site? It’ll bring nothing but misfortune.”
“Ah, yes, the postal service does so often confuse Egypt with Port Sylvan,” Casimir chimed in.
“A mummy’s curse!” Laurel blurted out, getting more and more carried away as her vivid imagination tended to do. “Sage, some doors, once opened, can never be shut again. The same goes for old execration texts, you know.”
“You’re only making it even more irresistible to her by saying that,” Robin said with a knowing chuckle, shooing Sage away. “Go on, then.”
“Go?”
“Go,” he said, shouldering her. “As soon as Cas mentioned it, I knew that you wouldn’t be able to leave that alone for a whole night. You won’t sleep until at least a few notes are made. It’s the sort of thing that makes your skin itch, so best get it over with.”
“Yes, you’ve endured at least two hours in the confines of social company. Go back to your lair,” Laurel said to her sister. “I want to pick Robin’s brain about a couple of character edits anyway. No offence, but you haven’t the whimsy for it.”
Sage tried to be incredulous, but Laurel was right. She only ever managed to point out the glaring plot holes that Laurel was ignoring on purpose, rather than offer anything fun or creative.
She muttered an awkward half thank-you, half apology, with a twitch of a smile. At least they understood her ways.
She gathered up her many bags and belongings, and puffed the hair out of her face as she stumbled with the swing of another satchel over her shoulder. Before she could argue, Casimir lifted it back over her head and wore it himself.
“I don’t need you to come with me, Cas. Stay and have another drink.”
“And what would that do for my impeccable reputation? I’m hardly going to let you wander off in the dark by yourself, am I? I might need to keep you out of trouble.”
From the corner of her eye, Sage caught Laurel and Robin exchanging matching eye-rolls.
Laurel pretended to swoon against the booth and Robin spluttered into the foam of his pint.
It didn’t bother her as much as it used to.
If she got annoyed with everyone who assumed there was something going on between her and Casimir, she’d never be in a good mood again.
“We live in the sleepiest town imaginable,” she said to Casimir. “Port Sylvan is simply teeming with untoward characters, isn’t it?”
“Just you, Specs. I’m worried you might accidentally blow the place up. If your magic suddenly throws a tantrum and sets fire to the archive, I know I’ll get the blame tomorrow. Lucky me, hey?”