The Chocolatier's Wife (46 page)

“Well,
I
did
slice
them
open
first.
Besides,
I’d
rather
they
kill
me
than
someone else, wouldn’t I?”

“You
are quite
daft!
It
is
no
small
wonder
you
are still
at
this
table,
if that
is
your
way
of
looking at
things.”
The
sprite
made
a
little
sound
and smacked
her
forehead.
Oh,
lovely,
he
feeds
them
a
little
cake
and
now they
side
with
him.
She
thought
it
was
Tatu.
Had
the
little
one
become impressed
by
William,
spending
the
day
with
him?
The
man
who
dominated her
thoughts
was
strangely
quiet. Maybe
they
sense
his
feelings,
too?
“I’m sorry,”
she said quietly. “I
worry
for
you.”

“What
you said was not worth apologizing over.”

She
didn’t
know
what
to
make of
that.
“And
of
course,
you
didn’t
sell them.”

“I’m
sure
of
it.
It
was
my
first week
open.
I
sold
creamy
chocolate
sea shells,
dark
chocolate
squares,
and
ganache
truffles.
My
variety
was
not exactly
overwhelming.
And hot
chocolate,
of
course.
I
sell
an
awful
lot
of that.”
He
thought
about
it,
and
said,
“I
prepared
about
a
half
dozen
of
them, and
then
set
them
on
a
plate
to
firm
up.
I
didn’t
even
put
them
on
the
rack, like
I
usually
do
with
things,
so
Cecelia
wouldn’t
have
co
n
fused
them
with new stock.”

It
really
did
sound
reasonable.
“I
don’t suppose
you
remember
when you saw them last?”

“Before
I
went
to
dress
for
dinner
with
my
family.
I
do
not
enjoy
those events,
and
so
was
preoccupied
with
it
when
I
returned.
I
told
the
authorities that
I
swept
up,
but
really
I
made
sure
all
was
closed
and went
directly
up to
bed.
I
read
and
drank
some
rum,
and
when
I
didn’t
feel
quite
so
ready to
chew
on
the
walls
I
went
to
sleep.
Later I
assumed
my
experimental chocolates
had
been
confiscated
with
the
rest.”
He
looked
disgusted.
“It took
me four hours to roast
those damned almonds.”

“And you did eat some of them,” she said helpfully. “The four hours must have
been enough.”

“Only a
few. They were from
the center of the pan,
but ...
” He gestured at
the
a
l
mond, refusing
to
look
at
her,
genuinely
upset.
The
sprites,
who had
been
mostly
s
i
lent,
felt
the
upset,
thick in
the
air.
Usually
they
didn’t react
to
anyone’s
upset
but
hers,
and
while
she
was
not
exactly
happy,
she was
not
upset
enough
to
make
the
sprites
slam
back
and
forth
through
the cabinets,
rattling
pans
and
crockery. She
used
a
calming
spell
to
shush them,
seeing
the
set
of
William’s shoulders
become
tighter
the
more
the noise
grew.
She
rose
and
rubbed
his
shoulders,
and, though
he
was
very still, he radiated a
feeling of do not touch so loudly that she gave up.

“I
actually
killed
him.
I
may
not
be
the
one
who
sent
the
chocolates,
but
I’m
at least an
accomplice.”

She
knelt
by
his
chair, and
when
he
refused
to
look at
her
she
pinched the
inside
of
his
thigh,
next
to
his
knee,
hard.
He
glared
at
her
fiercely,
and she grabbed his face in
her hands.
“Stop sulking,
William.
As you said,
you did
not
deliver
the
almonds.
You
did
not
wish
to
kill
the
Bishop,
you
had
no desire or
intention,
yet someone did.
We
still have
that.”

“The
evidence
is
damning,
Tasmin,
the
court
will
not
see
the
subtleties you pointed out. And
they would be right.
I
must be responsible somehow. Even
Cecelia
didn’t
know
anything
about
the
almonds
besides
the
fact
I didn’t
want
her
to
touch
them.
And
she
didn’t
know that
the
experimental ones
were
potentially
dangerous,
I
never thought
to
tell
her
because
she doesn’t like nuts. She could have sold them; I spent so much time roasting them
that
we
were
getting
low
on
stock,
because
we
did
better
that
day
than I’d
expected.”

She
could
see
what
he
was
thinking, that
Cecelia,
beleaguered
with customers,
perhaps
one
who
didn’t
want
the
truffles
on
display
or
the tiny
squares,
perhaps
one
expecting
to
purchase
something
special
for
an
important
person,
demanded
something
else,
and
Cecelia,
seeing
the freshly
made
chocolates
sitting
invitingly
on
a
plate,
had
boxed
them
and sent them on
their way.

“But they said they were from
you.
There was a
note.”

“Perhaps
not. The
head
of
the
investigation
has
somewhat
against
me. He
may
have
showed
me
a forged
note
to
seal
the case
or
to
try
and
get
me to confess. I know I certainly didn’t write it. It would not be the first
time a man
in
his position has lied about evidence.”

“You
do
draw
a
grim picture,
but
I
do
not
believe
it.
It
does
not
sound right to me,
William.
Not with what I
know
of you.”

“But
you
do
not
know me.
You
know my
letters,”
he
said
softly.
He placed his hand,
lightly, on
her head. “Perhaps you should go.”