She ignored him. "Don't be greedy!" she screeched, smashing the other one.
Knock-knock. "Hallo, in there?" The brown-suited man had evidently heard the commotion and was now trying to get in. Mr. Fischer crouched over the puddle of water and bits of plaster and glass scattered over the floor as Mollie moved past him, behind the counter, running her fingers over the boards until she found the telltale crevice.
She turned and regarded the shopkeeper with a feral glint in her eye. "Somebody's left the gate open," she hissed, and swept out the back door.
The man in the brown suit now held a bright badge against the window. "Open up, in the name of the law!"
Mollie wandered in the rain, her head tilted back so the fat drops pelted her eyes, ran down her hair. She was drowning in her very own snow-globe--and still the nightmare clung to her, haunted her steps.
The maid staggered down past the shops. An illuminated shingle caught her eye. Messrs. Verdi and Graves--Book Sellers, it read.
A breathy cackle escaped her lips. "What clever books--judge 'em by their covers... but the covers lie!" she muttered, stumbling onward. "Cover up for the coppers! Solitaires in plaster! Jewels on paste and tinfoil! Mr. Verdi, I presume," she curtseyed low, dragging her hem through the mud as she sloshed in the street. "Have you any books on breaking and entering?" She gave a mean chuckle, deep in her throat--just like those men had. Her words rasped out, low and menacing. "'Owse about cuttin' and big ol' butcher knives? Izzat what we's owed?" She closed her eyes and sniffed deeply, the memories crowding into her senses. "Deep scars 'e had," she muttered. "Thick 'ands, and one wi' a spider tattoo--oh, the liquor on 'im!" She shuddered and began scraping at her sodden sleeves with her curled fingertips. "Liquor, tobacco..." She caught the same smell on the air, heard the clink of glasses over the slap of rain upon the muddy ground.
Mollie opened her eyes. Her wandering feet had taken her all the way down to the harborside tavern, as disreputable a place as there ever was in Afton-by-the-Sea.
"Here it is at last," she muttered to herself, wavering back and forth on her feet. "Safe behind locked doors, is it?" She sloshed forward, placing her hand upon the door. Her eyes rolled, and her head lolled. She couldn't look straight ahead, for some reason. She was trapped in someone else's body.
"Not safe. Nowhere is safe." She pushed away from the doorway, stomping angrily as the rain poured around her. The shadows crowded in close, clinging to her like her wet clothes clung to her body. "'Owse about I cut you, tickle you with a knife?" She flourished her hand, as if the criminals stood before her, tied and gagged as she had been, completely at her mercy. "Cover you up in scars! Score the bread afore it's baked! Haha!" Mollie cackled.
"You there!" A bright light flashed in her direction. A man in a brown suit with an umbrella was pointing an electric torch at her.
Mollie put up her hands to shield her eyes from the beam. "No! Not safe here! Must get to where it's safe!"
The man walked toward her, picking his way around puddles and ruts. "What are you on about? I've got a few questions for you."
"The kitchens--be safe!" Mollie darted around the strange man, using what few thoughts she had left to focus on getting back to the one place she knew: the kitchens of Dalton House. The robbers couldn't touch her there, and no brown-suited strangers either.
In the kitchen of Dalton House, preparations for dinner were well underway. Two older women formed pie crusts with practiced hands. Dot busily chopped the vegetables for a salad. A tall, willowy maid covered in flour up to her elbows anxiously peeked into the pot of steaming vegetables.
"They won't cook right that way," one of the women remarked without taking her eyes off her work.
Pearl dropped the lid with a bang. "I just wish I could be sure—"
"What is going on?" Mason charged in, narrowly missing getting knocked over by Gwen, headed for the larder. "Pearl?" He pointed at the blonde maid. "What are you doing? Who are these women? I thought you were supposed to be waiting on Miss Agatha."
Pearl huffed and slapped her hands on her apron, releasing a cloud of flour. "Miss Agatha said she was doing quite all right, so I just came down here to help!" She gestured to the ladies. "They're over from the house next door. When Mollie wasn't returning to prepare supper, I popped over to the house next door and asked if they could spare anybody for tonight!" She smiled, as if she expected praise for this display of initiative.
"Pardon!" Dot darted in front of Pearl to retrieve a loaf of bread from the oven.
Mason still watched with approbation. "Where's Mollie? Isn't she supposed to be in charge of the kitchen?"
Pearl frowned at the deep, stiff-brown, compacted brick on the paddle before her. She was sure she had gotten the ingredients and the directions correct—but the result was not at all what her friend predicted.
"Mollie went out today," she answered. "Now if you don't mind, I am very busy—"
"What d'you mean out?" Mason demanded. "She can't have gone out without telling me! Lord Dalton expressly forbid it, even of his own children."
Pearl rolled her eyes and huffed as she scraped the near-solidified jelly out of the saucepan and into the dish. "Don't expect me to give an answer for her. I can't imagine why she wouldn't tell you, but I am not going to refuse to help my friend just because she gets an idea in her head and she doesn't do what she ought to."
Mason opened his mouth, but just then, Charlie poked his head in the door.
"They've all been seated; is the first course ready?"
Pearl's eyes bulged. "First course? Umm—"
Charlie pointed to the large tureen behind her. "The soup?"
Pearl heaved
