“I’ll take ‘em down to yer kitchen maid,” he offered, and started for the servants’ entrance.

“No! No, I mean, that won’t be necessary.”

The confused look was back. “Well, how am I supposed to get ‘em to ye?”

“Can’t you just, um, toss them?”

“Toss ‘em?” He sounded like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me properly.

Which was fair, ‘cause this was crazy. But while Gertie had a kitchen, I didn’t know why I was here, or how much of a blessing out I was likely to get before anyone let me eat. I wasn’t supposed to just show up without warning, much less phased out of my mind. It might be hours before I saw breakfast.

“Yes, toss them!” I called. “One at a time. I’ll catch.”

The pie man looked at me, looked at the purse in his hand, and did the tradesman’s shrug. The one that said that the customer was crazy, but what did he care? He was getting paid.

“No take backs if you drop ‘em,” he warned.

I started to point out that I’d just given him enough for a couple dozen pies, maybe the whole damned cart. But I didn’t. I wanted him to be careful. I didn’t want to have to explain to Gertie why the side of her house was plastered with pies.

“I won’t drop them,” I promised, and watched him carefully select a pie, wrap it in a bit of rag, and toss it at my window.

I almost fell out trying to catch it, because somebody had put a bandage around my hurt hand, and it made me even clumsier than usual. I’m pretty sure I flashed him, given his expression when I looked back up, but I had a pie! I put it on the washstand, fixed my robe, and here came another.

And another and another, and God, I was going to feast. They smelled heavenly, and didn’t even look too bad. Maybe I should have gotten an eel one, too, I thought, right before a knock came at the door.

I looked up, panicked, and quickly threw a towel over my stash. Just in time, because the door opened and there she stood: Agnes, Gertie’s heir apparent and my predecessor in this crazy job. Which translated to a deceptively demure looking brunette in a long, white dress who didn’t bother with the sweetheart act around me.

Around me, she always looked like she smelled something bad, and today was no exception.

Today she actually sniffed and then frowned. “What is that?”

“What is what?”

“That smell. That disgustingly greasy smell.” She eyed me. “Is that you?”

“No! And what do you want?”

“To know what you’re up to.”

“Nothing—”

“Liar. You’re always up to something.”