I glanced around. We were alone. “I was on my way from the library, in the girls’ hall, when someone waved at me,” I said. “At first, I thought it was a shadow, but then I saw a kitchen maid. She was waiting for me.”

Jetson’s brows lifted in surprise.

I lowered my voice to a whisper.

* * *

I stopped with one hand on the knob and studied the little black maid. Her dress was standard issue. Dirt brown, unhemmed, sewn from half of a grain sack. With her shorn hair, the dress was all that distinguished her from the little boy workers, who went around bare-chested in sack pants that ballooned around their legs. The whites of her eyes were pure alabaster around pecan-colored irises. Her lashes curled lavishly, as if to make up for her hair.

“Is this official business?” I said shortly. If not, I would have to report her for insolence; the rules required it. She stared too boldly for a kitchen girl.

“Come quick,” she said. “She needs you.”

“Who needs me?”

“Robin, Miss. She sent for you.”

“Not Miss, girl!” I glanced around. “Refer to me as Ma’am or Mistress—not Miss.”

She bobbed a choppy curtsy. “Yes, Ma’am.”

I considered her appeal. I’d assumed Robin’s absence of late meant she understood the way of the Kongo. When I took my place at Hasting, I couldn’t have ties to a kitchen worker.

“What exactly does she need?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I huffed. “Well, is she hurt?”

Without answering, the girl turned and hurried down the hall, beckoning me to follow. Reluctantly, I caught up with her. She waited, one hand on the wood-paneled wall. She pushed and the wall slid back, revealing a set of stone steps. I hesitated. The secret passages of the Schoolhouse were for servants only. This particular passage, I figured, emptied into the kitchen where the hands prepared our meals. Students must not enter the kitchen.

“This is the way, Mistress,” she urged.

I shook my head slowly. “I can’t. Tell her—tell her I just can’t.” I turned and hurried away.

* * *

Jetson slipped his hands in his pockets. “And the maid never said what was wrong?”

I shook my head. “I dared to ask a worker the next morning, but she shunned me.” I resented this, and it showed.

He chuckled. “Can you blame her?”

“Yes, I blame her! Robin and I are—somewhat close,” I admitted.

“Well, you’re also close to Jones.”

“Jones is the Headmistress.”

He put up both hands, defensively. “I know—she’s in charge. Just don’t let her tell you who your friends are.” He glanced at me, pointedly.