to me, I’ll never tattle any of it, supposing that’s possible.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Then that would be because a child’s life is at stake, wouldn’t it?”
Miss Christina starts crying. She grips the support of the nearest pantry shelf, and it’s about all I can do to continue.
“Do you know where Davy is?”
She shakes her head, flinching.
“But you do know where he was taken?”
“No!” Hearing how loud she was, she pushes her wrist against her teeth and unnecessarily hushes me with her other trembling hand. “I wish to holy Lord I did.”
“You were there!” I urge. “The day he went missing, you were there, surely you have some ink—”
“Miss James, I was there sure enough. But I don’t know what other cause you got to frighten me like this. I only want Davy back, I swear.”
The heat in her tone makes me hesitate. I settle on delivering the least informative, most alarming words.
“You stopped searching for him after one night. And I’ve accidentally—forgive the horrific bluntness—watched you slip letters in your pocket too quickly to suppose they were circulars for beef shanks. We live on the same floor. Again quite by accident, I happened upon you arguing with Rooster, and—”
“God save me,” she gasps. “I’ll never live in a hotel again, never as long as I live. Only where there’s land. Space enough to keep people away.”
“Away from your secrets?”
She nods.
“Is yours to do with Maximilian’s cabin?” I risk, betting on her connection to Rooster and his access to keys.
She stares in shock. “How could you know anything about that?”
“Max went up and searched the place. Turns out sometime in the awfully recent past, Davy was staying there. After he was . . . taken.”
“No.” Her voice is low with horror.
“Ask Max if you admire to. Or would you rather I tell him that you arranged to have Davy Lee kidnapped? I’ll just see if I can call for—”
“It was Blossom,” she sobs, clutching at her own throat as if to bottle up the words.
I can’t unhear it, can’t even be surprised.
I wish I could be both, though. More than anything I’ve wanted since leaving New York.
“She made me. No, that’s not . . . it was Blossom, though. Only please say that Davy’s all right. You’ve all been trying to track him, and me in my kitchen chopping lettuce while at the end of my wits. If what you say is true about the cabin, then it’s for certain—Blossom’s your woman. She loves him, though. I don’t understand.”
Whatever scanty material remains in my stomach turns black, simmering with dread. I liked Blossom. Even loved her, probably, in the headlong way new friends sometimes have. I probably still do.
“Tell me,” I request.
She nods. Miss Christina and I take seats on a pair of sweet potato sacks, and she yarns me a tale.
“First off, I’m not Miss Christina. I’m Mrs. Christina Charles of Washington, DC.”
Once, far from Oregon in a land called Florida, a girl dreamed of the culinary arts. From stew to steak, she proved herself, studying under master chefs, and ending up cooking at a very fine house, serving a very fine family, under a very fine head butler by the name of Anton Charles.
“Anton was . . .” Miss Christina’s frame seems, impossibly, to shrink. “He was handsome, no mistake, and always kind when he wanted something. Giving out a half day off, bottles of wine. I was younger then, prettier.”
“He took notice of your charms, and you took the bait?”
“Never figured it for bait—I thought it was love. And he was already working for the same folks as me, so that neither of us would have to up and quit and get hired someplace as a pair. When he bought a ring and I said yes, our boss agreed quick as anything.”
This portion of the account contains no tears. Only blinks about as grainy as the Sahara must be.
“Anton was better downstairs than upstairs.” She twists her apron between her fingers. “There was all the usual, mind. Long sleeves in high summer. Noses I had to go about explaining, yes, bloody again, yes, I’ve tried poultices. The time when I finally ran away, though, I’d been putting up a real fight, and he said if I didn’t settle down and let him whup me, then he’d whup my closest friend Sarah belowstairs for stealing spoons. It wasn’t common anymore to whup servants back then, but if the butler was powerful enough, he could get away with it. Who’d