The Fatal Flying Affair (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery, #7)

by T.E. Kinsey

It had become our habit for me to mispronounce Featherstonhaugh as Feather-stone-huff instead of Fanshaw,

calendars can be confusing.

“A gentleman is someone who knows how to play the banjo, but doesn’t.”’

possibly with Lady Hardcastle dangling underneath the aeroplane from a trapeze and wearing her spangly leotard.

‘I’ll help. Many hands spoil the gift horse’s broth, as they say.’

And as for bicycles . . . I tried when I was little but I couldn’t get the ’ang of it. Kept fallin’ off. And they saddles? Not built for comfort, are they?’ ‘They do rather dig in,’ I agreed. ‘Where no one ought to be diggin’,’ said Edna with a chuckle.

I had nothing to worry about – my life was calm and peaceful for the most part – but my beloved brain had decided that a life free of anxiety was a life wasted. To induce what it clearly considered to be the appropriate levels of dread and discomfort, it had trawled through recent events looking for something to fret over. Having found nothing, it had decided to catalogue every mistake I had ever made and every embarrassment I had ever suffered. In chronological order. That did the trick. Well done, brain.

but even a little bit of delight in the day was more than many could hope for.

‘A conversation with you is just a box of parts we have to assemble for ourselves, isn’t it?’ she said.

Wednesday dawned without any of us noticing,

I prefer to believe that you can or, more importantly, that Flo can. She can do anything.