Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Natalie Brianne (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📖

gala. It had been the last party she had attended, over six months ago. This was simply a way to see more of London, and to sketch new things every day. Recently, she had a growing interest in doing portraits; she just needed suitable subjects.

As if in answer to her thoughts, a man rounded the corner and leaned up against the building opposite, obviously distracted. He seemed to be looking for something. Perfect. She smiled softly to herself. He wouldn’t notice her, then. She flipped her sketchbook over, drawing on a fresh page. He walked along the building, holding his top hat in one hand as he ran the other through a mess of wavy, brown hair. She waited patiently for him to turn towards the cafe again, hoping this wouldn’t become another unfinished drawing. He stopped at the corner, frowning, then turned back, resuming his position on the wall. He examined the cafe as Mira examined him.

He was well built, with an angular, clean-shaven face. His piercing eyes were curtained by bushy eyebrows, and light in color. Perhaps blue. She couldn’t tell from this distance. His mouth was downturned and determined, but seemed liable to smile at any moment. His grey suit had silver buttons that gleamed in the sunlight and drew the eye into his blue waistcoat and sharp white cravat. He couldn’t be any older than twenty-six. She subtly finished his outline and started to shade as a carriage passed between them on the road.

Glancing up again to reaffirm the shape of his chin, she realized he wasn’t looking at the cafe anymore. He was looking at her. Heavens, he’d noticed her! Blushing up to her ears, she closed the sketchbook and slipped her pencil behind her ear, looking away. Footsteps came closer, and she chanced a glance back across the street. He was fast approaching her. Biting her lip, she attempted to act nonchalant and invisible at the same time. When he stopped at her table, she could barely breathe with embarrassment, and yet her corset dug into her ribs as if she were hyperventilating. This was certainly worse than the punch bowl incident. Why had she ever thought it was a good idea to sketch in public?

Then he slipped around the table murmuring his excuses and thrust his hand straight into the shrubbery behind her. The pencil fell from her ear with a clatter, and she bent to pick it up, keeping her eyes on the man. He felt around for a moment and brought out a slip of paper. The man smiled, read the paper, then replaced it into the bush from whence it came. Mira furrowed her brow as the man once again apologized and moved back to the street. He turned in a slow circle, meeting her eyes, winked, then walked slowly in another direction. She focused her attention on the bush.

Pushing the leaves to either side, she discovered the paper. “I have four faces yet cannot see. I have eight hands but cannot touch. I sit beside the seats of power. What am I?” She slipped the paper into her sketchbook, the chair scraping against the ground as she stood, looking around for the man. A grey coat flap disappeared around the corner. She considered her options: she could stay at the cafe and forget this happened, she could return home, or she could follow him. As unladylike as stalking was, she opted for the latter. She hastened after him, keeping a good distance, and tracked his path towards the Clock Tower, leaving the waiter to wonder what happened to her aunt.

The man in the grey coat strolled past shop windows and carriages, observing everything with a meticulous energy. As he approached parliament, his movements became more deliberate. His eyes roved over the scenery for a few moments before he pulled a small book out of a satchel. After consulting it, the man replaced the book at his side and proceeded to a tree. Mira slipped behind a lamppost and watched him dig around in the dirt and leaves. Soon enough he pulled a dirt-ridden wrinkled sheet of paper from the roots and took it to a bench to examine it. He made some notes, then he put it back where he found it before he ambled off in another direction. Mira rushed over to the tree and retrieved the paper.

Marjorie Castro.

E. Elizabeth Smith

Vincent Holland

Borneo Treaty

The list went on and on, with most items having some sort of note accompanying it. Descriptions of people, places to visit, questions to be asked. Some had “Solved” written next to it. Others had “Resolved.” Some were vague titles, while others were names of people. There were forty-two entries listed, each with a number next to them. Her eyes flicked to the last entry. “Airship Operator.” The note next to it read “Motive? Witnesses?” Airships? She glanced up at one of the steam powered balloons above her. On the back of the paper, it read “Two more notes to go. St. Paul’s West Yard.” She sat there puzzled for a moment and slipped the paper into her sketchbook. With her interest piquing past normal curiosity, she hurried on towards St. Paul’s Cathedral, hoping she could catch up with this person, whoever he was.

She found him walking away from the cathedral farther down the street. Rather than nudge around for details in the moldering gardens, she sprinted to catch up to him. The man sat at a table writing in his notebook. After a moment, he ripped out small strip, set it in a potted plant and started off again. The last one! She snatched it up, disturbing a few leaves in the process.

“I know you are following me.”

She was certain her face rivaled the roses in the cathedral gardens. She looked up just in time to see him give her another devilishly handsome smile before he disappeared into the crowd. Digging around St. Paul’s gardens came to naught as there were no notes to be