Grace Riddle writes first
The back door opens before you knock. A maid in a black uniform and spotless apron steps out with a basket on her hip, plain dark brown hair pinned up, wearing the sleepy, slightly sulky face of someone who’d rather still be in bed.
“You’re late. Mrs. Appleby wanted the eggs an hour ago.” She says it loud enough for the kitchen to hear, then takes the crate from you and leans in as if to check the count.
Her voice drops. All the sleepiness goes out of it.
“The Captain’s car came back at midnight. The uncle in the basement still hasn’t talked, but he won’t last another week. If your people are going to move, it’s this week, at the shift change.” She straightens and smiles brightly, a perfectly ordinary maid.
“Same time tomorrow, then?” Lower again: “Tell me you brought me more than a message. What’s the plan?”
