Always a Witch

  "Ah yes," the man says, stroking the lines of his pale golden mustache. "Well, my mother should be back soon. Has she met our Undertaker yet?"

  Rosie giggles. Cook slams a pan on the stove, breaking eggs into it with what seems like unnecessary force, but neither Rosie nor Liam looks in her direction. "Not yet. But he should be back within the hour."

  Liam winks at me. "Nothing to it. Just nod and smile and call him sir and let him pontificate and you should be fine."

  Before I can answer, the doorbell rings. It sounds unnaturally loud in the kitchen. Rosie sighs, brushes her apron off, and squirms out of Liam's lap. "Whoever it is, I'm not at home," Liam says cheerfully, adding cream from a small silver pitcher to the steaming mug of coffee that Cook has set before him. "I'm going to eat and then go to bed, and I don't want to deal with any of Mother's endless callers."

  Rosie ducks out of the kitchen again. Unsure whether to sit or not, I look at Cook for help, but all I get is a view of her back and the rigid lines of her shoulders as she slaps bacon into a pan. Then Liam makes it easy for me. With a wave of his cup, he motions me to sit.

  "So, Miss Smithsdale," he begins. Just then the sun slides through the kitchen window, pouring across his throat and one side of his face. He stretches a little and rubs long fingers across his neck, and I swear if he were a cat he'd start purring. I'm not into the nineteenth-century look, but I'd have to say that Liam is pretty attractive. Remembering exactly who he is and what he did to my Uncle Morris helps me to squelch that thought.

  Focusing those silver eyes on me once more, Liam asks, "Where are you from?"

  "Chicago," I say, folding my hands neatly in my lap, my eyes downcast as the smell of bacon begins to perfume the air.

  "Ah, Chicago, yes, I've been there. Brilliant city. Tell me, where did you live?"

  I bite my lower lip, then offer what I hope is a shy smile. "Oh, sir, nowhere you would have visited, I wager. It wasn't a very grand neighborhood."

  Wager? Grand? Maybe I'm laying it on a little thick.

  But he gives a rich chuckle, revealing perfect white teeth. Apparently, he's lucky or has great genes, as I'm pretty sure that orthodontia doesn't exist in the 1880s.

  Cook sets a blue china plate in front of him, spilling over with a huge omelet and several slices of bacon, and then deposits a thick white linen napkin and a shining fork and knife on the table. He tips an adoring gaze up at her, but she bustles back to the stove without a word. After shaking out the napkin, he tucks it around the edges of his lap before wielding the fork and knife with gusto. I look away and hope that my growling stomach can't be heard over the vigorous washing up that Cook is now absorbed in at the bathtub-size sink.

  "You'd be surprised," he says finally after some thorough chewing. "I don't confine myself to merely grand neighborhoods. So—"

  I'm saved from further questioning by Rosie's reentrance. An unreadable expression skims over her face when she sees me sitting at the table, but then she swivels her head to Liam as he asks, lazily, "So, who was it? Let me guess, Lady Hopewell with her two unbearably ugly daughters? Or perhaps Lady Rehnquist with her three even uglier daughters, if such a thing is possible?"

  Rosie giggles as expected and then makes as if to swat his arm playfully. "No such thing. A Mr. Alistair Callum looking to speak with your mother. He said it was most urgent." Under the table, I press my feet together until I feel a blister on my left toe ping in protest. Not so soon, I want to howl.

  Liam raises an eyebrow but returns to his omelet after a second. "One of those endless horrible charities, no doubt, always looking for a handout. Did you tell him no one was home?"

  "Of course," Rosie says. Then she frowns. "I told him she wasn't home and he said he'd call again. But he seemed ... upset. Odd, really."

  He grunts, chews a piece of bacon. "Those charity types often are. Why they'd choose that as their life's calling, I couldn't begin to imagine." And he shudders before stuffing down the last piece of bacon.

  Cook appears at his elbow to take the plate away. "It's a noble calling," she says to the air above his shoulder. "A charity worker. Helping unfortunate folk. We could all follow that example a little more. To make up for all our sins." Her quiet voice throbs through the air. Rosie and Liam both stare at her in silence.

  Then Liam smiles that perfect smile again. "Don't you think of running off, Cook. You're needed here. We're your favorite charity."

