Piety placed her cup and saucer on the table in front of her and leaned across to hiss. “They said she had to go for treatment.”
Anya lowered her own tea cup. “Treatment? What sort of treatment does one go to Penzance for? It’s at the end of the earth.”
“Quite! It does give the imagination quite some food for conjecture does it not?”
“Or maybe it’s for sea bathing but cheaper and quieter than Brighton.”
“You’d need a restorative treatment after having to travel that far, regardless of the original purpose.”
Anya sipped her tea. “Maybe she has a personal connection to the place. Papa has always insisted on travelling to London on the most round-about route, just to visit his old nanny. Perhaps she has someone there who will provide comfort after …”
Piety sighed. “You have no sense of drama.”
“I simply know what I’d prefer people to be saying about me behind my back.”
“Now you’re making me feel bad.”
Anya patted Piety’s hand. “You’ve always yearned for adventure, and have a far more inventive mind than me, you should set yourself up as one of those scandalous anonymous lady authors.”
Piety’s expression turned calculating. “I’d need to change names and circumstances, wouldn’t I?”
“Of your main characters, yes, but you know how much fun it is to work out which of the evil witches or ice queens is Lady Jersey, and which one is Countess Esterhazy.”
“May I borrow your writing bureau for a moment?”
Anya smiled. “Be my guest.”
The DNA of Stories 