My hair was tucked inside my cap, held in place with one brave little pin, and the collar of my high-necked dress was missing a rather crucial button. In my pocket I carried a vial of anise oil. I had unwrapped my burned hand, and the blistered flesh smarted painfully as the bandage came away. It was an ugly sight, but it would make my little performance more convincing. And so I paced the halls and waited for my chance. The passageway that I was guarding was the route from the dining room to the cellar, and I knew that it was just a matter of time before the gentlemen ran out of port and sent the valet for more. My patience was rewarded finally when James stepped out from around the corner, carrying a bottle and a corkscrew. I waited until he was two feet in front of me, and as I moved aside to let him pass, a turn of the ankle brought me tumbling down before him, dirty linen scattering in every direction. As I fell, I pushed the vial from my pocket, and it shattered on the parquet floor, showering us both with broken glass and pungent oil.
