The dining gallery glowed softly with candles, the twinkling melody of cutlery on plates and crystal glassware floating lightly beneath the conversation. It had been months since I had last served at a formal supper, and I struggled to maintain the proper attention to detail and regimen. Lee, Mrs. Haylam, and I stood to the side near the serving board, waiting for just the right moment to dash in with more wine or to retrieve a fallen handkerchief.
The pace of it made me itch. Lee did not seem any better off, fidgeting at my side. We watched Miss Canny, her betrothed, and his father and business associate dine on white soup and roast loin of pork studded with cloves, the smells so rich and tempting that my stomach growled in protest. Our meal, by contrast, had been a cup of stew made days ago, filling but not nearly as decadent as the spread being served now.
Amelia wore dazzling pins in her hair to match her scarlet gown. I couldn’t help but stare at her and wonder what it was like to own so many frocks that a new one could be donned for each part of the day. Mason Breen and his side of the family dressed far more soberly, in simple grays and browns, though the cut of their suits and the quality of the fabric hinted at their wealth. Mason Breen’s father, Mr. Barrow Breen, had the look of a sailor, with very tanned and weathered flesh, and gnarled knuckles. Such men were commonplace where I had grown up, which led me to believe he might be one of the newly rich, perhaps a man who had made his fortune in exports. The two men shared a strong familial resemblance, both with bright shocks of blond hair and pale gray eyes. Mason was quite handsome, angular and austere, and his father simply looked like an aged, tired version of his son.
Their business partner, Samuel Potts, had a swarthier appearance, also sun-dappled and leathery, with shaggy, thinning gray hair and a monstrous beard. His suit, while fine, fit on him strangely, as if he were a bear wrestled into a waistcoat.
“I do find that young Mr. Finch very agreeable,” Amelia was saying. She had managed the bulk of the conversation at the table, which did not seem to upset any of the men. They listened dutifully and drank just as intently. A dark rosy stain was spreading across Mason’s cheeks.
“His sister is far less . . . Well, she is rather opinionated, is she not?”
Samuel Potts grunted into his wine, ruffling his mustache.
“Where did they say they were from again?” Mason Breen asked, helping himself to more pork.
“London,” Mrs. Haylam said suddenly, startling us all. The room fell silent at her single, barked word. She gave a mild, faked smile and added, “By way of Calcutta. Merely passing through, I’m afraid.”
Amelia recovered from the shock of Mrs. Haylam’s interruption with a giggle. “Now that is a shame. It is excellent to make new friends, they could even attend the wedding—”
“Out of the question,” Mr. Barrow Breen grumbled. “The very idea!”
“Oh, it was only a silly suggestion,” Amelia replied, but she hid her face, concentrating on her dinner plate. “I cannot see the harm in—”
“Girl, I know what you see; you see whatever it is you want to waste my money on next,” he thundered. The hall rang with the boom of his voice, and Lee and I both flinched, then shared a look. He raised both tawny eyebrows and then rolled his eyes slowly toward the table. I tried not to laugh.
“At least we won’t have to put up with it for long,” I whispered, and I saw him smile.
“I won’t have you speaking to my betrothed that way!” Mason had finally spoken up, jumping to his feet and rattling the table. The wineglass perched on the edge near Samuel Potts upended, and he roared in surprise, shooting up out of his seat and grabbing for something to wipe at his soiled shirt.
“Quickly now,” Mrs. Haylam directed, snapping into action. “Help Mr. Potts, Louisa.”
I turned to the board behind us and took a clean napkin from the folded pile and dabbed it in a glass of water, rushing to the bushy man’s side. He snatched the napkin out of my hand and shooed me away, rubbing furiously at his clothes.
“This wedding is enough of a farce without that brainless ninny inviting strangers to gawk at our lives!” Barrow Breen shoved a finger in his son’s face, which was immediately batted away.
Mason was as tall as his father and now puffed himself up to be even larger. “How . . . How dare you, sir? How dare you?” He whirled and motioned to a dumbfounded Amelia. “Come, Amelia, we do not have to endure this.”
