Agnes mimicked under her breath as she slipped Jane's woolsey cloak from the peg by the back door and wrapped the thin garment around her shoulders. “If Jane's lolling about in a tub like the bloody Queen of Sheba, her ladyship ought not to begrudge me the use of her wrap.” Agnes pulled the hood up and tied its rough tabs under her chin. She hated to admit it, but Jane was right about the eggs. If no one could find the real Sybil, no one must miss the real Jane. No one had missed Jane yet. Her work kept her in out-of-the-way places about the massive residence. So far, so good, Agnes thought as she slogged across the alley. She'd gather the eggs and leave the basket on the counter for Cook to find. But someone was bound to notice when the chamber pots went unemptied and the washing piled up. Then Agnes would have to come up with some story to explain why Jane had gone missing, something people would accept without question. Agnes lifted the latch and entered the dim, dusty chicken coop.
