Cook smiled slowly, then straightened. “Aye.” The softer Cook returned, and I unclenched my hands from around the sides of the chair. She stood looking off into the blank room behind me as if considering something, but then the rustling of my skirt drew her reflective eyes back down upon me.

“Do you know, Miss Thomas”—she lingered for an instant—“how much of the cordial you gave her?”

A nameless dread crept in beside me. I was so tired, suddenly, so weary—I thought the question cast us back into the diary, and I could not remember at which point exactly I stood.

“What she asked,” I replied without looking at her. “There was very little in the bottle.”

“There was very little needed to ease her end.”

My head jerked up and met her eyes. “I think perhaps your wits are unsettled,” I said stiffly.

She gave me a long stare in return. “Well now, Miss Maisie Thomas,” she uttered slowly, “I see you are your father’s child through and through.”

All fear vanished now at yet another familiarity taken by the cook, and I was pricked to anger by the woman’s boldness. “How dare you speak of Papa! How dare you?”

“How dare I?” Cook whispered, her face gone bloodless. I closed my eyes against her, my heart pounding against my chest, and she burst forth into a soft laughter. Wondering at this sound, I opened my eyes. Again she leaned toward me, but this time I simply returned her gaze. For several instants, we stared at each other in silence.

“We will speak again,” she finally declared.

“Never,” I vowed stoutly, and turned away from her, gathering my books up into my arms, shaking despite my brave countenance. But just as I stood at the top of the attic stairs, she spoke again behind me.

“Sooner or later, you must seek me out.”

I did not answer. I fled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Down the attic stairs I dashed, my feet hardly touching the boards, so eager was I to put her behind me then, and on through the empty servants’ hall, down and down that next flight. Only when I had reached the second story did I slow my footsteps. All was quiet here save the ticking of the passageway clock. It was not yet seven. I paused where I stood, my hand on the newel post. The new light of the morning washed across the well-tended passage, and I felt doubly the calming influence of order. The straight-backed chairs along the wall gleamed in the sunlight and the floor bore the mark of many hours of mop and polish. Here was custom. Here was cleanliness. Downstairs, the House itself soothed. Downstairs, the House itself dismissed to ether the harsh words of the woman above.