The Countess Conspiracy

This was wrong. She needed to stop. She was going to reveal everything, if she hadn’t already. And yet there was something in her voice, something urgent and excited, something that sent an electric tingle racing up Sebastian’s spine.

“Right now?”

“Right now.” She nodded. “Also, I need all your viola species.”

“My viola species? Why do you need my viola species?”

Violet shook the papers in her hand. “It’s all in here. I think I know why some species couldn’t cross at all, why some could only cross poorly.”

Everyone was staring at her. There would be no concealing this. There was only deciding how to deal with the aftermath.

“It can’t wait.” She shoved the paper she’d been looking at in his direction. “Also, I need Bollingall.”

He looked down. The paper she’d been holding was titled: A Study of Cellular Division in Single-Celled Organisms. Written by Simon T. Bollingall.

“He’s not in town,” Sebastian said. “He wasn’t at my lecture today. He sent his apologies, so—”

“Not Simon,” Violet said. “Don’t you see? We weren’t paying attention. The Bollingall we need is Alice.”

Chapter Fifteen

“LADY CAMBURY,” MRS. ALICE BOLLINGALL SAID, ushering Violet into an ill-lit parlor. She gestured to a seat next to a table. “It is such an honor to receive a call from you. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you.”

As the two of them sat, Mrs. Bollingall glanced demurely at the clock. The clock was almost obscured by a dancing porcelain fish. In fact, the entire room seemed to be filled with little china fishes, large metal fishes, marble sculptures of trout, leaping out of stone water. Someone in the household liked fish over much.

It was the hour when genteel people sat down to their evening meal. Violet smelled roast chicken, heard the clink of china being laid, but she couldn’t think of dinner. She couldn’t even think of anything genteel to say. Her mind was utterly full, pushing away all hope of polite conversation.

“How may I be of service?” Mrs. Bollingall asked.

One might pass Alice Bollingall on the street without sparing a second glance. She was an unexceptional, dumpy, pleasant-faced sort. Her hair had gone to salt-and-pepper, and it was worked into a bun atop her head. She was utterly ordinary in appearance.

She’d fooled Violet, after all.

“I’m sorry to be so abrupt,” Violet said. “This isn’t a social call.”

The other woman smiled in response. “I had gathered as much, given the hour. Is something amiss?” She had such a friendly smile. It crinkled at the edges.

“See here,” Violet said, “there is no way for me to manage this, not without being horribly impolite. You are a photographer, yes?”

Mrs. Bollingall’s smile widened in confusion. “How good of you to remember such an inconsequential detail. After all this time. Do you have something that you need photographed?”

“Yes,” Violet said, “I do.”

“Is it for you? It would be an honor, my lady, if you would sit for me. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Not of me. Not tomorrow.”

Mrs. Bollingall looked even more puzzled. “Of someone else?”

“Not a person. A thing.”

“A landscape,” Mrs. Bollingall said slowly. “An architectural feature. A gown.”

Violet shook her head at each suggestion.

The other women smiled uneasily. “Of what, then?”

There was no way to say it, no way to do it without puncturing both their secrets. Violet had lived with hers for so long. Nobody but Sebastian had known about her; nobody, until her mother had guessed the truth.

“I am going to tell you a story,” Violet said. “A story which, I suspect, will be familiar to you.”

Mrs. Bollingall simply shook her head.

“Years ago,” Violet said, “people who peered at small organisms through microscopes believed that the nucleus of a cell was empty. They believed this because they saw nothing. It was the subject of much argument: What was the point of the nucleus, after all? Was it a storehouse for the cell? Did it contain an invisible nuclear fluid, used for some unknown purpose?”

Alice Bollingall licked her lips.

“All those years,” Violet said, “people believed that just because they couldn’t see what was in the nucleus, nothing was there.”

“What a fascinating story.” The other woman slowly sat back in her chair.

“But that has changed,” Violet said. “A few years ago, someone came up with a dye—a dye that differed from the common dyes that had been available until that point. You see, there is something inside the nucleus. It wasn’t until scientists started staining cells with aniline blue that they could finally see it. Structures inside the nucleus: structures that had been invisible before, but were now chromatically tinged.”

“Indeed.” The other woman’s breath had gone shallow. “My husband…this is the work that he does. You are right. This story is not unfamiliar to me.”

“A month ago,” Violet said, “your husband told Sebastian Malheur that it was completely unexceptional for wives to be intimately involved in their husband’s work. I don’t know why I didn’t immediately realize what he implied. Selfishness, I suppose. I had other worries.” Violet shrugged. “It didn’t occur to me to consider what he must have meant until today.”

Mrs. Bollingall’s face froze. “My husband would never say anything so…so…”

Indiscreet, Violet suspected, was the word Mrs. Bollingall was looking for.

“But late this afternoon, I was listening to a friend talk about aniline blue used as a dye for a gown. And I glanced at your paper.”

“Not my paper. You don’t mean my paper.”

Violet felt as if she’d been invisible all her life. As if she were about to stain herself with aniline dye, exposing her secret core. The only thing that kept her from panicking was the knowledge that she was no longer alone.

“Your paper,” Violet repeated. “It is your paper, at least partially, isn’t it? It’s a paper about cellular division, the small features able to be observed through modern photographic techniques. You’re the photographer. I hope I’m right, because I need you to make a photograph of cellular division.”

Mrs. Bollingall’s expression froze. Her hands flattened on the table. “Oh.” Her breath cycled too swiftly. “Oh,” she repeated. “Certainly not. No, no.”