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one—that he was a spoiled snob who’d never had to lift a finger. They would have taken great pleasure in blacking his eye for him—both of them if possible.
    Rose shook her head disgustedly. It was a pity not to be able to tell Mr. Freddie what she thought of him, but of course she couldn’t. She’d be dismissed at once. Besides, there was the possibility of being a beetle too. At least she had normal, sensible Bill to talk to—she definitely felt the same way about Freddie as he did. A tiny doubt rose somewhere in the region of Rose’s stomach that, actually, she wasn’t quite normal either. It wasn’t normal to be able to make pictures, but at least no one knew about that. She’d made a mistake earlier on, though. None of the rest of the servants could feel the staircases fidgeting under their feet.
    Rose resolved to be as normal as she possibly could—boringly normal if she could manage it. She simply didn’t want anyone to notice her.
    She nearly dropped the coal scuttle at her first sight of Miss Isabella’s bedroom. From the expressions of the servants when they talked about her, and everyone’s huge sympathy for Miss Anstruther (Mrs. Jones had made some revolting herb tea for her yesterday, to help her keep her strength up, after screaming had been heard from the direction of the schoolroom), Rose had the impression that Isabella was rather spoiled. Her bedroom was incredible. Anything that could possibly have lace had it. The bed had a lace canopy, held up by a smirking golden angel, and was covered in layers of lace-edged pillows and embroidered ruffles. There were dolls and toys everywhere, and a rocking horse even larger than Albert, just for one little girl. Rose peered over at her. Golden curls—of course—and a very lacy nightie. She couldn’t see much else. Rose shook her head in amazement and remembered breakfast.
    She’d better hurry. Goodness, even the fireplace had flowery tiles.
    â€œWho are you ?” an imperious little voice demanded, and Rose jumped, spraying ash all over the grate. She edged around on her knees and looked up. Miss Isabella was kneeling up on the end of her bed, staring at her.
    â€œI’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Rose murmured. “I’m the new housemaid, Rose.”
    â€œOh. You’re ugly.” Isabella yawned. “Lots of coal, please, it’s chilly. And pass the biscuits.”
    Rose gaped at her for a second, then looked around and found a pink china biscuit barrel on the bedside table, within easy reach of Isabella’s hand. Nevertheless, she got up and offered it to her politely, and Isabella took a huge handful. Rose tried not to look envious; she was hungry too. She finished laying the fire with a biscuit-muffled running commentary from Isabella on how clumsy she was and how much prettier Lizzie, the last maid, had been. By the time the fire was finally lit, Rose felt like slapping the horrible brat. She shut the bedroom door behind her and leaned on it, taking a deep, calming breath. Little toad! Was she a magician too? Perhaps she was too young to know much yet. Rose hoped so. She resolved to put extra coal on Miss Anstruther’s fire tomorrow—the poor woman deserved it.
    Luckily, not even Rose’s rumbling stomach woke Mr. Fountain. All she saw of him was a rather elaborate nightcap and his large mustache. She had to stifle a giggle, as his mustache was held in a strange black net, which fixed over his ears. It looked as though his mustache was taking over his face…But there was nothing else that suggested he was a renowned magician. He snored.
    Rose galloped back down the stairs—still carefully not looking at the walls in case they took the opportunity to move at her. Mrs. Jones pushed a large bowl of porridge in front of her as she slid into her seat at the table, and Bill passed her a jar of honey. He mumbled something