Page 71 of The Maid's Secret

Priscilla drew our attention to a waist-high white pillar in the middle of the room on which sat a marvelous, twinklingobjet.It was an egg, jewel-encrusted, ornate, resting atop a gold pedestal base.

“Our latest acquisition,” she announced. “You have no idea the trouble we went through to acquire this piece.”

“Nor will they ever,” added Magnus.

“It’s a Fabergé,” Priscilla continued, “a priceless heirloom, the only one of its kind in all the world.” She paused then as we admired the egg, shimmering on its pedestal. It looked almost alive.

“Algernon—it’s time,” Priscilla said, and beside me, her son took his cue and kneeled, grabbing my hand.

“Flora Gray,” he began. “I’m doing this with your parents and mine present,” he said, “because if I didn’t, they might all disown me.”

Both sets of parents laughed.

“I know this is quick, but it comes with your father’s blessing andmine,” he said, his icy blue eyes staring into mine. “We’ve all been scheming, and we’d like to set a date for a year from now, when you turn eighteen.”

He paused, waiting for me to say something, but I was completely and utterly dumbfounded. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not quite sure what’s happening.”

“Flora, I’m popping the question: Will you marry me?” he asked.

I looked from him to my parents, searching for some clue that might explain the one thing that was missing. “But there’s no ring,” I said.

Priscilla’s sparkling laugh echoed through the cavernous room. “The ring will come later, dear. First, we fill your trousseau. We offer this gift—the Fabergé. It’s worth a fortune, and we give it as proof that we value you immensely…”

“…and as proof that our son adores you,” added Magnus as he raised his whiskey glass.

“Flora, you’re leaving me hanging,” Algernon said. “What do you say?”

“She says yes!” exclaimed my mother.

As I looked at Mama, I mirrored her nodding head and the word escaped my own lips, too—“Yes,” I repeated just the way she’d said it. Something in the pit of my stomach twinged. I felt instantly sick, like I’d just made a terrible mistake. I thought of John, saw him in my mind’s eye. Suddenly, I wanted to take my answer back, to withdraw my consent, but it was too late.

There were gasps of joy and rounds of applause. There were pats on backs and so many tears. My father stood, offering a hand to Algernon. “Let’s get this young man off his knee before it cramps,” he said, hauling his future son-in-law—the son he’d always wanted and had never had—to his feet. He embraced him in a bear hug, then toasted to his health.

They formed a neat little clique, all five of them, congratulatingone another, pulling out hankies, clinking glasses. They didn’t notice when I made my way to the white pillar in the middle of the room.

I looked closely at the Fabergé for the very first time—the rows of diamonds and emeralds and rubies, the glimmering gold base. And that’s when it occurred to me that for the Brauns and my parents, there was only one thing of value in that room, and it most definitely wasn’t me.

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Chapter 21

As I sit on the sofa in my living room, all eyes—Juan’s, Gran-dad’s, Angela’s, and Detective Stark’s—are trained on me. The diary in my hands clicks open. The key is a perfect fit. The lock gives way, and whatever Gran wrote inside the diary is now accessible.

“Aren’t you going to have a look?” Angela asks. I can’t explain it, the tingling sensation in my palms, the charged feeling coursing up my arms and electrifying my entire being. I part the spine slightly, enough to glimpse the first page. As predicted, it’s some kind of fairy-tale collection à la Gran. I slam the diary shut, because the sight of her handwriting threatens to undo me in front of everyone, as do the very first words I see, a salutation I immediately hear in her voice, resonant and clear as though she’s right beside me—Dear Molly.

I look up from the diary. They’re watching me expectantly.

“You don’t have to read it now, only when you’re ready,” says my gran-dad. “Flora made that clear when she gave it to me.”

I lock the diary, then set it and the key on Gran’s curio cabinet.

“It’s pretty unlikely that your grandmother’s diary will shed lighton what’s happening now with the egg,” says Detective Stark. “At the moment, our biggest lead is Maggie Gray. I need to get back to the precinct and look her up. Maybe I’ll find an address, see if she has a police record or any sketchy affiliations.”

“Her given name is Margaret,” says my gran-dad. “She was named after my aunt.”

“Your aunt?” I say. “You’ve never mentioned an aunt.”

“She’s long gone, I’m sorry to say,” he replies. “An excellent woman. Your gran knew her well.”

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