“I just showered! I shower every day, with soap! Look, my hair is damp right now!”
It’s no use. I raise both arms and sniff my armpits, but there’s nothing there except the faint floral whiff of my deodorant. Mr Jenkins shrugs again, clearly traumatized to be having this conversation at all.
I’m hot and flustered now, sweating in my housemaid’s uniform. At this rate, after this abject humiliation, I really will need another shower and my awful jerk of an employer will be proved right.
My voice rises, going squeaky. Shrill.
“I mean, sure, I get kinda funky by the end of the day after hauling cleaning products everywhere, but it’s notthatbad. It’s not like I leave a—a stink cloud. I have a normal, human scent. Literally no one has ever complained about this before.”
“I know.” Mr Jenkins looks miserable, pushing his bowl of porridge away, and you know what? I can’t eat either. Not with my stomach clenched in a tight knot.
This is mortifying.
Finally Mrs Ainslie turns around with a huff, flicking a dish towel over her shoulder. She regards us both, hands propped on her wide hips, then lowers her chin. Her voice is steely.
“No one here smells bad. I wouldn’t let you in my kitchen if you did. Now, you’ll both be finishing that porridge, I’m sure, because I took time over it.”
We both pick up our spoons, nodding quickly. The cook turns away, and Mr Jenkins leans across the table to speak to me quieter, his words hushed.
“Lord Westmore traveled the world before he came back here to settle, Maddy. He went on a lot of dangerous expeditions, searching for rare plants in jungles and swamps and tundra.”
“I know.” He doesn’t have to go all moon-eyed over it. I’ve seen the photographs, the research notes, the preserved plant clippings. I’ve lost plenty of stolen minutes flicking through Lord Westmore’s expedition journals while I was supposed to be dusting the library. Gazing at the grainy photographs of our tall, dark and scowly boss, so much happier-looking in his youth than in the more recent pictures.
And you know what? After this conversation, I’m not even sorry. I’m gonna deliberately leave cobwebs in the lord’s private quarters. I’m gonna leave a slice of apple under his rug to attract ants.
“Well, he saw a lot of harrowing things out there.”
I shovel porridge into my mouth and swallow thickly. “And?”
Mr Jenkins scoops up a spoonful. It’s mostly melted brown sugar. “And maybe he smelled some things, too.”
“Mr Jenkins,” I say, my shoulders tensing. “If you’re about to suggest that my body odor isharrowing—”
“I’m not,” the groundskeeper says quickly, shaking his head. “But smell can be funny. It triggers memories in a way that other senses don’t. Maybe you just… remind the boss of something. Something he’d rather forget.”
Great.
Awesome.
I give my boss—who already hates me—olfactory PTSD. Perfect.
But even as my stomach sours, my shoulders relax. Itisan explanation for this madness, even if it sucks. And hey, at least Lord Westmore already hated me. Nothing’s changed. There’s no reason for this hollow sense of loss.
“I’ll open more windows,” I say, dragging my porridge bowl closer. “Hey, it’s his heating bill.”
Mr Jenkins nods, relieved that this ordeal is over. “Thank you, Maddy. And, uh… You really don’t smell. I promise.”
It doesn’t make me feel better. Not at all.
Three
West
Over the last few days, someone has turned the manor into an ice box. Every room I walk into, the windows are thrown open wide, salty wind buffeting the curtains as it gusts inside. The radiators that groan on the walls are no match for a constant swirl of frosty air. My plant clippings huddle in their pots.
On the third day, I corner a few of the housemaids as they go about their work, demanding answers—but they all shrug and hurry away. As soon as they’re out of sight, I’ve forgotten what they look like. They’re small, all of them, with… hair. And matching black dresses. A couple of them, I probably interrogate twice without realizing, but needs must.
The mystery window-opener must be found.
