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 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.