Stolen Remains by Christine Trent Page A

magazines?” Mary fluttered about, removing piles of fabrics and notions from a chair next to where she worked and adding them to an already precarious stack on the sewing table.
    “I see you still work in complete disarray, my friend.” Violet wasn’t much of a housekeeper herself, but her workplace was always pristine.
    Mary wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I am too old now to be taught how to be tidy.” Mary was indeed nearly twenty years older than Violet, but looked far younger, despite her wayward husband, George, whose squat, pig-eyed expression was a total contradiction to his wife’s sweet countenance. This was a second marriage for Mary, and much less happy than her first. Although presumably faithful to his wife, George had the annoying habit of disappearing for days or weeks on end whenever life served him a helping of difficult or unpleasant circumstances. Unfortunately for Mary, she could never predict what situations would send her husband running.
    Violet and Mary became close not only because their relevant shops were located near each other, but because they had shared in intrigue and tragedy together.
    Violet sat in the cleared chair, hopeful that none of the other heaps in the shop would fall on top of her. Her own messiness was a mere anthill to Mary’s Pike’s Peak. “What happened to your assistant?”
    “She decided she didn’t like making mourning wear day in and day out. Wanted to fashion ball gowns. Honestly, I think she just didn’t like dealing with the grieving customers. It’s not for everyone.”
    Violet nodded. “I see you’ve finally installed gas lighting.”
    “George convinced me to spend the money. I admit I was quite nervous about it. In fact, I was certain the shop would explode from a gas leak. Was this the last shop in London using candles?”
    “I’m sure there are others, but I’m glad Mr. Cooke talked you into it. Is he . . . here?”
    “Yes. Today he is out at the tailor’s, having some pants made. Silly bear refuses to let me do it for him; says he doesn’t want to waste my time on it when I could be doing paid work. I’m sure he’ll be back soon and would love to see you.”
    “Perhaps another time. I’ve had a terribly long day and want only to entomb myself in blankets right now. I’m only in London for a short time before Sam and I return to America. I’m helping the queen with a funeral.”
    Mary gave her the same dumbstruck look that Will had. “How . . . interesting.”
    Violet sketched out briefly what was happening, asking that Mary visit Raybourn House as quickly as possible to outfit the women. “I was also hoping, though, that we could reacquaint our friendship for however long I will be here. I’ve missed you.”
    “And I’ve missed you.” Mary impulsively leapt out of her chair to grab Violet’s hand, jostling her table and sending the tottering pile of supplies tumbling down against Violet and all over the floor.
    Violet loved Colorado, but it was good to be back in London, too.
     
    After promising to visit Mary again soon, Violet took her leave and hired a hack to return her to St. James’s Palace. She fell into an exhausted sleep inside the carriage, despite the incessant clattering of the coach’s wheels and its tired springs that would have jostled a corpse back to life.
    Violet awoke as the carriage came to a stop before the Tudor-fronted tower entry of the palace. Her brief nap had been refreshing, but she realized how hungry she was. How did one find food inside a palace? Or would she need to search the streets for good dining?
    Heaven forbid she should be left to her own devices to cook. She might well starve to death.
    A liveried footman opened the grand entry doors to the palace, then another servant escorted her to her rooms. All thought of hunger pains disappeared as she entered her apartment, for there was Sam, rumpled from travel, sprawled on a settee with his bad leg dangling over and propped up on a footstool.
    He