Cora and Maeve follow their boss, Dinah, and the rest of their crew past the temporary dressing rooms. They soon reach the main artery of the stately home: a long marble hall awash with sculptures, decorative armor, and massive oil paintings, where black-clad waiters are busy bussing champagne and canapés through Mrs. Witt’s crowd of glamorous party guests, the warm light from her three giant tiered crystal chandeliers coating the entire scene with a dreamlike glitter.
“The smart set,” Dinah had called them. For once, Cora must agree. The “haves” of this country versus her current company of “have-nots.”By dint of what?she wonders. Inordinate family wealth hailing back to theMayflower? Else gained through merciless business practices or duping easy marks—like those Ross & Calhoun bank lenders, preying on her father’s financial ignorance. What shiny American victors they are, with their fancy balls and private shows and homes large as city blocks.
Cora feels the whole world slipping from her fingers as she trails her troupe into the festive melee. What if she never rises above her current station, playing backstage lackey to a troupe of fools? What is she to do now if she can’t pickpocket on the road? Cora needsthree thousand dollarsmore to approach the bank with a credible offer for Long Creek Farm, and that’s assuming no one else offers first. Absent thieving, that kind of money will take her twenty years to put together.
Twenty. Years.
“Pardon me, kind friends, please do excuse us.”
Cora watches as a bearded, stout gentleman with a cane expertly threads a tall blonde woman through the crowd. The lady on his arm is pretty, dressed to the nines, if a little bit somber in her choice of deep blue velvet. Middle, possibly late twenties, and appearing quite faint.
“Dear Duchess,” the man says, “perhaps some air might do you good?”
The blonde woman shakes her head, as if to clear it. “Just a bit taxed from all the excitement, is all,” she says in a harsh, thick accent Cora can’t quite place.
Mrs. Witt slides between the pair, a superior tilt to her chin. “I cannot imagine the House of Württemberg throwing parties like this, hmm? Allow yourself some respite, Duchess. In my sitting room. Ableton!” Mrs. Witt beckons one of her footmen standing ready in the wings.
The bearded man nods in gratitude, steering his female companion out of the fray as a portly middle-aged woman and a mousy-looking young lady sidle beside their hostess.
“Mrs. Witt, do you really think it proper for the duchess to retire alone with Mr. McAllister?” Frowning, the largerwoman glances at her younger intimate—her daughter, Cora assumes. The pair have the same dishwater-brown hair, the same narrow-set eyes. “Arabella and I find it quite concerning that the duchess is without family or friends on these shores looking out for her well-being, and thus we consider it our duty—”
“You have no duties yet, Pearl.” Mrs. Witt rolls her eyes. “Now stop angling for the Württemberg crown and let me see to my party.” She waves above the crowd, clearly annoyed. “Mr. Prospero? Mr. Prospero, come here!”
Mrs. Witt summons the performer forward, eyeing the man like a new toy she longs to break. “My ball cannot be complete unless you share the methods behind your tricks. I command you to do so at once.”
“Ah, but what is magic if not the keeping of guarded secrets.” Prospero smiles grandly, deflecting. He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “And if I may say, madame, I do believe you’re keeping secrets of your own.”
Prospero steps forward, trailing his fingers across Mrs. Witt’s monstrous headpiece. A moment later, a dove bursts forth from the bloom of feathers and soars toward the chandeliers.
The surrounding partygoers gasp, erupting into another round of applause.
“I wish the whole dratted thing would fly away.” Mrs. Witt adjusts the piece with a groan. “We do what we must forla mode, but this headdress is a true cross to bear.”
A team of harried-looking footmen rush forward to assist.
From the edges of the gathered crowd, Cora watches as the servants remove Mrs. Witt’s dwarfing headpiece—carefully withdrawing, one by one, a series of ornate pins holding it inplace. Four pins, to be precise. Each pin a shaped helix of at least two dozen diamonds.
One footman holds out a silver tray while the other lays the pins down in a perfect row.
Cora creeps through the crowd, angling for a better look. The pins are delicate, the bases sparkling silver, and the diamonds are of a significant size—half a carat each, maybe more.
Good God, how much could one possibly fetch for a set like that?
She watches the footmen head down the hall with the headdress and tray, her mind fully racing now. Is this a gift from above, a stroke of incredible luck, right when she needs it? She doesn’t have a professional’s eye for jewelry, admittedly—her family’s treasures were of the cereal and corn variety—but she can appreciate the finer things, always has, and taken as a set, those pins must be worth at least a few thousand. More than enough to walk away from the show forever, cash out, and finally take back her family’s land.
All she has to do is follow those footmen, wait for the right time, and swipe the whole lot.
As Prospero pulls a deck of cards from inside his lapel for his next parlor trick, Cora inches farther backward. Ignoring Maeve, who is also standing on the crowd’s fringes and currently giving Cora averypointed, bug-eyed stare. Although Cora is just being paranoid—there is no way the older stagehand could possibly sense what she is planning. Besides, Maeve has left her no other choice; without thieving on the road, Cora’s future is as empty as Prospero’s trick box.
As the crowd shifts, closing in for a better view of Prospero, Cora seizes her moment, slipping away from the commotion, retracing the steps of the footmen. Behind the scenes all night, anddressed in black herself, no one should mistake a young stagehand for anything but additional hired help for the evening’s festivities.
Cora rounds the hall into another narrow corridor.
A wrinkled woman in an apron stops her short.
“Ah, finally. My kingdom for a free hand!” The woman thrusts a heavy box into Cora’s chest.A sewing kit?“Run this to Adelaide, girl.”
Cora pastes on a manic smile. “Right. Adelaide.” She nods across the corridor. “Saw her go that way—”
