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

interest, there wasn’t any new information to be found. And while the news reports varied one from another, that was bound to happen as different reporters may have been sent to document the scene. But for as much as she tried to justify it, something was off. She trusted her instincts; she just didn’t know what the issue with the incident could be. Something was missing. She strolled through Kensington Gardens, and her thoughts drifted back to the man at the cafe.

Tall, dark, handsome, mysterious. His demeanor teemed with intrigue and nuance. He must be someone of importance. Or else he was insane. Perhaps both. She laughed a little to herself. Byron Constantine. Where had she heard that name before? It felt vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t pin it down. She toyed with the idea of going to the cafe again the next day. He couldn’t possibly forget her again after their conversation. Maybe she could ask him about the note he made about airships. If by some miracle it related to her parents’ accident, then she would have another source of information. She determined to do so the next day as she sat on a bench to sketch for the afternoon.

The sun rose in the sky over London, even if the fog obscured it from view. Airships had canceled all flights because of the conditions. Mira Blayse sat in her usual spot, the umbrella at her table open in case of rain. She took a bite of her crepes and hoped the sun would come out so she could sketch properly. She reached a hand out and felt a raindrop. She continued to eat her breakfast and examine her surroundings. At least the waiter had bought another excuse about a nonexistent aunt. She looked across the street and saw Byron. Same place, same time. Looking past her at the bush. Wearing a smashing grey suit with a blue tie. He walked towards her, and she moved her chair out of the way so he could more properly access the bush. He picked up the note, read it, and started to leave.

“Good morning, Mr. Constantine.”

He looked at her, confused. “Good morning to you as well…?” He stepped back and cocked his head. He went to move again.

“You really read these every day?”

He stopped again. “I apologize, who are you?”

It was her turn to look confused. “Samira Blayse? We spoke yesterday. And sort of the day before?”

He swallowed. “Right. Yes. Yes. I see. Well…good day.” He quickly turned and walked away, pulling out his notebook and making a note.

“Good day?” She was thoroughly confused as he disappeared once again. Had he forgotten her? Except he couldn’t have. She had followed him, taken his notes. Maybe he was a spy. But if he was a spy, why would he come to the same place every day? She grabbed the note from the bush and read it. There wasn’t a single difference, other than a few more smudges and a water splotch or two. None of this made sense. She finished her crepes, escaped the notice of the waiter, and went to the Clock Tower, finding the paper. Only one thing had changed, a note next to “Airship Operator.”

“See journal.” There’s a journal as well? Is that what all the notes lead to? Perhaps that was the book she had seen him carrying. She put the paper back in the same place Byron had left it as the rain fell in heavy droplets. She would have to investigate further on another day. She held her sketchbook close to her, sheltering it from the rain, and made a mad dash back to her rooms to find shelter for herself. If only he had stayed long enough for her to ask him about the airships.

She set her sketchbook down on a side table and shivered into the living room. She squeezed the excess moisture from her mess of curls, grimacing at the stringy tangles. Soon enough, she stoked the fire, changed into dry clothes, and set a kettle on the hob. She opened her sketchbook on the floor in front of the fire to dry the damp pages, then sat at her desk. Nero warmed her lap as she wrote a letter to her brother.

Dearest Walker,

If I could convince our uncle to forget his anxieties about airships, I would have done so already. However, I shall continue to try to find out more about the accident. Thus far I keep coming to dead ends. The newspaper editor had no further information, besides directing me back to the newspaper article we’ve already read countless times. However, when I went to the library, I did find an article in the evening edition elaborating on the accident. Apparently the Vaporidge company may have been involved, at least in buying Silver Lining. Perhaps you already knew this? No matter. In other news there is a gentleman who has been frequenting the cafe I’ve been drawing at recently. His name is Byron Constantine. Do you recognize the name?

I am sure that you are doing splendid in your studies and I do hope that Uncle Cyrus will allow you to continue your interest in engineering. If not, I’m sure we can both fly away! It is also quite impossible for me not to be at least a little envious of you. After all, you are in France, of all places! But I am happy for you, truly.

With Love,

Mira

She finished her name with a flourish and placed the letter in an envelope. She would mail it tomorrow on her way to the cafe, and if Byron was there, she would ask him about the airship before he had a chance to leave. Of course, if he didn’t come, then what course of action could she take? She needed information. Maybe she could go to Scotland Yard to see if they had any files on the 1870 airship accident. She doubted that they would have anything, but following any lead