She gave a soft little pout and rounded the table on tippy-toes, taking Mason’s elbow and following him out of the room.
In the aftermath there was only silence. Mr. Breen breathed so erratically I could see his shoulders jumping up and down as he struggled to contain himself. Samuel Potts continued to work fruitlessly at his shirt and then scoffed, throwing the napkin down on the table.
“Just a short dessert, then,” Mrs. Haylam said brightly, as if nothing at all had happened.
Lee and I stared at her in disbelief, then scurried to change out the plates and remove the soup and pork from the table. There was trifle and pudding, but the men only picked at their portions in the ominous residuum of the argument. Tea was brought and ignored, and finally the men filed out, the atmosphere clearing as if a storm had passed.
“A delightful bunch,” Lee muttered as we cleared the table and helped Mrs. Haylam return everything to the kitchens.
I had always liked the dining hall, as it felt cozier and more human than some of the other rooms in Coldthistle, but now it felt stained, as if the family had left behind an imprint of sorrow. Mrs. Haylam stayed behind in the kitchens on our last trip to direct Poppy on what could be saved and salvaged for the pantry. Lee and I remained in the dining room, washing and sweeping.
“I would not want to marry into that miserable family,” I replied, peeling off the tablecloth. I sighed at the massive wine stain on one side, dreading the time it would take me to clean it. “I don’t care how rich they are.”
“Amelia obviously does,” Lee said. He swept under the board and chairs, making a little pile of crumbs near the open door. The dining hall was at the back of the house, around behind the staircase and looking out onto the north end of the lawn and the spring. The house was mostly quiet, but above us I could hear pacing, and I wondered if Amelia was having trouble sleeping after the fight.
“She was poor once,” I told him. “It makes you ruthless.”
“Does it?” He said it softly, but I heard the implicit accusation.
“Yes,” I replied, undaunted. “It can grind you into dust, having nothing, it isn’t noble or romantic, and it’s humiliating to know villains like Mr. Barrow Breen get to wallow in luxury and still turn out to be unbearable heels.”
Lee swept silently for a moment, then paused and turned to look at me as I rolled up the tablecloth for the wash. “And if you came into money? Would you be different?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I should probably learn to hate myself.”
“You would do something good with it,” he assured me, and swept the pile of crumbs out into the foyer. “I like to think you would do something good.”
I’m trying, I thought, silently considering my bargain with the Devil. I will.
I was exhausted by the time Mrs. Haylam excused us. Lee disappeared at once, dodging out of the kitchens and into the darkness outside the house. He narrowly missed Poppy and Bartholomew, who slumped inside to rest while Mrs. Haylam did the final locking up.
With so much dessert left behind, she allowed us to each take a bit of trifle with us up to bed. It was the best thing I had eaten in a long time, but I could hardly taste it. While I battled the fatigue muddling my mind, I thought about what Lee had said. Would I really do something good with a fortune of my own? I didn’t quite know. . . . Of course it was tempting to imagine oneself as a gracious benefactor, foregoing decadence and living modestly as a philanthropist, giving money to orphanages and turning patron to some needy ward. But I could not say if that was my secret truth. Perhaps my secret truth was that I wanted to finally have something of my own, to spend money however I saw fit, to own a great house and fill it with ridiculous gowns and trinkets.
I would not know until that secret truth could be my reality. Croydon Frost and the money he owed me was reality, one that crept ever closer as Mr. Morningside read over the first translation.
Lee was right, I told myself. I would take Frost’s money and help my friends. If they did not want to live with me then I could buy them all houses of their own. How amazing it would be, I thought, to give them the gift of freedom.
In the morning I would bother him about bringing my father to the house, but in that moment I craved only sleep. I finished the trifle, spooning up the last of the cream and shuffling into my chambers. Closing the door, I rested against it gratefully for a moment. In the corridor I heard the familiar scraping gait of the Residents as they began their nightly patrols of the house. I crossed to the bed and left my little empty cup on the table, then changed into my bedclothes with leaden limbs. Crawling into bed, I shifted the curtain to my right aside and gazed up at the stars for a moment, letting the bright moonlight bathe my face.
