sleeping man. He hasn’t stirred yet. Probably drunk off his ass.
I open the closet door and there it is: his freshly-pressed suit for tomorrow.
I wish I could fist-pump right now but that might be too risky. So I fish out my weapon, the itch powder, and open the lapels of his suit jacket. Glancing at Mr. Grayson one last time, I sprinkle the powder all over the fabric, especially on his pants.
He’s so not going to know what hit him.
Biting my lip once again, I try to keep my gleeful laughter under wraps. I’m not out of the woods yet. I need to get back to my cottage undetected or Mrs. Stewart will wake up to the best news ever: Cleopatra Paige was finally caught breaking a rule and it’s time to fire her.
She’s not a huge fan of me or my blue hair or my blue lipstick or my leather boots. Basically, she hates my guts and she won’t hesitate to fire me if I step even one toe out of line. And right now, I’m so far past the line that I can’t even see it.
With my mission completed, I creep back out of Mr. Grayson’s room and shut the door quietly. Then, I’m retracing my steps, climbing down, walking, traveling all the way back to the servant’s wing.
With any luck, I’ll be back in my cottage before the clock strikes midnight and when I come to work tomorrow, Mr. Grayson will be reduced to a monkey who scratches his own balls.
You’re awesome, Cleo. You’re fucking awesome.
I grin.
Just as I’m about to step on the stairs that will take me up to the service entrance, I hear a rustle behind me and my name is whisper-shouted.
“Cleo!”
I gasp and my fingers fumble on the wooden bannister.
“Cleo.”
I scrunch my eyes closed and bow my head. Sighing, I face the caller. It’s Maggie, the head cook.
She has her arms akimbo and her lips pursed as she watches me with accusing eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
She looks me up and down, probably noticing my stealth mode and somehow, her gaze falls on the pockets of my hoodie. “What do you have in there?"
I pat them and realize there’s a bulge where I stuck the itch powder and the key in. “Nothing,” I repeat.
Even I don’t believe myself, and I’m an excellent liar.
“Give it here.”
Time to up my game.
“Maggie, there’s nothing in my pockets, okay? I came in because I thought I left my phone in the staff room. But I didn’t. So yeah. Nothing in my pockets. Not up to any mischief or anything.”
I spread my palms in mock surrender as I finish my nonchalant speech.
Maggie watches me for a beat. Her stare is making me nervous, or rather more nervous than I already was.
“I watched you grow up, you know. I know when you’re lying, Cleopatra Paige.”
“I’m not –”
“Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
With that, she turns to her right and walks into the hallway that breaks off right before the stairs where I’m standing.
Damn it.
Not exactly what I had in mind when I broke into the mansion tonight. Whipping off my hood so my long, wavy hair can breathe, I follow her.
The kitchen at The Pleiades can probably fit the cottage that I live in three times over. It’s a large circular room with industrial lights and steel countertops. It’s more or less like the kitchen of a very posh restaurant, complete with a walk-in freezer and high-end grills and whatnot.
Maggie gestures at me to take a seat in a nook with a little dining table by the window, overlooking the night.
She’s in her robe, meaning she was on call tonight, and I know that she’s a light sleeper. Just my luck.
I watch her as she scurries back and forth, collecting dishes and forks, and getting the blueberry pie out of the little fridge off to the side.
Maggie is super cute. Short and plump with a mop of curly honey blonde hair, peppered with gray.
She cuts us each a piece and sets one of the dishes in front of me before taking a seat.
“Eat,” she tells me, her motherly face stern.
I shoot her a small smile. She knows how much I love blueberry pie – actually, I love all sweet things – and she always makes sure to save a few pieces for me.
Sliding the dish close to me, I dig in. “Thanks.”
She grunts and my smile gets bigger.
Maggie points a finger at me. “Don’t. Don’t you smile at