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reworked their failed budget. “I’m sorry, George. I didn’t hear you. What is it you are searching for?”
    Georgie shifted from one foot to the other, his coat awry, a smear of dust down one cheek. He favored Honoria with a flat stare. “I’m not searching for a ‘what,’ I am searching for a ‘whom.’”
    Honoria sighed and returned her quill to the ink stand. “I gather we are talking about the ever busy Achilles.”
    George nodded, his expression severe. “I put him to bed for a nap, and when I went to wake him, he was gone.”
    Honoria pursed her lips. “He seems to run away quite a bit, you know. Have you ever thought that perhaps Achilles does not like living in a hatbox under your bed?”
    “He likes that hatbox. I can tell.”
    “How?”
    George’s brows lowered, his violet eyes sparkling with disdain. “I know he likes it because he sings when he’s in that hatbox. I don’t think he’d bother unless he enjoyed being there.”
    “Perhaps he is not singing, but yelling for help.” She put her hands in the air and said in as froglike a voice as she could muster, “Help! I’m being held prisoner in a horrid hatbox! Please save me!”
    George eyed her morosely.
    Honoria lowered her hands. “You didn’t find that the least bit funny, did you?”
    “No. I’ve heard Achilles yell. When he’s in the hatbox, he just sings.”
    “When have you heard him yell?”
    “When I was trying to teach him how to slide down the banister in the front hall.”
    “Thank heavens I’m not a frog! I believe I might yell, too.” She rubbed her temples. “But I daresay you do know his yelling from his singing.”
    “I just wish I knew why he kept running away.”
    Honoria could hear the genuine distress in George’s voice. “Perhaps he misses his old pond.”
    “You think he might?” Georgie’s bottom lip jutted out, a stubborn gleam rising in his eyes. “Perhaps he does, but if he didn’t live in the hatbox under my bed, he’d be very sorry in-deed. He would miss me much worse than he could ever miss his old nasty pond.”
    “Yes well, if he keeps getting out you may have to put a lid on that hatbox. And a book on top of that.”
    “But that would make it dark! Achilles doesn’t like dark places.”
    Honoria had an idea who didn’t like dark places, and it wasn’t Achilles. “Your frog used to live in a pond in the woods; it got very dark at night in those woods, too. I don’t think he’d mind if you’d put a lid on his hatbox at all.”
    Georgie’s chin firmed. “I won’t do it. It would be the same as putting him in prison.”
    “It would be saving his life. There are many dangers to a frog in a house, you know.”
    George looked skeptical. “Like what?”
    “He could be stepped on by an unsuspecting servant or accidentally knocked down the stairs by Portia while she was carrying some material for one of her sewing projects. He could be hopping through the kitchen and fall into a pan of soup. He could get his toe stuck in one of the floor gratings. There are an untold number of things that could happen to a hapless frog.”
    “No. If something bad happened to Achilles, I would know.”
    Honoria sighed and pulled George to her, giving him a gentle hug and resting her cheek against his hair. “I think putting a lid on Achilles’s box could save his life. If nothing else, it might keep him from running away.”
    “He doesn’t run away; he goes exploring, like Father.”
    Honoria pulled back and eyed her youngest brother a long moment. He was just as stubborn as… well, as stubborn as the rest of the family. And she supposed she could understand why he didn’t wish to admit that perhaps he might be wrong. He was, after all, a part of Mother. And Mother had never been able to admit defeat. It was the one trait she’d given to each and every one of her children; to the last one, the Baker-Sneeds were thoroughly blessed with the famed Winchefield tenacity.
    Honoria kissed her