Maskerade

I heard she likes to keep her donations secret,” said Nanny.
    Mr. Bucket’s mental compass once again swung around to point due Money.
    “You’d better show her up,” he said. “I could perhaps give her a few minutes—”
    “No one ever gave Lady Esmerelda less than half an hour,” said Nanny, and gave Bucket a wink. “I’ll go and fetch her, shall I?”
    She bustled away, towing Walter behind her.
    Mr. Bucket stared after her. Then, after a moment’s thought, he got up and checked the set of his mustache in the mirror over the fireplace.
    He heard the door open and turned with his finest smile in place.
    It faded only slightly at the sight of Salzella, ushering the impressive bulk of Basilica in front of him. The little manager and interpreter fussed along beside him, like a tugboat.
    “Ah, Señor Basilica,” said Bucket. “I trust the dressing rooms are to your satisfaction?”
    Basilica gave him a blank smile while the interpreter spoke in Brindisian, and then replied.
    “Señor Basilica says they are fine but the larder isn’t big enough,” he said.
    “Haha,” said Bucket, and then stopped when no one else laughed.
    “In fact,” he said hurriedly, “Señor Basilica will I’m sure be very happy to hear that our kitchens have made a special effort to—”
    There was another knock at the door. He hurried across and opened it.
    Granny Weatherwax stood there, but not for long. She pushed him aside and swept into the room.
    There was a choking noise from Enrico Basilica.
    “Which one of you is Bucket?” she demanded.
    “Er…me…”
    Granny removed a glove and extended her hand. “So sorry,” she said. “Ai am not used to important people opening their own doors. Ai am Esmerelda Weatherwax.”
    “How charming. I’ve heard so much about you,” lied Bucket. “Pray let me introduce you. No doubt you know Señor Basilica?”
    “Of course,” said Granny, looking Henry Slugg in the eye. “I’m sure Señor Basilica recalls the many happy times we’ve had in other opera houses whose names I can’t quite remember at the moment.”
    Henry grimaced a smile, and said something to the interpreter.
    “That is astonishing,” said the interpreter. “Señor Basilica has just said how fondly he recalls meeting you many times before at opera houses that have just slipped his mind at present.”
    Henry kissed Granny’s hand, and looked up at her with pleading in his eyes.
    My word, thought Bucket, that look he’s giving her…I wonder if they ever—
    “Oh, uh, and this is Mr. Salzella, our director of music,” he said, remembering himself.
    “Honored,” said Salzella, giving Granny a firm handshake and looking her squarely in the eye. She nodded.
    “And what’s the first thing you’d take out of a burning house, Mr. Salzella?” she inquired.
    He smiled politely. “What would you like me to take, madam?”
    She nodded thoughtfully and let go of his hand.
    “May I get you a drink?” said Bucket.
    “A small sherry,” said Granny.
    Salzella sidled up to Bucket as he was pouring the drink. “Who the hell is she?”
    “Apparently she’s rolling in money,” whispered Bucket. “And very keen on opera.”
    “Never heard of her.”
    “Well, Señor Basilica has, and that’s good enough for me. Make yourself pleasant to them, will you, while I try to sort out lunch.”
    He pulled open the door and tripped over Nanny Ogg.
    “Sorry!” said Nanny, standing up and giving him a cheerful grin. “These doorknobs are a bugger to polish, aren’t they?”
    “Er, Mrs.—”
    “Ogg.”
    “—Ogg, could you run along to the kitchens and tell Mrs. Clamp there will be another one for lunch, please.”
    “Right you are.”
    Nanny bustled away. Bucket nodded approvingly. What a reliable old lady, he thought.

    It wasn’t exactly a secret . When the room had been divided a space had been left between the walls. At the far end it opened onto a staircase, a perfectly ordinary staircase, which even had some grubby daylight via a dirt-encrusted window.
    Agnes was vaguely disappointed. She had expected, well, a real secret passage, perhaps with a few torches flickering secretly in rather valuable secret wrought-iron holders. But the staircase had just been walled off from the rest of the place at some time. It wasn’t secret—it had merely been forgotten.
    There were cobwebs in the corners. The cocoons of extinct flies hung down from the ceiling. The air smelled of long-dead birds.
    But there