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The woman continued to limp toward the table. A queer sound came from her closed mouth. The sound was wholly unlike anything Maud had ever heard and seemed to be connected, in some way, to the woman’s left foot. Every time the foot touched the floor, the woman uttered a cry. The noises ranged from creaking to guttural, with no two sounds alike.

Judith took the saucer of toast and placed a slice on Maud’s plate. Victoria said, “Thank you, Muffet,” and jerked her head toward the door. The woman turned with a cry like a foghorn and stalked away.

“What’s wrong with her?” whispered Maud, after the bulky shape had vanished from the doorway. “Why does she make those noises?”

“She’s deaf,” Judith explained. “She can’t hear. And she can’t speak.”

Victoria moved the marmalade to one side. “Once the knife has been used to cut the bacon, dear, it mustn’t go back in the marmalade — let me give you a little with the jam spoon. . . . I don’t know why Muffet makes those noises, but it isn’t her fault. She isn’t aware that she makes those sounds.”

“She makes all that noise and she doesn’t know it?”

“No, how would she? She can’t hear.”

Maud shook her head in confusion. “Is there something the matter with her foot?”

“I don’t know.” Victoria looked a little sad. “She’s always limped, ever since I’ve known her. There’s no way of asking her what the trouble is.”

“If she works for you, how do you talk to her?”

“We don’t,” answered Judith. “Muffet knows her duties. If we have to give an order, Victoria acts it out or draws a picture.”

“I thought a deaf person would be quiet.”

“Perhaps some are. Muffet isn’t. Come to think of it, her name isn’t Muffet. That’s just one of Hyacinth’s foolish nicknames.” Judith’s lips were tight with disapproval.

Maud remembered how Hyacinth had dubbed her Maudy. “Why does Hyacinth call her Muffet?”

“She’s very much afraid of spiders,” replied Victoria. “Her real name —” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Gracious, how dreadful of Hyacinth! It’s been so long since we called her anything but Muffet, I can’t remember her real name.”

Maud wasn’t listening. Her memory had reached back in time, bringing to mind a green book with shiny pages. She saw herself, very small, curled up against her mother, while an Irish voice lilted, Along came a spider, and sat down beside her — and frightened Miss Muffet away! She had forgotten that book of nursery rhymes. Now she remembered the cow on the front, a fawn-colored cow that flew over the moon with all its hooves stuck out. One corner of the book cover had been sucked into a curve instead of a point. Samm’l had done that. Maud’s brow knotted. She didn’t want to think about Samm’l. Automatically she reached for the last piece of toast.

“‘May I have more toast, please,’” Victoria prompted her.

“May I have more toast, please, ma’am,” Maud echoed, in a voice that Miss Kitteridge would not have recognized.

“Certainly.” Victoria put a little more marmalade onto her plate. Maud chewed in silence until the last crumb was gone. Then: “If Hyacinth has a headache, does that mean I can’t see her?”

“Not cannot, may not,” corrected Victoria.

“Does that mean —” began Maud again. Victoria and Judith were looking at her with something like pity. “I wouldn’t be noisy,” Maud promised. “I’d just say how sorry I was.”

“She wouldn’t like that,” answered Victoria. “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, dear, but there are times when it’s best to leave Hyacinth to herself.”

It was not so very difficult, Maud found, to be perfectly good. During the next two days, she practiced taking small bites at the table and doing meekly what she was told. She said “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am,” and folded her clothes when she took them off. Judith showed her over the house, paying special attention to the passages that led to the back staircase. “If you hear the doorbell or any voice that isn’t familiar, you must tiptoe, quick as you can, to the back stairs. Then sit down, take off your shoes, and carry them with you. Go upstairs in your stocking feet.”

Maud agreed to do this. With a straight face, she demonstrated how stealthy she could be. She did not ask questions. Later Victoria showed her through the third-floor rooms, most of which were empty. One large room, which had been the nursery, contained Victoria’s old dollhouse, an elaborate building almost as tall as Maud herself. To Maud’s surprise, Victoria seemed quite willing to share her dollhouse with Maud. The old woman became quite animated as she took out tiny chairs and tables and wiped them clean with her handkerchief. The dolls, Victoria explained, had all been lost, but Maud might rearrange the furniture as much as she liked. Maud thanked her dutifully. Just in time she realized it would not be tactful to say that she saw no point in moving around little bits of furniture.

The hardest thing about Maud’s first week in her new home was that Hyacinth remained in her room. Judith and Victoria were adamant: Hyacinth was unwell, and she wished to be left alone. Maud could not see her. Maud said, “Yes, ma’am,” but her obedience was flawed. More than once, she tiptoed to the door of Hyacinth’s room and listened for sounds from within. There were none. The silence made her uneasy, as if a Hyacinth that could remain so still were somehow a different Hyacinth.

On the third day, the boxes arrived from the department store. Maud stripped off her asylum clothes with glee. Once clad in her red wool dress, she made up her mind: Hyacinth must see her new finery. She would slip up the back stairs when she was supposed to be walking in the garden. There were three stunted daffodils by the brick wall; she would steal them and smuggle them up to Hyacinth.

Her plan worked perfectly. She plucked the flowers, slipped indoors without anyone seeing her, and tiptoed upstairs. Without knocking, she turned the doorknob and stepped inside Hyacinth’s room.

It was white and shining, like a palace. There were lace curtains at the windows and a lace canopy over the bed. The crystal chandelier was lit, though the day was only slightly overcast. Four mirrors, surrounded by gold cupids and rosettes, tossed the light back and forth, reflecting one another’s reflections. Hyacinth, in a pale blue bed jacket, rested against the pillows. Her finger against the satin counterpane looked faintly pale and tapering as icicles. The mirrors multiplied her fingers: ten, twenty, eighty — all still.

“Maud!” Hyacinth’s eyes flew open. She sat up and leaned forward, hands held out. “Maud, you darling child! You came to see me!”

Maud was flooded with happiness. Judith and Victoria had been wrong. Hyacinth did want to see her. “I brung you these,” she said, losing her grammar in her eagerness. Shyly she held out the daffodils, with their mud-splashed trumpets.

“Have you been out in the garden, then?” demanded Hyacinth, as if the garden held some incomparable treasure. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” lied Maud. “I’ve been missing you, though.”

“Have you?” Hyacinth took the flowers and held them two inches from her nose. “I’ve missed you, too, but I do have such dreadful headaches — and Victoria gets cross with me because I don’t eat anything.” She waved her hand toward the untouched tray beside her bed. “I hope you don’t miss me too terribly badly.”

“I do,” vowed Maud.

Hyacinth laughed, and then sighed. “That’s a pity, really. I shall have to go away soon. I have a friend in Cape Calypso who is very low-spirited. She expects me to come for a visit. But never mind. You’ll soon grow fond of Judith and Victoria.”