Magic Below Stairs by Caroline Stevermer Page B

Hilary?”
    â€œThat he didn’t,” said Mr. Kimball. “Sir Hilary had the worst sort of criminals for friends. As he sowed, so did he reap. His accomplices killed him.”
    â€œOh.” Frederick felt relief that such a man was dead, and that no one he knew had been connected with the death. “But the curse outlived him?”
    â€œThe Royal College of Wizards shattered his curse to bits and swept it away forever,” Mr. Kimball replied. “I promise you, no one would find me within fifty miles of the place if I thought otherwise. Sir Hilary is in his grave. The spells he cast can’t harm anyone anymore.”
    Mr. Kimball’s tales of magic made the journey seem short. For Frederick, who considered the view from atop the coach the finest in the world, it was all a thrilling adventure, until it began to rain.
    Chilled to the bone, with every stitch he had on soaked, Frederick gave up feeling sorry for Bess, stuffed inside the coach with five other passengers, and felt sorry for himself instead.
    â€œPluck up,” said Mr. Kimball, when Frederick was so weary and cold he was ready to fall off the lurching carriage into the muddy road. “We’re nearly there. Only five miles to Skeynes from that crossroads we just passed. Be there in no time.”
    Nearly there in Mr. Kimball’s terms was nothing like nearly there in Frederick’s opinion, but at last, the carriage horses turned off the road to follow a freshly graveled driveway. The drive brought them through a park toward a house the size of a palace.
    Even from a distance, even in the rain, the place was enough to astound Frederick. He thought he’d seen big houses in London. This house was many times larger than the one in Mayfair. It was almost a city all by itself. Skeynes was made of stone and glass. As the carriage approached, Frederick saw that a few of the windows already glowed with lamplight, although it wasn’t yet dusk. Through the gloomy weather, Skeynes shone a welcome to the weary travelers.
    Frederick couldn’t make himself believe such a beautiful place had ever been cursed by anyone or anything. It looked like a royal palace out of the stories Vardle used to tell.
    When at last they walked into the servants’ hall at Skeynes, Frederick was so weary the stone floor he was dripping on seemed to float beneath his muddy feet.
    â€œTake your boots off before you go one more step,” Mr. Kimball ordered. “No need to track in more muck.”
    Dizzy with sleepiness, Frederick obeyed him. He found a place beside the fire and folded up in a dripping heap. Then, despite his discomfort, Frederick fell asleep before anyone even noticed he was there.

    In the morning, Frederick felt much better. The fire had dried his clothes. The floor had already been scrubbed clean of yesterday’s mud. But he was surprised and annoyed to discover someone had slipped half a dozen dried beans into his boots while he slept.
    â€œIt was probably one of the footmen,” Bess told him when he complained at breakfast. “Remember the time you were sleeping in the laundry room and Jamie hid pease pudding in your breeches?”
    â€œOh, is that who did it?” Frederick promised himself he would stay well away from whichever footman Jamie turned out to be once he returned to the house in London. “Mr. Kimball didn’t ask Jamie to come along to Skeynes with us, did he?”
    â€œHe didn’t, so someone else must find you a tempting target. If you insist, I’ll help you find out who did the dried beans. But after all, it was only beans. Throw them away and forget it. If you make a fuss, next time it will only be worse.”
    â€œI don’t know about that. The footmen out here in the countryside may not be as inventive as the ones in town.” Frederick sampled his bowl of porridge. “Oh, this is good.”
    Bess nodded. “My mother always told me there was