A sharp knock sounds on the door.
Beatrix jumps to her feet. “Hide!” she hisses at Oliver, pulling him from her bed.
“Where?”
“I don’t know!” She glances around her cramped room. Her eyes land on the narrow closet in the corner. She wrenches the door open. “In here!”
The knock sounds again, louder this time.
“Miss Lancourt?”
“Just a moment,” Beatrix calls.
Oliver stifles a laugh from the closet.
“Be quiet in there,” she warns, before shutting the door in his face.
She takes a deep breath and composes her features into the stoic expression of an unmarried governess who is absolutely not hiding a man in her bedroom closet. She crosses to her door, unlocks it, and pulls it open. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Winfield requests your presence in the drawing room immediately, mistress,” Celia says. She avoids Beatrix’s two-toned gaze.
“Of course.” She spares one last glance at her closet before closing the bedroom door behind her.
She follows Celia down the back staircase, out of view of the party guests. Celia leaves her at the door to the drawing room. Beatrix smooths her skirt, lifts her chin, and steps inside. Mrs. Winfield beckons to her on sight.
Margaret and Victor stand with their mother. Margaret watches the men and women in their fancy clothes with fascination. Victor is more interested in the food the servants carry around the room on gleamingsilver trays. “Shall I take the children upstairs, ma’am?” Beatrix asks when she reaches them.
Mrs. Winfield waves her off. “The children have been entertaining my guests.”
“Oh, have they?” Beatrix asks, unsure if she is expected to praise Margaret and Victor or scold them.
“Indeed.” She looks at Beatrix with eyes of ice, lifeless and cold. “They’ve been telling fairy tales.” Beatrix stiffens. Mrs. Winfield’s gaze bores into her. “Fairy tales they learned from their governess.”
“Tales to get the children to finish their studies, nothing more,” Beatrix offers. “Nonsense, really.”
“You know how I feel about those stories in my home,” Mrs. Winfield warns.
“Yes, ma’am,” Beatrix replies. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“They are true, aren’t they, miss? You said the faeries were real. You said you’ve seen them,” Margaret asks.
“You did,” Victor adds vehemently. “When I asked why your eyes were funny, you said it was so you could see the faeries.”
“They’re just silly stories.” She offers Mrs. Winfield a sheepish smile.
Margaret’s face falls.
“Please bring the children up to the nursery for the evening,” Mrs. Winfield says sharply.
“Yes, ma’am,” Beatrix says.
“And when you are finished, you may pack your things. Your services are no longer required.”
Beatrix falters. “Yes, ma’am.” She tries to keep her voice steady. “Come along, children.”
Margaret and Victor fall into line behind her, a somber and sulking row of ducks.
“Why did you say they were silly stories?” Margaret demands as she follows Beatrix up the stairs.
