And it is wonderful, if one defines the experience as asource of actual wonder, a near miracle. With Kelly’s help, I secure lodgingswithin twenty-four hours, but I cannot move in until the current inhabitantsvacate the premises. Therefore, I’ve been developing some previouslynon-existent homemaking skills.
A scullery girl comes to The Revels and works with me for anhour or two each afternoon. Scarcely fifteen, she charges a minimal amount forher services but seems to be a wealth of domestic information. I have learnedmany things under her tutelage. The operation of the big, frightening woodstove, how to gather eggs from the hens without getting pecked, and bakingscones. And I’ve discovered that large kitchen aprons are an excellentinvention. Mixing up cornbread and scones can cover even the most skilledhomemakers with powdery ingredients.
Yet I am not even close to skilled—thus the ingredients coatboth me and the apron like an early spring snowfall. How glad I am today’ssupper is over! I cooked it all on my own, learning far too late that oneshould never fry bacon in an over-heated cast-iron skillet. As a result, we hadno meat for supper, and the kitchen still smells of smoldering pork.
“Those jacket potatoes were good,” Sim murmurs, bringing hisplate to the sink. “Didn’t fancy bacon anyway.”
He lies. Everyone fancies bacon except the pig.
I begin washing up. Sim takes the towel off my shoulder anddries the dishes as I clean them. This is a nice surprise. It seems like I’vebeen waiting on Sim hand and foot since coming home. Not that I mind,particularly. Having someone else to care for distracts me from my ownproblems.
“Do you know if Little Hawk’s left for town yet?” he asks, slidinga dry plate across the counter.
Willard has been in and out of the house for days at a time,searching the woods for Mary Arden. He mentioned earlier that he needed freshsupplies from Hollister’s before making the next trip. I gave him five dollarsand a shopping list of my own.
Sim adds another dish to the stack. “And the girl is gone? Theone who comes in and helps you?”
Nodding in response, I drop our utensils into a pan of hotwater, wisps of steam rising to my face. I scrub and rinse the knives and forksbefore handing them to Sim.
“Willard said you leased a place on St. David’s Street. A bigold boarding house. When do you move in?”
I hold up seven soapy fingers.
“A week? That soon?” He does not speak much after receivingthis information and leaves abruptly when the last mug is wiped dry and placedin the cupboard.
With the kitchen finally tidy, I pick up a large woven basket.It’s dark outside, but that doesn’t matter to me. The sheets on the laundryline won’t un-peg themselves. My back gives me a twinge as I hoist the basketto my hip. Even though the lashes have healed, there are spasms of pain deep inthe affected muscles. I injected myself this morning, but it takes more drugsto satisfy me now. I have five bottles left, little more than a dose in each.Just thinking of running dry makes me ill.
When I leave the house, the night air smells of chives androsemary from the kitchen garden, and a single cricket cheeps its heart out inthe flower bed. A soft, gentle evening, and yet depression nearly smothers meas I unpeg and fold the linen.
Knowing my way by heart, I count the steps back toward thehouse, walk across the kitchen, and down the hallway to the formal staircase. Ihold the handrail and proceed to the second floor, turning in the direction ofmy old bedroom. Sim was embarrassed to admit that my father had given it tohim. He offered to move out, but I didn’t wish to be a bother. The maid’sdormitory isn’t such a bad spot, and most nights, I’m too tired to care aboutmy sleeping arrangements.
Sim is packing when I enter my old suite. I hear him dropsomething on the floor. Is it a shoe? He seems jumpy, like me when themedication wears off. Once he snaps his bag and removes it from the bed, Idrape clean linen over the mattress and begin tucking in the corners.
“Might as well leave,” Sim says. “Can’t stay here forever.”
Lifting my eyebrows, I turn in his direction, questioning. Whathas brought on this sudden restlessness?
He goes downstairs without saying anything more. Sim can’t be seriousabout leaving now. Where will he stay? I’ve heard nothing about newaccomodations and the owner doesn’t take possession of the house for severalweeks. Perhaps Sim means to take a trip.
I finish adjusting the linens and then open the built-in drawersunder the window seat, hoping to find an additional quilt inside. It is asdesolate as the rest of The Revels. My hand bumps against a slim wooden panel.I had forgotten about the hidden compartment. In our salad days, Cordelia and Isurprised one another by leaving treats in this little drawer. Pushing theright corner of the panel, I hear it release and pop out.
Nostalgic, I reach inside, and my fingers touch something cool.Like links of a chain. A necklace? Stomach fluttering, I trace the edgeof a small, rectangular stone and recognize it immediately. It’s the topaz—thesame one worn by Tom’s ancestors. A surge of happiness runs through me until Iremember when I last held the pendant. The day a stranger threw Kelly offSettler’s Ridge and nearly strangled me. Reviewing that memory in my head, Irealize it wasn’t a stranger at all.
But Simmons Harrow.
I lean against the foot of the bed, feeling like the air’s beenknocked out of me. How could I not read him, not know what he was feeling allthese years? Even with my supernatural gifts, I never realized the truth. Imust have blocked my mind to any clues that brought him under suspicion—the heightof the attacker, his build and musculature. Even the smell of beef broth on hisskin, now that I think of it—a scent often worn by the oldest children at the orphanage.They earn their keep in the kitchens, separating the boiled meat from the
