CHAPTER 10

A TREASURE HUNT

DOT MANEUVERED THE breakfast tray through the nursery door and placed it carefully on the table without so much as a bun rolling off.

“Happy Christmas.” She bobbed her head. “Master Hector is waiting ever so patiently, and you’re still lying in your beds!”

“Happy Christmas, Dot!”

We pulled on dressing gowns and gave Hector the task of pouring our cocoa. We merrily peeled boiled eggs, spread butter on warm buns and sipped the steaming chocolate. Lucy scalded her tongue by gulping instead of sipping. I blew gently on mine, ruffling the milky skin across its surface.

Hector lifted a linen napkin to pat the corners of his mouth, and Lucy let out a little squeak.

“Look!” She reached for the small roll of red paper tied with a gilt ribbon tucked discreetly under a plate.

Dot stopped her from snatching it up. “Lady Marjorie asked me to remind you, Miss Lucy, that the guest should open the first clue.”

“There are two guests,” said Lucy. “Not fair to choose between them.”

“Clue to what?” I said.

“The treasure hunt, silly!” Lucy looked back and forth between Hector and me. “You truly don’t know? On Christmas morning we always have a hunt at Owl Park to find our stockings full of presents.”

She reached for the pretty packet.

“Him what’s not family.” Dot tilted her head toward Hector. “Him’s the guest,” she said.

Lucy sighed and nudged the clue toward Hector.

“Go on then.”

Hector’s mouth was full of bun. He finished chewing, wiped the butter from his fingers and untied the ribbon on the miniature scroll.

“Who makes the treasure hunt?” I asked.

“Uncle James, and now Aunt Marjorie too, I should think. What does it say?”

Hector unfurled the paper and read aloud.

I sit with many cousins

Near a cooking fire.

If you call me clean,

I could name you a liar!

Hector said, “A cooking fire suggests—”

“The kitchen!” said Lucy, hopping up from the table.

“But the breakfast!” said Hector. “I am wishing to enjoy a second bun.”

“Bring it with you,” said Lucy, scooping one up for herself. “Where are my slippers?”

Infected by her eagerness, we were quickly ready.

“Back stairs!” cried Lucy, leading us to the narrow steps normally used only by the women servants. There were two servants’ staircases in the main house, she said. Women used the wooden ones and men used the marble, because marble could withstand the bumps of hauling people’s luggage up and down.

“Come on!”

“Hector?”

He was behind us, still on the landing.

“It is unpleasant to consider,” he said, “what is not clean in a kitchen.”

The kitchen rooms were abuzz, even so early on Christmas morning. It seemed that twenty people had urgent tasks. Peeling turnips, plucking geese, chopping celery and dried apples, stirring oxtail soup, shelling walnuts, polishing spoons, scrubbing pots for further duty…

I supposed Cook knew about the treasure hunt tradition. She was very patient with us poking about her kitchen looking for clues. The servants bustled around us, politely pretending we weren’t obstacles while they prepared for the big day ahead.

“Near the cooking fire,” said Hector.

We stood in a row, staring at an enormous side of lamb, roasting evenly as Stephen turned a handle on the spit. The aroma! The crackling fat!

“Many dirty cousins,” I said. My eyes and Hector’s landed on the coal scuttle at the same instant. Lucy dove to dig through it, blacking her hands, until she pulled out the next clue. She wiped her fingers on her dressing gown, leaving sooty smears down the front.

In a giant volume,

More than one letter C

Will be on the page

Where you want to be!

“Giant volume?” said Lucy.

“Dictionary!” I said.

“Library,” said Hector.

And we were off.

We passed James, who was wearing a bright red cardigan.

“Good morning, Lord Greyson,” said Hector.

“Merry Christmas, James!” I called.

“We’re following the second clue already!” Lucy boasted.

“Well done,” said James. “I expect you’ll be dragging your socks into breakfast before I’ve finished my second cup of coffee.” He gave us a cheery wave and disappeared into the breakfast room.

Lucy was first into the dark, chilly library, because she was always first, it seemed. The drawn curtains showed a sliver of morning between them. One lamp burned on a small table beside a tall-backed chair. The library was rarely used before noon, so the fire was not yet lit. I followed Lucy, with Hector on my heels. Quite actually on my heels, for his toe caught my slipper and pulled it partway off. I stumbled, knocking Lucy forward. She gasped and fell—or, possibly, she fell and then gasped.

“It’s wet,” she said. “Something has spilled.”

Hector moved to the window and drew open one of the heavy damask drapes. Lucy held up her hands, eyes as round as pennies. Her palms were covered in blood.