Winnie found the right key, unlocked the door. Mrs. Bone was on her in a second. “About bloody time. Third floor sorted?”
Winnie was hardly thinking of the third floor now. “Mrs. Bone. What is this girl doing here?”
Mrs. Bone shook her head. “You’re not paying attention.” She jabbed the paper. “Don’t you see what this is?”
“We need this girl out of the way, Mrs. Bone.”
“This girl’s our good-luck charm. She’s our little jewel.” She snatched the paper out of Winnie’s hand, waved it in front of her face. “Wasn’t you reading it properly?”
Winnie studied it, comprehension dawning. Ordinary, everyday names. Agnes, Sylvie, Molly, Eunice… Each with a gentleman marked in the margin, with dates, with times…
“Got it? We can take this to the police. Or the papers. Get Danny’s people where it hurts. Their reputation. You can’t do a thing without that. We could bring his whole bloody empire down.”
“But Mrs. King says…”
“Hang Mrs. King.”
“Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie, grabbing her arm. “You remember our instructions. No clever ideas. No deviations. None at all.”
Mrs. Bone’s nostrils flared. “You had your chance to fix things here. What good did that do? Something needs to be done for those girls.”
Winnie pictured the housemaids standing out on the terrace. Caps, aprons, embroidered fringes, pleats and ruffles. She shook her head, dots dancing in front of her eyes. She looked again at the paper.
“Very well,” she said, feeling Mrs. Bone’s eyes boring into her. “Very well. We’ll manage this between us.”
Mrs. Bone’s mouth was set in a determined line. “Good for you,” she said, as much to herself as to Winnie. Then she turned to Sue. “You, put your apron on. We’ve got housekeeping to do.”
Alice was hiding in Miss de Vries’s dressing room, a safe and familiar place: high in the house, far away from the man in the mews yard, far away from anyone. She knew what was expected of her: to glue herself to Madam, to trail her like a hound. But when she closed the dressing-room door, she felt the compression in the air, the sturdy thunk of the door, and she knew she was staying put. It wasn’t safe outside.
She’d only been standing there for a minute when she heard movement in the bedroom. Footsteps as stealthy as her own. It wasn’t Madam. She moved briskly, without a care in the world. Alice backed hurriedly into the closet, crouching to the floor, holding her breath.
“Alice?”
Alice knew the voice at once. Mrs. King. Then came shame, a great roll of it, the awful realization that she was cowering here like an animal in a trap. A weak thing, beyond useless.
The footsteps stilled. Silence. And then another soft click, the door handle turning, and a pool of oily light oozing across the carpet.
She couldn’t see her sister. But she could feel her gaze sweeping the room. Alice held her breath.
Seconds passed. She yearned for Mrs. King to enter. To excavate her, rescue her.
The door didn’t creak. It was too well oiled for that. But the air sighed, the oily light contracted, and there was a heavy thunk as it closed once more.
Miss de Vries had the honor of bringing the princess up to the supper room. The waiters were setting out jellies and fondants. Bring me red meat, thought Miss de Vries. Bring me blood. She felt as if she were approaching the altar, ready to be transformed. The air felt thick and heady with cologne and scent. An equerry pulled out a chair for her. Its pommels gleamed, and it looked almost like a throne.
Miss de Vries wondered how many people were watching her. She could feel it, something greedy in the atmosphere. They were waiting for her to show herself up. To fail. She gripped her fork, smiled, biting the favorite part of her lip, tasting the blood.
Up close you could see the veins in the princess’s skin. It gave her a blueish aspect. The eyes were less striking in reality than in photographs—smaller, filmy looking. Her mouth drooped a little at the sides. She looks like her father, thought Miss de Vries, and it gave her a curious feeling in her stomach.
“Ma’am.” A confident voice, right behind her. A hand on the back of her chair, jolting it.
The lady-in-waiting with the orange turban smiled. “Ashley. Naughty you. Late again.”
Miss de Vries turned. She’d left Lord Ashley in the garden, hoped they would have given him enough wine to distract him. This was her ascendance. She wished to enjoy it by herself, before she was pinned to his arm forever. But he didn’t seem distracted. He lowered his chin, and for an extraordinary second she thought he was going to kiss her on the head. But he was only bowing to the Princess Victoria.
“Forgive me,” said Lord Ashley with a smile, and slipped into his seat.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask her permission to join, didn’t thank her for the food. He grabbed his fork as if seated at his own table.
The princess retreated into her own head, eyes down. The ladies all made a graceful turn left, and commenced conversation with their neighbors. Of course they all knew each other; it was effortless for them. Miss de Vries found herself seated beside a spindly and decrepit colonel, who was fussing with his handkerchief and inspecting the forks, saying not a word. Someone had altered the table plan without seeking her authority: someone from the royal household, perhaps. Or Lord Ashley. Miss de Vries stared at the wall in enforced silence, feeling a flush rising up her neck, suddenly out of her depth. The crowd stood panting at the door to the supper room.
This is my triumph, she reminded herself firmly, feeling ravenous, eating nothing.
Meanwhile, the Janes were consulting the instruction labels ironed into their petticoats. This was the most delicate part of the operation: sweeping the rooms in the public parts of the house. They got to work on the library, with Hephzibah’s decoy guests stationed right outside, guarding the door. Mrs. Bone’s men, still dressed in their tunics, stood on extendable ladders, handing books down the line and stacking them in towers. It was taking longer than Winnie had calculated.
“Come on,” muttered Jane-one, her eyes fixed on the clock.
“What time is it?” said Jane-two.
“Don’t ask.”
The men heard. Fear, the first true prickle of it, shimmered across the room.
Someone dropped a book. Jane-one saw it happen. It simply slipped from a man’s hand, toppling into a tower of leather-bound volumes already on the floor.
She knew what would follow. Her mind unspooled it, several seconds ahead. The first tower fell into the next. Dominoes.
The men looked on, aghast, as the towers crumbled. Jane-one felt the tremor as hundreds upon hundreds of books hit the bare floor. It was a rumble she could feel in all directions, passing through the walls.
“Lock that door,” she said. “Right now.”
A fist hammered on the library door. “Open up!”
One of the footmen, thought Jane-one. They’d heard a commotion in the library and come running, pushing past Hephzibah’s actresses. She pressed her finger to her lips. The men all stared at her, pale and sweating. They were trapped. Books lay scattered on the floor around them.
Silence outside. “Hello?” the footman said, uncertain. “Everything all right?”