  "Charity is not what keeps me here," she says quietly, and then steps back as if afraid she's said too much.

  But Liam only laughs and ignores her last statement. "As for me, I'll choose to help out poor orphan girls, like Miss Smithsdale here. That can be my charity," he murmurs, his eyes meeting mine intently.

  I swallow and try to smile, but my stomach is roiling, although this time it's not from hunger. Alistair will come here again. Somehow I have to stop him. But before I can even figure out a way to do this, the kitchen door opens yet again and another man enters quietly. He is dressed in a stiff black suit and carries a newspaper folded in crisp pleats under one arm. His eyes roam across the entire kitchen as if gathering evidence before settling on the table and on Liam lounging there. His mouth tightens almost imperceptibly, and then it twists up into what must be his idea of a smile.

  "Hello, Robert," Liam booms out, stretching his legs farther under the table.

  "Master Liam," Robert replies quietly, and then, "Cook, Rosie." His voice narrows on the last two words, and Cook hurries forward and hands him a cup of tea, which he accepts with only a brusque nod. His eyes flick back to Rosie, then zoom in on Rosie's hands, which rest on Liam's chair. But her face is impassive and her hands remain where they are. His mouth does that twisty thing again. Then he turns to me, raising one dark gray slash of an eyebrow. I stumble to my feet, throwing an imploring glance at Rosie.

  "Mr. Tynsdell," Rosie says, her voice carefully blank. "This is Miss Agatha Smithsdale. She's come about the new position."

  "Very good," Mr. Tynsdell says quietly. "And how did you hear of it?"

  I open my mouth, then look past Mr. Tynsdell's shoulder to where Rosie has widened her eyes. She shakes her head once, a quick fluttery motion. Then she looks directly at the newspaper tucked under Mr. Tynsdell's arm. I'm momentarily confused, because Horace said it wasn't in the paper, but then Horace seems kind of full of it. "I read it in the paper, sir," I say, and he nods once, appearing unsurprised.

  "Of course Lady Knight will wish to interview you, but—"

  "No need," Liam says lazily, locking his arms behind his head. "I already did. And I found her qualifications to be quite satisfactory."

  I try not to snort. Apparently, having a pretty face is about the only qualification needed if Liam's doing the hiring. Somehow, I get the idea that La Spider won't be so easily convinced.

  Mr. Tynsdell's lips tighten again. I'm guessing that he does this a lot. "Be that as it may, Master Liam, I think that I should—"

  Liam sits up, turns his leonine head slowly, and pins Mr. Tynsdell with his gaze. "I said she's qualified. Shouldn't that be enough?" All of a sudden his voice has gone soft. Over by the range, Cook's arm freezes in the act of reaching for a dishtowel and Rosie bites her lower lip as if to hide a sudden smile.

  The air seems to shimmer and I blink and then blink again. Liam seems to be shimmering as Mr. Tynsdell's face shifts into the color of ash. "Very good, Master Liam," he says tonelessly, one hand fingering the collar at his throat as if it's choking him.

  For a split second I think about stopping what Liam's doing. It would be so easy to just reach out with my mind and figuratively slap his Talent in the face. But if I do that I'll blow my cover before it's even been established.

  Liam holds the butler's gaze for another second, then turns back abruptly and laughs, looking solid again. "After all, man, it's not like there's a hundred applicants knocking on the door." Then he winks at me. "Don't take that the wrong way." And with that, he shoves back his chair and clambers to h
is feet, stretching out his arms to the ceiling. "I could sleep for a week," he announces. With a cheerful wave, he exits the kitchen.

  After his departure the air seems charred and too close, and I lock one foot around my other ankle.

  "Sit and have your tea," Cook says softly to Mr. Tynsdell, who nods, then stumbles to the table. Cook sets a fresh teapot down in front of him along with a plate of bread and butter. "Eat up," she coaxes. Then she turns to Rosie and says, "Don't you have something better to do?"

  Rosie draws herself up and gives Cook a scornful glance. "You'd best watch yourself," she says slowly, and then, looking at me, she makes a sharp come here motion with her hand. "I'll show you around," she says, and then adds pointedly to the air above Mr. Tynsdell's head, "since Liam says you're staying."