I must have fallen asleep immediately, but woke soon after, roused by what sounded like crying. Sitting up in bed, I moved the curtain on my window aside again and peered out into the darkness. From there, I saw only the eastern side of the lawn, part of the barn, and the newly built pavilion. Nothing obvious stirred in the yard, and I waited for a moment, listening, thinking that the horses had been startled or a hawk had found a mouse in the fields. But the cry came again, this time clearer and certainly human.
Kneeling, I pressed my face to the cool glass and squinted. There was movement at the very edge of the strip of woods behind the pavilion. I swore it was so. I waited still longer, and this time it was a long, pained wail. A girl’s voice. Had Poppy gotten out of the house and into some kind of trouble? It didn’t sound like her, but I couldn’t imagine who else would be out in the forest crying. Mrs. Haylam had warned us to be careful, to stay in the house, but I ignored her advice, putting bare feet to cold wooden slats and searching for a coat. I had been given an old, quilted housecoat that was tattered and worn, but as it was nearly summer, it would suffice.
I shrugged on the coat and padded to the door, then opened it slowly and checked for any wandering Residents. Down the hall, one drifted up the stairs, just the bedraggled tips of its feet hanging there before it glided up to the floor above. After a moment, I darted down toward where it had been and raced toward the foyer, hoping it would be too late in sensing me. Though I had not often navigated the house in the dark, I trusted that the kitchen door would be the most expedient route. It was also likely to be empty, since Mrs. Haylam and Poppy had their rooms elsewhere. Coldthistle remained silent, filled with the kind of uneasy tension that came in the dead of night.
The kitchens were empty but the door leading out had been locked. Of course. Mrs. Haylam was feeling particularly touchy about security with the Upworlders around. I fished the spoon necklace out from under my chemise and closed my eyes, steadying my breathing. I didn’t think of my father but of the person in need outside. My thoughts raced. What if Poppy had been lured to the woods? Would the Upworlders really try to harm her? Or perhaps Amelia and Mason had sneaked off for some mischief in the spring and twisted an ankle. . . . Whoever or whatever it was, I knew I would never get back to sleep with them wailing outside my window.
The spoon grew hot in my hand and changed as I squeezed it, re-forming into a key. I unlocked the kitchen door and crept out into the moonlit yard. It was far brighter than normal, lending me plenty of light to see by as I tiptoed through the grass. No commotion came from the barn as I passed, but that high, scared cry came from the forest again. This time, I could make out words. . . .
Heeeelp me! Please, help!
The girl was crying. She sounded so pitiful, so lonely. . . . Tendrils of familiarity tugged at my heart. I knew the voice, I could swear I knew the voice. So I approached the forest edge, carefully, the pavilion to my right and back, Coldthistle looming over my left shoulder. There was no path into the woods here, for the only trail cut through farther to my left and led only to the natural spring. As I neared the forest I heard the spring bubbling distantly, and the chorus of frogs and crickets that took up near its moister grounds filled the air with their song. A twig cracked under my foot and I froze, clutching the spoon necklace with both hands. Without my meaning it to, the spoon that had become a key had now, in my fear, become a knife.
That was all right, I decided, swallowing back the little voice in my head that told me to turn back and go immediately to bed. Another voice joined that one, the same that had risen in me when I first met Finch and Sparrow.
The woods are no place for you tonight, child. Turn back.
I did not relish the thought of a woman’s disembodied voice living inside me, and so far it had not protected me from anything at all. Sparrow and Finch had not harmed me, though admittedly this did seem like a far worse circumstance. I hesitated, clutching the knife, wondering if now was the time to listen to that voice before it was too late. A chill ran through my bones and I swiveled to look back at Coldthistle. Nobody had followed and I did not see any Residents watching me from the windows. The place looked dead, just a black and shadowed husk that seemed as unwelcoming as the forest. The frogs and insects chirped louder, screeching like a bow singing across a too-tight string. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Danger. I would go inside, I thought, I would heed that warning voice at last.
But then the cry came again and I gasped, spinning and plunging into the forest.
Mary.