“Oh … tidying up some. Dusting.”

“I see. Have you no family?”

“I’ve been in your employ for twenty years, Lady Glinda. Don’t you think I would have mentioned my family if I had any?”

“You may have nattered on about your kin for yonks. I never know if I’m listening.”

“Wel, since you’re asking, no. I am the last of our line.”

And I the last of mine, thought Glinda, who had had no siblings. And she and Chuffrey had never managed to conceive. How quirky, to share this common a loneliness with a member of her staff. Whereas if Glinda had had children—even now, some child or children dashing in every direction, carrying on irresponsibly as the young do—wel, what a different place Mockbeggar would seem.

“There are al sorts of maps and missives in the dining hal, Miss Murth, but I draw attention to myself when I enter. There’s no chance you could sneak a peak at them and report to me anything you read?”

“Out of the question. We’re al under supervision, not just you.”

“Do you think that our Rain has the run of the grounds?” She picked at a thread on her shawl as she spoke and didn’t look up. She could hear Murth settle on her heels in front of the fire and let out a worried hiss between those old wel-chewed lips. “And does she have any family, do you think?”

“To the best of my awareness, she has no more family than you and I,” replied Miss Murth, vaguely.

7.

The first time a dinner invitation arrived from General Cherrystone, Glinda folded up the paper and said, “Thank you, Puggles. There wil be no reply.” The second time she had Murth write a note to decline.

“How shal I sign it?” asked Miss Murth. “Lady Glinda, or just Glinda?”

“The scandal of you. Sign it Lady Glinda Chuffrey of Mockbeggar Hal. And none of those twee little hearts and daisies and such.” But the next night Glinda sent him an invitation. “Dinner at ten, on the roof of the south porch.” She had Puggles and Chef take apart the salowwood table from the card salon, put it through the windows leg by leg, and reassemble it on the graveled flat of the porch roof. Then she arranged herself upon the balustraded area ahead of time so she wouldn’t have to be seen clambering through a window like a day laborer. The stars were out and the moon was wafery. She wore her midnight blue scalopier with eyelet fenestrae and a ruched bodice the color of wet sand. Chef would serve lake garmot stuffed with snails. “Is it a mistake about the candles?” caled Murth through the lace swags. “They’l drip wax al over the food.”

“Don’t hector me,” said Glinda. “I know what I’m doing.” The two precious spindle-thread vases held a bounty of prettibels and delphiniums selected for their vigor. They better not so much as drop a single petal if they knew what was good for them.