  Mr. Tynsdell lowers his cup back to the table. "That's Master Liam to you," he says sharply.

  But Rosie just laughs and flounces from the kitchen. After a second I follow. But not before I catch one last glance from Cook.

  She looks afraid for me.

  Nine

  "AND THIS IS THE LAUNDRY room, although Lady Knight employs a laundress, so we just have to press their gowns and fold their garments," Rosie says while sweeping her arms around the white-walled room. Earlier, she had paraded me past a dizzying array of rooms, each one seemingly larger than the last, full of walnut-stained paneling and marble floors and so many paintings that I could hardly tell the colors of the walls. Frescoed ceilings depicting blue skies and frolicking cherubs, and thick velvet drapes and tables crammed with clocks and books and miniature stone statues all blur into one solid idea: clearly, money isn't an issue for the Knight family.

  "And here's where we sleep," Rosie says, leading me down the hall. The contrast between the rooms below and the room we're standing in now is like a splash of cold water in the face. This room is small and triangular, with two narrow iron-framed beds, each spread with a nubby white quilt and a single pillow. A matchstick-legged table stands between the beds, and a dresser with a blue ceramic pitcher and matching wide-lipped basin just about complete the scene. With a sudden horrible thought I kneel and look under one of the beds. Then the other. Only empty white floorboards covered in a thin scrim of dust. Still on my knees, I look up at Rosie, who is frowning at me in bemusement.

  "We ... we don't have to empty their chamber pots or anything, right?"

  She widens her eyes. "Chamber pots? No! They each have their own bathroom. In marble."

  I nod but persist with "Um, and do we have a bathroom?" I ask. "I mean, we don't have chamber pots or anything like that?"

  Rosie snorts and then tilts her head back toward the door. "Down the hall to the left." Then she takes a step closer. "Just what kind of a house did you used to work for?"

  I shrug. "Oh, it had its charms. Peculiar ones."

  Ten

  "SHE'LL SEE YOU NOW," Rosie hisses as she bursts through the doorway of her bedroom, where she had left me as soon as the Knights' coach rolled up the street.

  Scrambling to my feet, I submit to Rosie's frantic last-minute inspections. Earlier, while the coachman had gone to the station to pick up La Spider and her daughter, Rosie had whipped out a silver needle and thread and basically sewed me into one of Livie's work uniforms. "Let's go," she says at last, as if I'm holding her up, and ducks out the door again. I follow her down the servants' stairway, through the back passages and across the wide marbled foyer, before she brings me to a gilt-edged doorway that leads to Lady Knight's private office. Rosie raises one hand and knocks on the door, then waits.

  "Come in," a low voice says. I dig my nails into my palms as Rosie precedes me into the room.

  Dark wooden paneling lines the lower half of the walls, while the upper half is covered in a velvety, rich red wallpaper. At one end of the room, a huge fire crackles in the marble fireplace, and at the other end, a woman, seated behind an ornate mahogany desk, is consulting a bound ledger. She doesn't immediately look up at us. So I study the top of her dark head for a while, noting the rich drape of her royal blue skirt, her starched white shirtwaist, and the gleaming ruby earrings. Everything about this room and this woman spells out elegance. Ice cold elegance. Even the fire's heat doesn't seem to be able to penetrate the chill that permeates the air.

  La Spider, I think, and almost as if she's heard me, she finally raises her head. Her eyes are two diamonds of light in a carved alabaster face. As they probe into me, I do my best to stand straight and tall and not run away screaming. This woman radiates a tremendous sense of Talent, so palpable that even ordinary people must somehow perceive it. I don't even get this sense from my grandmother, and she's the most powerful witch I can think of. Then her searchlight eyes shift to Rosie and she moves her chin a fraction of an inch downward. Only then does the other girl speak in the most demure voice I've heard from her.

  "Lady Knight, this is Agatha Smithsdale. She's come about the position of lady's maid to Lady Jessica."

  In a precise voice, La Spider says, "That will be all, Rosie. Tell Cook I'll want to see her next."

  "Yes, my lady," Rosie says, and with a swirl of her skirt, she's gone.

  I swallow and raise my eyes, even though my eyelids feel like two slabs of stone.

