Liesl & Po by Lauren Oliver Page B

apologies.
    “I’m s-sorry, ma’am. Rules is the rules. And nobody—not even Lady Prematures—”
    “Lady Premiere. Premiere .” The Lady Premiere’s eyes were nearly bulging out of her head. “Meaning that there is only one!”
    “Right—er—not even a Lady Premiere can come in without Ms. Augusta’s permission—”
    “Permission that is most humbly granted,” Augusta interrupted, sweeping out of the carriage and curtsying deeply in front of the Lady Premiere. The alchemist, watching her, had the impression of a very squat boulder tumbling toward him, and he shuddered.
    Vera flitted uncertainly after her mother. Augusta elbowed her daughter sharply in the ribs, and Vera doubled forward in pain. The Lady Premiere mistook the gesture for a bow.
    “To what,” Augusta said, making her voice so sickeningly sweet it caused the coachman behind her to choke a little, “do we owe this enormous honor, Your Grace?”
    The Lady Premiere was still shaking with rage. “Never,” she sputtered and began again. “Never in my life have I been forced to wait outside. For anyone. At any time. Never have I been forced to stand on the street like a—like a—”
    Words failed her. She was overwhelmed by the smell of cabbages cooking, and she closed her eyes tightly against the memories of the dingy home in Howard’s Glen. Her ears filled with the distant sound of laughter and chanting: Gross and rotten, wretched Gretchen!
    She snapped her eyes open. Those days were over!
    “Like a commoner?” one of the Lady Premiere’s servants, standing a little apart, suggested.
    “Yes, exactly. Like a commoner.” The Lady Premiere had, in fact, forgotten the word. Just pronouncing it brought back the taste of sour milk and poverty and spoiled things.
    “You’ll have to forgive her,” Augusta said smoothly, casting a withering glance at the maid—a glance in which the promise of another, even more serious, paddling was written. “She was dropped on her head quite frequently as a baby. Her mother was a hopeless drunk.”
    “Milly told me my mother was a good Christian woman,” Karen said, her bottom lip quivering.
    “She lied, obviously,” Augusta snapped. “Now get inside, where you belong.”
    Karen scurried into the house, whimpering.
    Augusta produced a large golden key from her purse, and with it unlocked the gates. She gestured grandly for the Lady Premiere to precede her into the yard. Inwardly, Augusta trembled with excitement. A visit! From the Lady Premiere! Who was a princess in her native Spain (or was it Portugal . . . ?)! It was outstanding! It was unheard of! The neighbors would seethe with jealousy.
    She hoped they were looking out of their windows right now. She thought she’d seen the corner of Susan Salway’s dining room curtains swishing. Good. Let Susan see her, Augusta Hortense Varice-Morbower, escorting the Lady Premiere into her home. It would serve Susan right, for forcing Augusta to suffer her endless monologues about the accomplishments of little Jeremy and Josephine—as though those two sallow-looking creatures with the faces like the bottom side of a waffle iron were anything to boast about!
    Augusta was slightly disappointed when she had to actually admit the Lady Premiere into the house, where the powerful woman could not be seen and admired.
    Then Augusta had a dark thought: a thought so black it wrapped her in a momentary fog. This—the visit from the Lady Premiere, the envious looks, the golden carriage parked just outside her gates—was exactly the kind of thing she would lose if Liesl, that sniveling snot, were not found quickly.
    In that moment, as Augusta bustled through the grand hallway with her guests, she came to a snap decision.
    Risk or no risk, she could not have Liesl, the real Liesl, running around, ready to turn the life Augusta had earned—the life she deserved—to smoke.
    No. It could not be. When she found the girl, she would kill her.
    Augusta felt much better