ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery by Maryrose Wood Read Free Book Online Page A

over soon. In fact, I believe they will be,” Penelope added on impulse.
    â€œYou’re very kind to say so. Cheers.” He tipped his hat, and was gone.
    Penelope blushed. Pretty hair? She was not accustomed to receiving compliments of this sort, especially from persons of the male persuasion. As one might expect, the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females had been woefully undersupplied with boys, and as a result Penelope had hardly met any in her life.
    â€œBut if Simon Harley-Dickinson is at all representative of his kind,” she thought, with a pleasantly giddy kind of satisfaction, “then boys must be a thoroughly delightful species! I shall have to make it a point to meet more of them, as the opportunity permits.”

T HE F IFTH C HAPTER
    A pleasant walk turns into a brush
with calamity, and all because of a hat.
    I F YOU HAVE EVER TAKEN a long-awaited journey to a far-flung destination, you may have encountered a painful condition known as “holiday fatigue.” This is the phenomenon whereby, after weeks of excitedly shopping for straw hats and suitable luggage, making lists of what to pack and what to leave behind, purchasing bug repellent and checking weather reports, and then traveling by foot, aeroplane, tramp steamer, hot-air balloon, or what you please, you arrive, finally, in Mahi-Mahi or Ahwoo-Ahwoo or some other rareand spectacular locale, only to discover that you would much prefer to be at home.
    You have not gone mad. You recall your name perfectly well, know what year it is, and can correctly identify the capitals of at least a few midsized European nations. But your wanderlust seems to have wandered off. The Hawaiian shirts fairly scream to be put on, the sunscreen smells appealingly like coconut—and yet you spend the day in bed, glued to the hotel television. Instead of breaking out the crampons and pickax and scaling the legendarily slippery Mount Crisco, as you had so keenly looked forward to doing, you stumble to the vending machine down the hall to purchase stale candy and a lukewarm soda. Soon, even that pathetic excursion requires more zip than you can muster.
    No one is immune to holiday fatigue, and it is contagious: One grumpy traveler can make the rest of his or her party miserable before the station wagon has left the driveway. So far Penelope showed no symptoms. She had slept like a rock in the small upstairs bedroom next to the children’s room and awoke refreshed. She spent the early part of the morning happily engrossed in her Hixby’s , planning her first full day in London in that eager, list-making sort of mood that starts people whistling jaunty tunes without even knowing they are doing it.
    The Incorrigibles, alas, were a different matter.
    â€œLondon no. Go home.” Cassiopeia announced when Penelope asked her for the second time to run a comb through her hair.
    â€œBut we have not even begun to see London yet,” Penelope replied with mild alarm.
    â€œWe see London. Too much London. Miles and miles.” Beowulf yawned widely. He had already put on his clothes, but his shoes were on the wrong feet, a mistake he had not made for some weeks and that he now seemed in no hurry to correct.
    If Alexander had a complaint, it remained unspoken, but that was because he had so far refused to get out of bed. The covers were drawn completely over his face. Only the hank of sleep-mussed hair poking through the blankets revealed his presence.
    Penelope did not like the look of this one bit. Thanks to Mr. Hixby, she had devised a highly educational walking tour that would allow her to drop a letter at the post office for Miss Charlotte Mortimer, followed by a brisk ramble through St. James’s Park, where she planned to give her pupils a brief lesson in plant identification. They would then proceed to Buckingham Palace, arriving at the time of day when the light would be best for sketching. Afterward: teaand crumpets at an inexpensive