Page 20 of House of Thorns
Olivia winced. She’d never sell herself to the man.Never.
The shop bell jingled as she slipped through the door, and, as ever, she paused to let the sounds of her father’s piano soothe her troubled mind.
“And how were the sales?” Mrs. Lambert asked as Olivia stepped into the parlor.
Olivia faked a bright smile. “Promising,” she replied. It was true. The sales were promising—providing she could print the goods.
She crossed to where her father hunched over the piano, his fingers flying over the keys.
“Olivia,” he greeted warmly. “My, child, how you’ve grown.”
“Yes, papa,” she murmured.
“And your mother?” he asked, lifting his fingers from the keys.
Gently, Olivia placed his hands back on the piano. “That’s a lovely tune, father. Is it new?”
He smiled absently. “Why, yes. It reminds me of your mother on a spring day.”
Then, just like that, the music swept him away, once again. It was easy—too easy. Olivia suppressed a sigh.
“Will you need me in the morning, child?” Mrs. Lambert asked as Olivia dropped the shillings onto her outstretched palm.
With so much work to be done, she would need her help the entire day. “Please, Mrs. Lambert. I would be grateful.”
The woman and her mole hairs nodded. She tucked the coins into her pocket and then paused. “You’re a good lass, Olivia. Someday, your luck will change. My bones tell me this is so.”
Olivia could only hope. “Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.”
She watched her vanish into the night and then closed and locked the door.
For a moment, she leaned her forehead against the wood and closed her eyes. If only she could turn back time and become a child once again, a child with both a motheranda father. Of course, it was impossible. Perhaps, she could find a husband to love, instead. A man who would accept her father and support her dream of publishing his music to the world.
The thought pulled a bitter laugh from her lips. The first dream was more likely than the second.
With a snort, she tossed her head and headed to the print room to ready the press.
Tomorrow would be a busy day. She had publishers to visit and hopefully music to print. As for Louisa, she’d have to pay her a visit—a long overdue one.
* * *
The next morning, Olivia sailed into the print shop, irritated. Lewis Prescott had lent her the score. He’d even sold her a packet of paper—but at a steep priceandhe’d demanded half the profits.
Angry, she stripped off her gloves and glanced around the shop. Empty. Not a customer in sight. Even worse, she saw neither hide nor hair of the shop boy.
She slammed the basket of paper on the counter. “William? William?” She paused and raised her voice, “William?”
On the third call, William stumbled through the curtains at the back of the shop, rubbing sleep from his eyes with ink-stained hands. He was a lanky lad with a shock of brown hair and a large gap between his two front teeth that lent a whistle to his speech.
“Where have you been?” Olivia seethed. “If I had been a thief, I could have walked off with everything here whilst you slept.”
William winced. “I didn’t hear the bell, Miss,” he swore, the word ‘miss’ sounding more like ‘mithhhst.’ “Not once, all morning long.”
Olivia bristled. If true, it was the worst of news. “It’s more likely you slept through the customers that came calling.” She could only hope—and hope they would return.
He had the grace to look guilty.
Frustrated, she drummed her fingers on the packet of paper resting on the counter. In her father’s time, the papermakers had delivered endless boxes of the smooth, creamy sheets, collecting their fees once, at the end of the month. Now, she had to pay twice the price and first, before she even made a single print. “Have you made the ink?”
