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full of maggots by week’s end.”
    “Cat!” I gasped, one final desperate attempt to get her attention.
    Cat’s aunt, the Countess of Bridgewater, looked up. A pale woman, she wore pale clothes and engaged in pale activities. But she observed—and reported—everything.
    “Hush!” Cat hissed. “Do you want everyone to know what I’m up to?”
    She sauntered to the far corner of the room, swishing her skirts. I watched her go. She seemed so sure the world contained no greater wickedness than the perfidy of Mary Lascelles.
    She was right about one thing. I shouldn’t have been out in the forest alone. I should have stayed in the house, cloaked in the drama of stolen keys and sloshing chamber pots.
    That night, after the party, Cat sent Francis from the bed early. She curled against me, breath sultry from kisses.
    “Now, tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me everything.”
    My throat closed with the enormity of it. Cat knew. As if my own thoughts were hers.
    “You’re upset,” she said.
    I nodded, still unable to speak.
    “Over something that happened today.”
    I nodded again.
    “Something you wished to tell me earlier.”
    A sigh escaped and I started to cry.
    “It’s the key, isn’t it?” she said.
    But I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t tell her she was wrong.
    “I had to let them believe it was me,” she whispered. “In casesomeone blabs. I can’t let you get thrown out, Kitty. You’re like a sister. Better than my real sisters. You’re a sister of my soul. What would I do without you?”
    My head flooded with
ifs
. If she hadn’t taken credit. If she had just stolen the key herself. If she had never opened the coffer to discover it. Terror and anger and blame welled up in me and I caught them in a gossamer bubble before it all escaped and ruined our friendship.
    I couldn’t spew it on Cat. Not the vitriol and spite. It wasn’t her fault.
    Fools find their own misery.
    I certainly had.

I N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED , I STUMBLED THROUGH THE HOUSE IN A swamp of wretchedness. I did my chores, followed orders, smiled when it was expected. I couldn’t enjoy the midnight parties anymore. The presence of men made me want to creep out of my very bones. Even when the men didn’t come, I couldn’t sleep, and when I did, nightmares bruised me. I thrashed so much, Cat threatened to move to another bed.
    But time acted as a purge, and as the days grew cold and frost crept across the grass, I slowly came back to myself. Thinner, paler, bitter and inadequate, but extant.
    As the winter drew on, the rains came. The walls of disused rooms ran with damp, and the rushes on the floors turned black within a week. The bed curtains hung limp and took on the vinegar smell of mold. The fire in the maidens’ chamber wasn’t lit, so at night we drew warmth from each other and sought out other rooms during the day.
    When boredom overcame us, we went to what we called the tapestry room. The walls were lined with detailed hangings, bought at a discount from the estates of traitors,their coats of arms carefully picked out and covered with the Howard crest. The cold and colorless Countess of Bridgewater held court by the fireplace, but the bright designs and heavy fabrics gave the illusion of warmth, no matter where we sat.
    Joan and Cat claimed a corner as far from the countess as possible. Joan sewed ribbons of silver tissue onto the duchess’s blue velvet bodice. And Cat was repairing the hem of the duchess’s widest farthingale—endless tiny stitches of eye-straining sameness.
    “Damn the desperate canes on this thing,” she muttered. I grinned. I had a reprieve from mending. The duchess had requisitioned another piece of lace from me, and I worked knots of white by the feeble light from the window.
    “Shut up, Kitty Tylney,” Cat muttered.
    Alice slipped through the door and dipped a curtsey to the older ladies. None of them acknowledged her. Alice smiled.
    “Alice,” I said when she pulled a stool closer