Dark Road to Darjeeling by Deanna Raybourn

extraordinary example of the hairdresser’s art—dozens of braids and twists clustered at the nape of her neck, and she carried a lorgnette, peering at us as intently as her husband had done but for different reasons, it soon became apparent.
    “You must call me Cassandra. I know we are going to be fast friends.” Before we could summon replies to this astonishing statement, she went on. “What extraordinary bones you have,” she said, looking from Portia to me and back again. “I must photograph you both. You will not refuse me, I hope.”
    Her long, equine face bore no trace of humour, and it seemed an odd juxtaposition, such a serious face with such an outlandish costume.
    “You are a photographer then,” Portia observed.
    “Yes, Mrs. Pennyfeather does like to dabble in pictures,” Miss Cavendish put in. I did not turn to look at her. I could smell the disapproval from where I stood.
    “Dabble indeed, Miss Cavendish!” sniffed the extraordinary Cassandra Pennyfeather. “I am an artist.” She turned to us. “I am composing a series based upon the classical myths of ancient Greece. I have a mind to pose you as Artemis and Athena, the virgin daughters of Zeus.”
    Portia choked a little and I stepped smoothly into the breach.“How kind of you, Mrs. Pennyfeather, er, Cassandra,” I amended hastily at a gently reproving glance from the lady. “I know I speak for my sister when I say it would be a pleasure and a delight. Perhaps in a week or so when we have had a chance to recover from the fatigue of our travels?”
    I ignored the fact that Portia had pinched me, hard, just above the waist. “I hope it bruises,” she hissed as she moved away.
    Cassandra puffed a little sigh. “I suppose if I must be delayed.” She made an impatient gesture with her head, and just then one of her little coils seemed to detach itself.
    “Cassandra,” I said, my voice shaking only slightly, “I do not like to seem critical, but is that—”
    “It is only Percival. Come along, darling,” she urged. As if to acknowledge the introduction, the little snake curved itself down around her ear and leaned toward me, flicking its tongue in and out in rapid succession as if to taste the air.
    “You needn’t be afraid,” said a small voice at my elbow. I looked down to see the Pennyfeather boy regarding me thoughtfully. “Percival is a green whip snake, almost entirely harmless.”
    “Almost?” I said faintly, but he did not elaborate.
    Cassandra excused herself to coax the curious Percival back into her braids, so I took the opportunity to complete the introduction. “You are Robin, are you not?” I asked, extending my gloved hand.
    He bowed over it very correctly and straightened with a serious expression. “Did I do that well? Mother doesn’t care much for formalities, you know, but Father says one must learn manners before one can ignore them.”
    His father gave a chuckle and I saw that he was looking indulgently at the boy. Robin was an earnest child, with sober dark eyes and a mop of curls that someone had attempted—unsuccessfully—to subdue with a dampened hairbrush. “You did very well, Master Robin.”
    “I have not met an earl’s daughter before. I rather thought you would be grander,” he observed.
    “Robin!” his father interjected, but I waved him off with a smile.
    “That is quite all right, Reverend.” I returned my attention to Robin. “I never mastered the trick of being grand. If it’s all the same to you, I will just be myself.”
    “I would like to be myself,” Robin said, pulling at his tight collar and neatly-tied neckcloth, “but it’s rather difficult at present.”
    “And what do you do when you’re being yourself? Do you have lessons?”
    “Of a sort,” Reverend Pennyfeather put in with a smile. “I do the best I can to make certain he has his history and mathematics and modern languages, but I admit, keeping his attention upon his books is a task for a harsher master than