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She had been out walking. She wore Mrs. Lambert’s narrow skirt and a shirtwaist of starched linen. Both showed signs of hasty alterations, but Hyacinth wore them serenely, without a hint of self-consciousness. She also wore Mrs. Lambert’s hat — and she wore it at the exact angle that the milliner had envisioned. It was very flattering.

Maud fixed her eyes on Hyacinth’s face. She expected the woman to reveal some sign of emotion: fear, anger, relief. But Hyacinth betrayed no hint of feeling. Her face was like the face of an elegant doll. Her eyes were bright and still.

Neither Maud nor Mrs. Lambert moved. “You have a little caller, I see.” Hyacinth nodded in Maud’s direction. “Will you introduce me?”

Maud could not speak. She turned to see if Mrs. Lambert was deceived.

Mrs. Lambert appeared as composed as Hyacinth. “There’s no need. I believe you know Maud well.”

Hyacinth tilted her head to one side. “I don’t know what the child has been telling you, but I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

The words broke the spell that held Maud captive. Her skull contracted; her ears pounded. “You do so know me!” she shrilled. “You’re a liar! You’re a liar and a cheat and you don’t love anyone!”

She leaped forward. Hyacinth recoiled, but Maud was upon her, clawing at her clothes, hauling and striking. She snapped her jaws together and kicked out savagely. Her bare toes throbbed with pain — she had hurt Hyacinth. She shrieked again, a berserker cry of triumph. She kicked — raised a hand to strike — and felt a stinging slap. Hyacinth was up against the doors and fighting back. She twisted a handful of Maud’s hair — Maud gasped with pain. All at once, Maud felt an arm around her chest and another around her waist. Mrs. Lambert seized her, lifting her into the air.

“Enough!” Mrs. Lambert’s tone of voice was one that Maud had never heard. She half carried, half dragged Maud to the nearest chair and flung her into it.

Maud subsided, breathing hard. She looked around the room, trying to catch up on what had just happened. Hyacinth’s sleeve was torn and there were three scratches on her cheek. Maud had drawn blood. Mrs. Lambert’s face was scarlet with effort and temper. She pointed to a half table beside the wall, on which stood a marble clock.

“Miss Hawthorne, it is ten past eight. I will give you two minutes to leave this hotel. After that, I will call the management and have you thrown out. If you resist, I will call the police.”

Hyacinth staggered and caught hold of the back of a chair. She jerked her head toward Maud. “Are you quite sure you believe her? You see what she is.”

“I see what you’ve made of her.” Mrs. Lambert lifted one hand, drawing Hyacinth’s attention to the clock. “Your time grows short, Miss Hawthorne. Let me repeat myself. I want you out of this room. Dr. Knowles says your sister and your servant have serious injuries. Because of that, I will suffer them — and the child — to remain here, at my expense, until they can walk. You, however, will go. Immediately.” Her tone made it clear she would brook no denial. For the first time, Maud understood that Mrs. Lambert was a woman who was accustomed to being obeyed. “As soon as your sister is fit to travel, I will send her to join you. After that, both of you will keep your distance. If you don’t, I will take you to court. Do you understand?”

Hyacinth was trembling. She began to say something and changed her mind.

“Do not count upon my silence.” Mrs. Lambert’s voice held a deadly quiet. “I have no intention of keeping this to myself. I am not ashamed of what I wanted, and I am quite willing to expose you.”

Hyacinth’s eyes met Maud’s. She hissed a single word: “Traitor!” Then she spun on her heel and went out. She left the doors ajar; Mrs. Lambert flew to the doors and locked them. Her face was contorted with disgust.

Maud cowered in the armchair. She flattened herself against the cushions, wondering what was going to become of her. She knew that it was the worst possible moment to ask for anything, but she sensed that there would be no other time. “Mrs. Lambert, Muffet’s innocent.”

Mrs. Lambert did not even look at her. She swept past Maud as if she had not spoken.

The days Maud spent at the Hotel Elysium were among the most miserable she had ever known. In the midst of luxury, she was plagued by guilt, grief, and dread. She was also bored. Both Judith and Muffet slept for hours during the day, and Mrs. Lambert shunned her. She had no books. She spent two days stitching together her ruined dress so that she could escape outside, only to find it was no use. Cape Calypso had lost its power to charm her. The boardwalk smells that had teased her appetite struck her as faintly nauseous; the crowds of well-dressed tourists made her feel shabby and forlorn. When she tried to make a sand castle, she thought of the crocodile she had made with Mrs. Lambert. She abandoned the castle to the waves.

The hotel seemed charged with silence. Judith was low spirited, suffering, the doctor said, from shock and burns. When Maud spoke to her, she answered in monosyllables. Maud realized that she had become something far worse than a secret child: she had become a child who was ignored.

She was desperately lonely. She spent hours sitting beside Muffet while she slept, and she tried to make friends with the hotel servants. From eavesdropping, she learned that Victoria’s cottage had been condemned. It had not been insured, and there was no money to fix it. Mrs. Lambert hired a team of salvage men to pack up objects that could still be used. The men brought four trunks of smoky-smelling goods to Judith’s room in the Hotel Elysium.

Maud rummaged through the trunks. She found Muffet’s photograph album, her own parasol, and a tangle of garments from the laundry basket. Most of Judith’s dresses had burned. Maud’s clothes had survived, though they were streaked and dingy with smoke. There were no books in the trunks — Maud supposed the books, like the kitchen utensils, had been left behind in the boarded-up house.

She found nothing that belonged to Hyacinth. Hyacinth’s room was at the back of the house; there should have been clothes from her wardrobe and trinkets from her dressing table. Maud could only conclude that Hyacinth had gone through the house before the salvage corps. She could picture Hyacinth stealing up the back stairs, savoring the danger; she imagined her sifting through knickknacks and mementos, filling a shawl with brooches and bracelets and rings. She had been very thorough. There was not a single piece of jewelry in any of the trunks. Even Maud’s rosary had been taken away.

On the fifth morning after the fire, Judith shook Maud awake and told her to dress for a journey by train. Her manner was hurried and secretive. Maud gathered that she meant to leave without speaking to Mrs. Lambert.

Maud began to put on her clothes. Half asleep though she was, she was tempted to wake Muffet to say good-bye. She considered arguing with Judith or refusing to budge, but she lacked the heart. She knew she would not win, and she was tired of everyone being angry with her. In a stupor of obedience, she brushed her hair and buttoned her boots. Judith nodded approval and took her hand.

Maud didn’t ask where they were going. Nor did she beg for mercy. She knew that a woman who had left her in a burning house would not scruple to take her back to the Barbary Asylum.

The walk to the train was a long one. The distance was not great — Maud could have walked it in fifteen minutes — but Judith limped painfully. It was the first day she had left her bed, and she grimaced every time her petticoats rasped against her burned leg. After a dozen steps, she pulled her veil over her face. Maud thought of offering her arm, as Lord Fauntleroy offered his to his gouty grandfather. Then she thought better of it. She knew that Judith hated herself for crying and would rather be left alone.