Chapter Sixteen #2
Jasper privately thought that there should be some points distributed for guessing the individual words that went into the ship’s name, but he did not think it wise to voice this, as the Templeton-Rath and Rath brood now had a bit of a glint in their eyes about the whole thing.
Miss Rath drew the Snapdragon and performed it with precise, crisp movements, clapping her hands like a snare and then rearing up like a winged beast. Mrs. Templeton-Rath identified it and took the next slip.
She held up two fingers, then one, tugged on her ear, and then mimed immense size.
“Big!” said her husband. “Large!”
She pointed at him, smiling. Then used her hands and fingers to mimic building a fire.
“Camp! Campfire!” Mr. Rath guessed.
“Flame?” Miss Templeton-Rath put in.
Their hostess shook her head and held up a finger, then widened her arms and made an accordion motion at the fire, stopping occasionally to indicate that the flame was growing higher.
“Bellows,” said Lem, nodding in understanding. “This is the Barge Bellows.”
The bell rang.
Libba made a click of annoyance. “Them again!”
“Us again,” Miss Rath confirmed, smiling brilliantly. “Good luck, Mr. Lem!”
Lem, as it happened, was a skilled mime. So skilled that it clearly startled the room. He quickly depicted himself trapped in a box, demonstrating that he could push out, and then crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.
“Coffin?” said Libba. “Tomb?!”
“Casket!” Mr. Templeton-Rath said. “Aha! The Treasure Casket!”
Three protesting voices arose in unison to chide him for guessing early and guessing correctly.
“Papa!”
“John!”
“Uncle!”
He grinned widely and said, “Me! My turn.”
Their host’s turn began with him using his arm to mimic a winding, sinuous motion and then crouching down with fingers up, and gazing toward the ceiling.
“Drowning? Floundering?” guessed his wife, frowning.
“An eel?” Lem said, uncertainly.
“Snake!” Miss Templeton-Rath returned excitedly.
Libba gasped when the mime nodded and pointed to his daughter, verifying her guess. “Finally! Come now, my fellows, we must win a round!”
“Ah,” said Jasper, lighting up when Mr. Templeton-Rath crouched down again with his fingers sticking up over his head. “Snake in the Grass!”
The bell rang again, winning cheers from the three of them.
“You did it, my clever hero!” Libba said, clapping her hands together, cheeks pink with what looked like genuine delight. “You are next! Do us proud!”
“Remember, Mr. Townsend,” said Miss Templeton-Rath, twisting a piece of hair around her fingers. “You can use rhymes and indicate syllables. That is within the rules.”
He nodded, standing and giving himself a shake.
He reached into the hat and fluffed the papers around for a moment before clamping onto one and withdrawing it.
The Witch of the Wave.
He sighed, stealing one little glance at Libba, who was just now curling her toes under the cushion and whispering something to the young heiress that made the other woman giggle. They both turned and watched him expectantly.
He frowned.
And rang the stupid, little bell.
A witch. A witch? What does a witch do?
“I detest losing,” Libba confided to Miss Templeton-Rath, who nodded sympathetically.
He narrowed his eyes at her, which she did not see, and then almost smiled to himself at how petulant she looked.
This was not Xandine. This was Liberty Lennox.
And she really did hate losing.
He held up four fingers, and then, not certain how to impart that the middle two words were less important, tucked those two in, leaving only his pinky and index fingers up.
Everyone looked appropriately baffled by this, but it was too late to turn back now. He dropped his hand, took a breath, and then held up his first finger again.
He began by miming a cauldron being stirred, but that got too many culinary guesses. He made claw hands and mimed casting spells at the people across the room.
“Conductor?” Mr. Rath suggested, blinking. “Lunging cat?”
Jasper frowned and then paused, remembering a performance Libba had put on when they’d been young, herself in the middle with Hattie and Ruby on either side, acting out the opening scene of Macbeth.
He went back to the cauldron again but stopped to sprinkle invisible herbs in, then turned and twisted the way the girls had, back then, in a very rudimentary choreography, the genesis of the master Libba would someday become.
“Witch,” she said, very softly, blinking up at him from across the room. “He is a witch.”
He sagged, relieved, and pointed to her, initiating sounds of realization from around the room.
“Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Templeton-Rath. “How did I not see that?”
He held up four fingers, quietening them back down, and began to mime the waves crashing into the shore with rolling motions of his wrists and arms.
“Snake again?” Miss Templeton-Rath said, the question breathy and uncertain.
“Potion?” suggested Miss Rath.
He sighed, dropping his arms, and straightened, lifting his arm next to him and assuming the parade wave that captains often used from the bow of military ships when being presented, a slow rotation of a cupped hand at eye level.
“Aha! Waves!” Libba cried, jumping to her feet. “Witch of the Waves!”
He grinned at her, grabbing the bell and ringing it hard. “I thought I was done for,” he admitted. “Nice one, Lib.”
There was a pause. A very, very short pause where he realized what had left his mouth, and before he could even think to apologize or cover or fix the thing, she had crossed the room, grabbed his face, and planted her lips on his.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was sudden and shockingly soft. And warm.
He could smell the jasmine on her.
Of their own accord, his hands found her waist, but she was already pulling back.
For the briefest moment, her real face appeared before the actress’s mask slipped back over it, glittering and bursting into a wide smile.
“Points for us!” she declared, giving an excited bounce on her toes, as though oblivious to everyone staring at what she’d just done. “And a kiss for my consort-to-be, hm?”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Rath, brows high on his face.
Libba beamed at him and nodded, then turned back to Jasper and gave him a playful shove back toward his seat. “Now, go sit, Mr. Townsend. It is my turn. Perhaps now we will win!”
He opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
So he simply obeyed.
And wondered what exactly they were trying to win tonight, after all.