Bell Weather by Dennis Mahoney Page B

Molly was wearing, certain it would teach her to respect her own belongings. Instead the girl escaped and sprinted through the house, entirely naked, astonishing the staff before returning, pink and laughing, to the safety of her bed.
    There had been weeks of such behavior. Mrs. Wickware had attempted all manner of common punishment, from depriving Molly of comforts to locking her in closets, and although these efforts failed at every turn, she told herself that discipline would finally win the day, as when a long-standing illness yields to steady treatment.
    Yet to make matters worse, the girl was unpredictable. Some days Molly would appear at breakfast, eat whatever was placed before her, and outshine the queen in ladylike comportment. She would follow every rule for half a morning and then, just as Mrs. Wickware’s guard began to lower, she would abruptly reignite the flames of misbehavior.
    This morning had been similar. Weeks of battle had left Mrs. Wickware prone to overreaction, and when Molly passed her in the third-floor hallway and failed to step aside, she was ordered to kneel and face the wall until such time as Mrs. Wickware returned. Molly had complied, saying, “Yes, ma’am,” curtsying, and kneeling like a penitent, and had remained there—or so it was believed—for more than an hour, until Jeremy reported she had vanished.
    Newton the footman had seen Molly running through the downstairs study not two minutes ago. Sure enough, Mrs. Wickware discovered, the study doors were open and fresh-cut flowers had been scattered on the floor. The study led to a narrow hall, where the chambermaid, blackened in a cloud of settling ash, explained that she had just emptied one of the hearth grates when Molly grabbed the pan and threw it into the air. Mrs. Wickware stepped around the ash, ignoring the maid’s apologies, and followed the next open door into the gilt room, where the largest portrait—that of Lord Bell’s father, high above the floor—was hanging upside down. She continued to the library, where Nicholas stood amazed before a castle made of books. It was six feet tall with battlements and towers, a marvelous construction he had found moments ago, he claimed, after hearing Molly’s laugh and chasing her into the library.
    “I saw her place the final book,” he said, pointing to a leather-bound copy of The Rise and Fall of the Lost Volcanic Islands . “I said I would report her and she answered…”
    Nicholas hesitated, seemingly reluctant to repeat what Molly had said. Mrs. Wickware’s legs quivered when he paused. Her skin began to blotch and she was breathless, having walked much faster in the chase than she had realized.
    “What did she say?” Mrs. Wickware asked.
    “That I could tell the chicken-breasted harpy anything I liked.”
    She struck him on the cheek, sudden as a reflex.
    He accepted the blow and said, “I’ll take it down straightaway,” beginning at once to reshelve the books, and Mrs. Wickware could not decide whether it was Nicholas’s poise or Molly’s pandemonium that made her want to knock the castle over, or—if only it were possible—to climb inside, close her eyes, and hide behind its walls.
    She pursued Molly throughout the house, encountering finger-pointing servants and flagrant mischief at every turn. She visited the stables outside, found the groom trying desperately to calm the frantic horses, and followed a trail of dirty footprints back inside the house. They led her through the kitchen, up the rear stairs, and straight to the third-floor hall, where Molly knelt—neither breathless nor disheveled, the bottoms of her shoes immaculate—on the very spot of the floor where Mrs. Wickware originally told her to remain.
    *   *   *
    “You actually saw her enter the library?” Mrs. Wickware asked Nicholas at dinner.
    She had questioned—repeatedly—everyone who had witnessed any part of Molly’s escapade. How could anyone traverse the entire house,