had call to go above-stairs. But he knew chambermaids with long scratches on their ankles from the claws of the cat.
"Delicious, you are so capricious," the princess had been heard to say fondly, picking up the cat after it had attacked a footman one day.
"Blimey, that critter's savage," one pudgy girl had complained, returning to the kitchen with blood on her stockings.
Too bad we can't roast and eat cats, the pulley boy thought as he looked around for someone to help him bring in the birds. All of the regular kitchen staff was hard at work, chopping and simmering and parboiling and plucking. Some were counting pink salmon that were contained in a huge tub of water. One young chopping lad, an apprentice still, was doing nothing but truffles, mincing them into a large pile. Another had been assigned to peel asparagus and stood behind a mountain of green spears hardly knowing where to begin. Others were polishing silverware from enormous deposits on a long table.
The pulley boy was about to call on his little brother, who was playing with a marble near the bell wall, when a tall, freckled girl wearing a shabby dress under her apron volunteered shyly.
"I could go with you," the girl said.
"Get them goats on the spit!" Cook bellowed to the staff. "They have to cook all day and through the night!" She turned back to the kitchen, and the elderly serving boy, who usually tended only pets, shuffled reluctantly over to help lift the large goats that would be roasted for the banquet.
The pulley boy looked at the freckled, eager girl. He recognized her as the seventeenth chambermaid, the one who tended the princess and who sometimes, in the kitchen, joined in the singing with a sweet, clear voice. Then he looked at his brother, who continued to roll his green marble back and forth on the floor. "I suppose he should stay in case a bell is pulled," he mused, "though that girl—the princess?—she's off for the day somewheres. She hasn't called for lunch all week. And I already sent the queen's lunch aloft, and the king is in his counting house, so I don't think—"
"Your brother had better stay," the chambermaid said, "in case the butler pulls a bell cord or sumpthin'."
"Right, then. Come along." He gestured, and the girl followed him through the hall, chattering happily as they went. "Creamed pigeons, she's making," she told him. "Can you believe it? For two hundred! And some of them villagers, not nobility! I lived in the village once, and I never heard of a creamed pigeon—"
"I remember you did." He pushed open the heavy door.
"Remember I did what? Heard of a creamed pigeon? I never!"
"No. I remember you lived in the village. With your pa. I remember he beat you. Everyone knew."
The chambermaid grew flustered. "Well, he said I was a useless great galoomph, and I suppose I was."
"But you went to school. I used to see you going to the schoolhouse and your pa yelling after you, and throwing things sometimes."
The chambermaid nodded. "I did. I wanted to learn to read, and the schoolmaster taught me. He was very strict and rapped your knuckles if you didn't pay attention, but he taught me my letters and how to read! And now I'm reading the best book, about a girl named Alice, who has adventures you wouldn't believe! Maybe you could borrow it when I'm done!"
"Look: here they are. We should load them in the barrow, I suppose." They had stopped at the large pile of dead pigeons. The boy picked one up and looked at its staring eyes. After a moment he dropped it into the wooden wheelbarrow standing nearby. Then he sighed and reached for more. "I can't read. Worked all my life since I was a tot. Never went to school," he said. "Here: grab some. You said you'd help. Don't just stand there."
"Poor pidgies—they look like sumpthin' you'd feed the cat. Maybe with cream sauce, though..." The chambermaid leaned over, filled her apron with limp birds, and walked to the wheelbarrow. "My name's Tess," she told him, spilling the birds
"Delicious, you are so capricious," the princess had been heard to say fondly, picking up the cat after it had attacked a footman one day.
"Blimey, that critter's savage," one pudgy girl had complained, returning to the kitchen with blood on her stockings.
Too bad we can't roast and eat cats, the pulley boy thought as he looked around for someone to help him bring in the birds. All of the regular kitchen staff was hard at work, chopping and simmering and parboiling and plucking. Some were counting pink salmon that were contained in a huge tub of water. One young chopping lad, an apprentice still, was doing nothing but truffles, mincing them into a large pile. Another had been assigned to peel asparagus and stood behind a mountain of green spears hardly knowing where to begin. Others were polishing silverware from enormous deposits on a long table.
The pulley boy was about to call on his little brother, who was playing with a marble near the bell wall, when a tall, freckled girl wearing a shabby dress under her apron volunteered shyly.
"I could go with you," the girl said.
"Get them goats on the spit!" Cook bellowed to the staff. "They have to cook all day and through the night!" She turned back to the kitchen, and the elderly serving boy, who usually tended only pets, shuffled reluctantly over to help lift the large goats that would be roasted for the banquet.
The pulley boy looked at the freckled, eager girl. He recognized her as the seventeenth chambermaid, the one who tended the princess and who sometimes, in the kitchen, joined in the singing with a sweet, clear voice. Then he looked at his brother, who continued to roll his green marble back and forth on the floor. "I suppose he should stay in case a bell is pulled," he mused, "though that girl—the princess?—she's off for the day somewheres. She hasn't called for lunch all week. And I already sent the queen's lunch aloft, and the king is in his counting house, so I don't think—"
"Your brother had better stay," the chambermaid said, "in case the butler pulls a bell cord or sumpthin'."
"Right, then. Come along." He gestured, and the girl followed him through the hall, chattering happily as they went. "Creamed pigeons, she's making," she told him. "Can you believe it? For two hundred! And some of them villagers, not nobility! I lived in the village once, and I never heard of a creamed pigeon—"
"I remember you did." He pushed open the heavy door.
"Remember I did what? Heard of a creamed pigeon? I never!"
"No. I remember you lived in the village. With your pa. I remember he beat you. Everyone knew."
The chambermaid grew flustered. "Well, he said I was a useless great galoomph, and I suppose I was."
"But you went to school. I used to see you going to the schoolhouse and your pa yelling after you, and throwing things sometimes."
The chambermaid nodded. "I did. I wanted to learn to read, and the schoolmaster taught me. He was very strict and rapped your knuckles if you didn't pay attention, but he taught me my letters and how to read! And now I'm reading the best book, about a girl named Alice, who has adventures you wouldn't believe! Maybe you could borrow it when I'm done!"
"Look: here they are. We should load them in the barrow, I suppose." They had stopped at the large pile of dead pigeons. The boy picked one up and looked at its staring eyes. After a moment he dropped it into the wooden wheelbarrow standing nearby. Then he sighed and reached for more. "I can't read. Worked all my life since I was a tot. Never went to school," he said. "Here: grab some. You said you'd help. Don't just stand there."
"Poor pidgies—they look like sumpthin' you'd feed the cat. Maybe with cream sauce, though..." The chambermaid leaned over, filled her apron with limp birds, and walked to the wheelbarrow. "My name's Tess," she told him, spilling the birds
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