The Queer Principles of Kit Webb

by Cat Sebastian

An easily disproven falsehood is no better than a confession was one of the duchess’s lessons.

“I’m going to tell you a story. There’s a man who is, shall we say . . .”—he drummed his fingers on the table—“a stunning piece of shit. I could enumerate his misdeeds, but you have a business to run and my shoes aren’t meant for standing around in. Suffice it to say, he’s a negligent landowner and in general a brute.” This was so far from a comprehensive list of his father’s worst misdeeds that it was almost incorrect, the understatement so severe as to verge on dishonesty. But

“That’s not a very good story,” Percy remarked after Kit had gone silent. “The next time you choose to regale me with the tales of gardens or horticulture or mothers, or whatever you were doing, do strive to be more entertaining.”

Betty and Kit worried about one another to an extent that was frankly comical. They were both notorious criminals and accomplished fighters, and yet they each acted like the other was as helpless as a kitten.

Every day is market day for secrets, his mother had always said. Secrets could be traded for favors, for countenance, for trust. Secrets could be kept for the same price. Sometimes one shared a secret so it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. Sometimes one shared a secret to take away a bit of its power. Maybe that was what Percy would be doing if he told Kit about his father. But secrets could also be shared to show that one trusted the recipient. Here, hold this, I know you won’t break it, his mother had said when handing him a delicate glass bauble. And Percy had remained so still that he had forgotten to breathe.