Maud wrinkled her nose at the white dress. The bloodstains had been bleached to a dingy beige color. They wouldn’t show up in the dark, but Maud’s pleasure in the dress was much diminished. “Where will I be?”
“Outside the window. Wait ten — no, fifteen minutes.” Hyacinth turned Maud away from her and began to unbutton her dress. “Five minutes of useless chatter — what a dreadful storm, et cetera — another five to bring up the idea of a séance and talk her into it — two to dim the lights and set the chairs . . . another three or four before you begin to sing. . . . Yes. Fifteen minutes should do nicely. Go downstairs, through the kitchen, out the back door — climb up the side porch and crouch under the stained-glass windows. The parlor lights will be off. If for some reason the lights are still on, don’t sing. And when you do sing, take care you keep down — if the lightning strikes, I don’t want to see your shadow against the glass. Do you know what to sing?”
“‘Shall We Gather at the River,’” Maud answered promptly. It was Caroline’s favorite hymn. She also knew Caroline’s favorite color (green), her favorite food (cinnamon toast), and the name of her favorite toy elephant (Turrible).
“Yes, that’ll do. Two verses, I think. It’s possible Mrs. Lambert will rush out in the storm once she hears Caroline’s voice, so you must be ready to flee if you hear the front door opening. Luckily it sticks — that’ll give you an extra few seconds. Two verses at the most — then off the porch, in the back door, and back to the attic. It couldn’t be simpler.”
Maud thought it could. “It’s thundering and lightning,” she pointed out. She knew quite well she would do what Hyacinth commanded, but she wanted full credit for going out into the storm.
“Pooh!” Hyacinth swooped down and kissed Maud’s cheek. “You’re not afraid of a little rain, are you? You’ll be on the porch almost the whole time — people are never struck by lightning when they’re on a porch.”
Maud gave her a skeptical glance.
“Fifteen minutes.” Hyacinth nodded toward the clock. “Mind you open the kitchen door softly — and shut it — and don’t run into it, for goodness’ sake! You’ll be perfect — I count on you.” Hyacinth kissed her fingertips and blew her a kiss that smelled of violets.
It was a stroke of good luck, Maud thought as she passed through the kitchen, that Muffet was in the water closet. Muffet understood that for some reason Maud was not allowed to leave the house, and she had never seen Maud in her golden wig. Maud knew that the hired woman was quite capable of blocking the doorway and questioning her as best she could. Maud lifted the hook that latched the screen door, took a firm hold on the glockenspiel, and stepped out onto the porch.
The rain fell in gleaming sheets. Maud clutched the glockenspiel to her chest. The glockenspiel was a surprise for Hyacinth; during the fifteen minutes before Maud came downstairs, she had practiced the hymn, hammering the air above the bars. She remembered it well — she was sure that she could play it without mistakes. For a moment she stood poised on the back porch, gathering her nerve. Then she squinted, hunched her shoulders, and plunged out into the rain.
In a matter of seconds, she was drenched. Wig, dress, and skin ran with water; her bare toes squeaked against the wet grass. With one leap, she was up on the porch. She hunkered down under the window ledge.
As Hyacinth had promised, the windows were dark. Maud took in her breath. This time she would not hurry. It was important to get everything exactly right. Methodically, she wiped her face on her sleeve and shoved back the sodden wig. She experimented with crouching positions until she found one that was comfortable — half squatting, half kneeling. From this position, she could get to her feet in an instant.
She listened. She thought she could hear Judith’s voice intoning a prayer. The words were blurred by the tumult of rain. Maud grasped the little hammer and began to play the glockenspiel. The chimes rang out sweetly, unevenly, and Maud began to sing —
“Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod,
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God —”
She waited a split second, listening. Judith’s voice had stopped. Maud could sense the excitement on the other side of the wall. She struck a single wrong note and made haste to cover her error:
“Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river —
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.”
The glockenspiel jangled along with her voice, not quite in time. Maud’s fingers tingled with cold and nervousness. Better to stop playing now, before she made another mistake. She gathered the instrument to her chest and shifted position, squatting on tiptoe.
“Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we every burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.
Soon we’ll —”
She heard the forceful sound of the front door sticking — a sound not unlike a sneeze. She leaped to her feet. Without looking back, she jumped from the porch and rushed to the back lawn. Once around the corner of the house, she flew to the door and opened it. At the last moment, she remembered not to slam the door — her muddy foot lashed out and caught it before it banged shut.
For a marvel, Muffet was not in the kitchen. Maud tore off her wig, seized a dishtowel, and wiped her feet. Then she trotted upstairs, quick and self-possessed as a little goat.
She had done it! She half heard, half fancied, the sound of female voices raised in wonder and distress. The sound reminded her to step lightly. In fits and starts, she climbed the stairs, arriving at last in the attic.
Caroline was taking off her boots. She perched on a promontory made of huge dark stones, which stretched from the ocean to the shore. Maud knelt on the sand and watched her. Caroline’s dress was sandy and damp. It was a deliciously pretty dress: pale blue batiste embroidered with forget-me-nots. Maud would have cherished a dress like that, but Caroline was reckless. Caroline didn’t mind if she mussed her dress or whether the wind whipped her hair into disorder.
Maud spoke. “You have a green smear on your skirt.”
Caroline didn’t answer. She rolled her stockings up in a ball and threw them into the air. She had a good arm: the balled-up stockings landed in the mouth of the boot she had just discarded.
“Maud,” whispered Hyacinth, “are you asleep?”
Maud dragged herself out of her dream. The memory faded as she sat up in bed. For the second time that night Hyacinth stood before her. This time she carried a candle and a bowl of ice cream. A whole pint of ice cream, with two spoons stuck in it. Maud blinked in astonishment. “I’m not asleep,” she assured Hyacinth.
“Good!” Hyacinth set the candle before the mirror. The faint light doubled. By the light of glass and candle, Hyacinth appeared supernaturally young. She was wearing what Maud thought of as a “negleyjay,” lavishly embroidered and foamy with lace. Maud feasted her eyes upon it. Someday, perhaps, she would have a “negleyjay.”