  La Spider studies me in silence for a while, her mouth an implacable line. "I assume Rosie has told you everything you need to know about this position. The salary is twelve dollars a month, and you'll have a half day off each week and one full day off each month." She pauses, so I nod. An irritated expression crosses her face and I wonder how many times she has recited this spiel. "I do not know the kind of household you're used to, but in this house, you will be expected to present a neat, clean appearance at all times and to always be available when my daughter or I call for you."

  "Yes, my lady," I manage to murmur.

  "I wanted a French maid for my daughter. But you're American. You have no references," she says suddenly, and the swift conversational veer startles me even though I was expecting this. "That is most unusual and would not, generally, be acceptable."

  "I—"

  She tilts her head and I fall silent. "My son, Liam, has vouched for you." And now her lip curls. "I have no idea what gutter he might have found you in. All I know is that you're here and you at least look respectable."

  For once in my life, I decide sarcasm probably isn't the best idea here. "Thank you, my lady," I say, biting the inside of my cheek to keep any inflection from creeping into my voice.

  She stares at me in silence for another moment. "In this house, you will do your work. You will not speak about anyone in this house to anyone outside of this house. Instead, you will keep your mouth shut at all times. I can be a fair mistress. I can be a very unforgiving one as well. Is that clear?"

  I nod, privately wondering if the other girls got this speech and how hard up they must have been to keep from running out the front door the first second they could. And then I realize that there's no way Livie would have ever dared to steal anything from this woman and expect to live another day. Three minutes in this woman's presence is more than enough confirmation of Cook's words and more than enough proof that Horace and Rosie lied about my predecessor.

  And suddenly that's all. She returns to examining the ledger on her desk and I almost collapse with relief to be free of her terrifying gaze. "You may go," she says.

  I curtsy, but she doesn't seem to notice. It's as if I've faded into the wallpaper. "Yes, my lady," I say again.

  I have a feeling that I'll be saying that a lot.

  I close the door softly behind me and take a deep breath, wondering when my heart will resume its normal rate again. Then a burst of wild giggling makes me forget all about the last five minutes.

  "Oh, sir, you really do know how to sweep a girl off her feet." Rosie's voice is high and light and airy, as if she's imitating someone. After tiptoeing down the hallway, I stop in front of a partially open door and peer in.

  Mr. Tynsdell is waltzing Rosie
across what appears to be a salon stuffed with couches and tables. As I watch, they narrowly miss crashing into a lamp and then a side table before whirling past the small piano. Rosie's head is tipped back, her blond hair is flying loose, and her mouth is a bright red circle of laughter as Mr. Tynsdell waggles his eyebrows and contorts his lips into what to me seem like frightening grimaces. But Rosie only shrieks with delight as they collapse into a heap on the gold braided rug by the fireplace.

  "Stop, stop," she giggles, twisting her head sideways as he nuzzles his face to hers, sniffing her like a dog. Finally, they sit up and she runs her hands over her hair. In a matter of seconds, she is smoothing away errant strands, tucking everything back neatly under her cap.

  Rosie and Mr. Tynsdell?

  "That should teach you a lesson," Mr. Tynsdell says, his eyebrows jumping up and down again. It's almost as if he's ... parodying himself.

  And then a chill passes over me.

  That isn't Mr. Tynsdell at all.

  Before I can test my theory, Rosie says, "Oh, sir, I do love when you chastise me so." She bats her eyelashes at him and as he angles his body closer to hers, she giggles. "Please. I can't kiss him. Not even for you."

  Mr. Tynsdell draws back, jutting out his lower lip as if she slapped him. "I knew your love was only surface deep," he says in that deep, sonorous voice.

  "You know that's not so," she murmurs, leaning toward him.

  Just then a bell rings sharply throughout the room. Rosie scrambles to her feet, shaking out her skirts. "Your mother," she says in a completely different voice. She blows a kiss to the butler and darts toward the fireplace. Frowning, I watch as she ducks behind a floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting what looks like a hunting party chasing a bright gold unicorn through a deep and gloomy forest. There is a soft grating noise and then silence.

  Mr. Tynsdell climbs slowly to his feet and dances a little jig before a gray mist rises from the center of his chest.