obedient, silent, scurrying servants; the parties and the dresses; the fat feasts and the tables groaning under the weight of roasts and pies and puddings, when half the world starved; all of it would vanish, be snatched right from under her very feet were the girl not found.
Her marriage to Liesl’s father had been a marriage of convenience. She had once been Liesl’s teacher. She had hated the ridiculous little drip even then, of course, although she had done her utmost to hide it, and Henry Morbower was hoping Augusta would prove to be a good and decent stepmother to his only daughter. Augusta had realized right away that he would never love her. His heart belonged fully and completely to his first wife (a woman, Augusta thought sneeringly, who must have been as silly as she was pretty, for in all her portraits she was laughing—as though there were anything in the world to laugh about!—and wearing the simplest cotton dresses, though of course she could have afforded the richest satin gowns).
Augusta also knew, when she married Mr. Morbower, that he would never remake the will in her favor. Upon his death, the house and all the vast Morbower fortune—accumulated by Henry Morbower’s grandfather, a titan of the early railroads—would descend entirely on little Liesl Morbower, pale and strange and undeserving though she was. (A stupid one, like her mother; as a small girl she had danced in the rain! Actually danced in it! Ruining a pair of beautiful silk slippers in the process! Stupid.)
It would have been simpler, of course, to kill both Henry and his daughter. But Augusta worried about arousing suspicion. The slow death of a middle-aged man is hardly likely to be attributed to poison, especially when the poison is administered teaspoon by teaspoon, a bit in the soup every day, over the course of a whole year. (Patience was one of Augusta’s many virtues.) But a little girl is different, quite different altogether.
So Henry had gone to the hospital and, at long last, died, and Liesl had been locked in the attic, and for the sake of the lawyers and the bank managers, Vera Varice had become Liesl Morbower and taken control of a fortune so large that even Augusta would have trouble spending all of it in a lifetime.
But now Liesl (the little monster!) had slipped away, and the whole beautiful plan—perfectly crafted and shaped, as delicately whittled as a sculpture made of ice—was in danger of collapse.
The warts on Augusta’s forehead swelled like the throat of a puffer fish, and not for the first time that morning, she gave vent to her frustration with a low roar.
“We must find her!” she cried.
“Yes, Mama,” said Vera meekly.
“She will ruin us!”
“Of course, Mama.”
“And stop agreeing with everything I say, you nitwit. You’re only making it worse.”
“As you say, Mama.”
Augusta rolled her eyes and muttered a curse under her breath, and Vera shrank back and turned an even more unattractive shade of pale green.
“Stop!” Augusta bellowed suddenly to the driver, and the coach came to a shuddering halt in front of 31 Highland Avenue, where the Lady Premiere and the alchemist were standing with a very frightened-looking maid, who was speaking to them through the iron gates. With her head protruding from a gap in the iron latticework, the maid looked, thought Augusta, like a criminal who had been placed in the stocks.
In fact just then the maid would rather have been a criminal in the stocks—or a fish in a casserole, or a potato in a skillet. Anything would have been preferable to being Karen McLaughlin, who had, in the course of one morning, seen a ghost, accidentally turned loose the girl in the attic, and received a stinging paddling by her mistress for the error.
To make matters worse, there was now a very tall and very angry woman in a very long fur coat at the gates, screaming at her.
As Augusta prepared to descend from the carriage, she heard her maid stammering out
Her marriage to Liesl’s father had been a marriage of convenience. She had once been Liesl’s teacher. She had hated the ridiculous little drip even then, of course, although she had done her utmost to hide it, and Henry Morbower was hoping Augusta would prove to be a good and decent stepmother to his only daughter. Augusta had realized right away that he would never love her. His heart belonged fully and completely to his first wife (a woman, Augusta thought sneeringly, who must have been as silly as she was pretty, for in all her portraits she was laughing—as though there were anything in the world to laugh about!—and wearing the simplest cotton dresses, though of course she could have afforded the richest satin gowns).
Augusta also knew, when she married Mr. Morbower, that he would never remake the will in her favor. Upon his death, the house and all the vast Morbower fortune—accumulated by Henry Morbower’s grandfather, a titan of the early railroads—would descend entirely on little Liesl Morbower, pale and strange and undeserving though she was. (A stupid one, like her mother; as a small girl she had danced in the rain! Actually danced in it! Ruining a pair of beautiful silk slippers in the process! Stupid.)
It would have been simpler, of course, to kill both Henry and his daughter. But Augusta worried about arousing suspicion. The slow death of a middle-aged man is hardly likely to be attributed to poison, especially when the poison is administered teaspoon by teaspoon, a bit in the soup every day, over the course of a whole year. (Patience was one of Augusta’s many virtues.) But a little girl is different, quite different altogether.
So Henry had gone to the hospital and, at long last, died, and Liesl had been locked in the attic, and for the sake of the lawyers and the bank managers, Vera Varice had become Liesl Morbower and taken control of a fortune so large that even Augusta would have trouble spending all of it in a lifetime.
But now Liesl (the little monster!) had slipped away, and the whole beautiful plan—perfectly crafted and shaped, as delicately whittled as a sculpture made of ice—was in danger of collapse.
The warts on Augusta’s forehead swelled like the throat of a puffer fish, and not for the first time that morning, she gave vent to her frustration with a low roar.
“We must find her!” she cried.
“Yes, Mama,” said Vera meekly.
“She will ruin us!”
“Of course, Mama.”
“And stop agreeing with everything I say, you nitwit. You’re only making it worse.”
“As you say, Mama.”
Augusta rolled her eyes and muttered a curse under her breath, and Vera shrank back and turned an even more unattractive shade of pale green.
“Stop!” Augusta bellowed suddenly to the driver, and the coach came to a shuddering halt in front of 31 Highland Avenue, where the Lady Premiere and the alchemist were standing with a very frightened-looking maid, who was speaking to them through the iron gates. With her head protruding from a gap in the iron latticework, the maid looked, thought Augusta, like a criminal who had been placed in the stocks.
In fact just then the maid would rather have been a criminal in the stocks—or a fish in a casserole, or a potato in a skillet. Anything would have been preferable to being Karen McLaughlin, who had, in the course of one morning, seen a ghost, accidentally turned loose the girl in the attic, and received a stinging paddling by her mistress for the error.
To make matters worse, there was now a very tall and very angry woman in a very long fur coat at the gates, screaming at her.
As Augusta prepared to descend from the carriage, she heard her maid stammering out
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