Page 66 of The Mystery Guest

I know that after I do this, there will be a new rift in time, a new Before and After. But that doesn’t stop me. Nothing will.

I reach out and grab the Fabergé. The weight of it is satisfying and substantive in my hands. I rush back to my seat and openGreat Expectations,concealing the treasure on my lap behind my book just as I hear Mrs. Grimthorpe coming back through the front door.

—

“Flora!” Mrs. Grimthorpe shrieks in that ear-piercing way of hers.

It’s now been hours since I executed the first step of the plan. I’m in the cellar of the Grimthorpe mansion. I have gone downstairs to use the washroom because for once Gran is there, and I don’t have to brave the spiders alone.

“Flora!” Mrs. Grimthorpe shrieks again, more shrilly the second time.

This can mean only one thing: she found it.

I dry my hands quickly, then exit the scary washroom.

Gran is folding one of Mr. Grimthorpe’s crisp white shirts. She freezes the moment she hears the second shriek from the banshee upstairs.

“Flora Gray! Do you hear me? Come up to the kitchen this minute! And bring that wretched grandchild of yours as well!”

Gran looks at me and shrugs.

I shrug back, not saying a word.

Gran leads the way up the damp cellar stairs. I follow behind her, exiting into the kitchen, where Mrs. Grimthorpe stands, huffing and puffing, her face raging red, her pupils two pinholes of fury.

“Come,” she says, not an invitation but an order as she marches us to the silver pantry. We follow her in.

I’ve left all the polished wares from the day before neatly organized on the table. It’s filled with silver, ready for an elegant banquet that will never happen. I’ve worked days and days now so that every shelf behind Mrs. Grimthorpe glimmers and shines, each silver platter, cutlery set, and tray polished to a high sheen. There’s only one shelf of tarnished silver left for me to clean. It’s a pity I won’t be able to see the job through to completion. But so be it. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

“Flora,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “I was in the parlor just now checking that this little varmint of yours didn’t touch anything. Everything looked just fine, until I noticed a bare spot on the mantel. That’s when I realized the Fabergé egg was gone. I searched for it everywhere. Then it occurred to me to check the silver pantry. And guess what I found.”

Mrs. Grimthorpe lurches forward and opens the cupboard where I store my rubber gloves, my cleaning basin, my tattered apron, and the jug of lye solution.

“Look!” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “Just look at what’s wrapped up in her apron.”

Gran picks up my apron and pulls the Fabergé egg out of the threadbare front pocket. She turns to me, her eyes wide, her mouth open, puzzlement and shock writ large in every line on her face.

“She was going to steal it, Flora! She was about to sneak it out of the mansion, the greedy little devil,” says Mrs. Grimthorpe. “You can’t trust anyone in your home these days. No loyalty. No boundaries. No morals.”

“But, ma’am, she’s just a child,” Gran says. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“She’s just a thief is what she is. You should be instructing her, showing her right from wrong. If I’ve learned anything in my years, it’s that the apple never falls far from the tree. If she’s a thief, guess what that tells me about you.”

“No. You’re wrong about that last part,” I say, facing Mrs. Grimthorpe squarely. “But you’re right about the rest. I meant to steal the Fabergé. I took it and was going to bring it home with me. But it was all my idea. Gran had nothing to do with it. She would never do such a thing.”

“Molly, how could you?” Gran says. “You know better.”

“I do know better,” I say. “But I did it anyway.”

“You see?” Mrs. Grimthorpe says, the words spitting from her mouth. “No moral compass. No understanding of right and wrong. It’s bred in the bone with you lot. If you’re not thieves, you’re liars, like all those others before you. Get out, both of you. Now!”

“Please, don’t do this,” Gran says. “You know how hard it is to find reliable help these days.”

“Out!” Mrs. Grimthorpe shrieks, a sound that makes Gran flinch. She grabs my hand and rushes us out of the room.

Mrs. Grimthorpe follows us through the kitchen, down the corridor past the bourgeois blobs and the “gold de toilette,” until we reach the front entrance. Mrs. Grimthorpe opens the vestibule and watches, fuming, as Gran fumbles to find her shoes and I do the same.

Once our shoes are on, Mrs. Grimthorpe opens the door wide, then grabs me by the collar and tosses me out, with Gran following close behind. “You’re a disgrace. You’re never to come back here—never—do you understand?”

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