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Book 1 - If Things Never Changed (THE CASE OF THE MISSING MARQUESS)
In which one escape route goes terribly wrong.
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Book 2 - Marriage & Murder (THE CASE OF THE DEMISED DETECTIVES)
What happens when you make a decision that determines the rest of...
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"Home, sweet, home," Tewkesbury muttered.
Evening had arrived and he was already assigned to the men's dormitory along with receiving a work uniform. So much for his most porter-ish coat.
His bunkmates were very unpredictable characters as Tewkesbury was merely accustomed to the stiff, old, unsmiling nobles of high society, that being his uncle and grandmother. And the only similarity these rough-and-tumble men shared with those nobles was their age—most of them, if not all, were significantly older than the seventeen-year-old.
After an excruciating first lesson in the kitchen, Tewkesbury collapsed onto the bottom level of his assigned bunk bed, sighing as his head hit the starchy feather pillow. His fingers ached and were wrapped in white bandages. Blots of red seeped through the cloth. His mate leaned over from the top bunk, wondering, "What's happened to your fingers?"
Tewkesbury answered, "Cut them while washing a knife."
"New boy can't even wash dishes!" he shouted to the rest of the men, causing loud boisterous laughter to fill the dormitory.
Tewkesbury pressed his head harder into his pillow, trying to drown out the sound. It wasn't his fault! He was a marquess! He ranked higher than any other in this room! It wasn't his fault he wasn't accustomed to the task of washing dishes!
Just a mere two hours ago had Tewkesbury been taught by the head woman of the kitchen that there was so much more to the craft than just a rag and soap. And still, how was he supposed to know? He prayed he'd soon be moved up from that position.
And as before, if he got to stay here with Enola, all of the hard work had to be worth it...wouldn'tit?
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Enola's experience following her unsuccessful escape was no better than Tewkesbury's. Miss Harrison spoke another one of her manipulative monologues, that dragged on and on and left the girl wondering how her ears weren't bleeding by its end. Enola knew she should have cut them off herself.
This was torture—she would only see Tewkesbury within tiny slivers of time, ranging from quick gazes to a hello when they could get close. Yet, it wasn't enough to spark a conversation—a conversation to plot their escape.
"Why don't you want to be here, Enola?" Miss Harrison asked one morning, watching as the young girl dressed and prepared for the day.
"I believe you know that answer," Enola glared, voice defensive.
"I'd like to know what I, as an educator, can do to make you want to stay?"
