In which our heroine employs some skills

The housekeeper worried Corinna the most, so she would start with that woman.

Mrs. MacGregor struck her as being a kind, caring person and a most unlikely undercover operative. But one never knew, the reason she now hid behind a heavy damask curtain in coffee brown, ready to send out her consciousness. Next to the curtain stood a potted palm that not only provided shelter but also some much-needed greenery. The chandeliers washed the ballroom with light, which meant Corinna's vision would not be clouded. She'd sorely need all the help available.

Corinna plucked a slim leaf from the palm and rubbed it between her fingers. The scent of the moist soil in the pot rose into her nose. With the doors thrown open on the balmy evening, the environment—while not exactly natural—gave her enough of the ingredients required to ply her craft.

Mrs. MacGregor, seated on a wicker garden chair, chatted with a stout, short woman with a hint of mustache shading her upper lip. According to Demoral, she was the cook, and she too featured on his lordship's list. The footman, Jones-Evans, another kind person Corinna would hate to find guilty, an under-gardener, and a stable boy made up the rest of the list.

"The latter two are unlikely candidates," Demoral had said when he scanned the crowds for his suspects. "But they joined during the right time period, so we must be sure."

"They wouldn't get into the house," Corinna had pointed out. "I mean, theoretically, the gardener can lurk in the bushes and listen at the windows, but that won't give him enough intel. The stable boy...I think not."

"Nor do I, but I want to know where I stand. My gardeners are too busy to lurk in bushes, I dare say, but I must admit the information given by the other hedge witch turned out a bit of an eye opener. Without her, governesses and valets would still spy on us at their leisure." He gently squeezed Corinna's arm. "People like you. Try not to disappoint me."

"I can try, nothing more."

"Do that." He sauntered off, and it had been up to her to find a spot suitable for her forage into mental espionage. There she stood, a green scent in her nose, ready to send her consciousness across to the table with the two women.

Not that she precisely heard or read words they formed in their mind. Things simply didn't work like that.

Every human being exuded life energy, and it was that Corinna could touch with her extended consciousness. It felt a bit like bouncing against an invisible soap bubble, a bubble that left an impression behind. Nor did this mind-travel constitute a precise art by any means. Impressions were limited to a person's general disposition, stress, discomfort and such like, nothing more.

Since neither Mrs. MacDonald nor Madame Caupon should experience stress when chatting amicably and eating tasty morsels, such a state would be a warning.

What if the cook discovers she's burned the pudding? She might well fret over such a mishap.

Corinna drew a deep breath. First, she would find out what there was to find out. If need be, she could then worry about her find.

She imagined her mind growing, swelling like a balloon until it covered the few meters between the curtain and the table where the two ladies now toasted each other.

It was an odd feeling for sure, since she seemed to exist in two places at once—hiding behind the curtain, dimly aware of a draft, and the rest of her mind pooling behind the chair occupied by Mrs. MacGregor.

Once Corinna's consciousness encountered Mrs. MacGregor's life energy, she had her proof that at least here she need not worry.

Content, warm and pink, filled the housekeeper's mind.

The same Corinna found to be true for the French cook, though her life energy was laced with the faintest of acerbic touches. The reason became obvious the same instant as she spoke. "There's foam on my champagne. C'est abominable. These glasses haven't been washed properly."

She waggled her flute at the housekeeper.

"Rubbish. If you keep sloshing the bubbly about like that, it will foam."

No, these two carried nothing worse than household chores on their minds.

Corinna withdrew.

The stable lad, a gangly youth with carrot hair and ears like mug handles, was heaping food on his plate when she reached out to him. Gosh, the boy must be ravenous. Corinna's stomach growled in response. Did they not feed him enough? Other than that, he gaped at the candles, food, and music in wide-eyed wonder, and his mellow mood matched his wide smile.

The gardener hailed from India to judge by his looks. He too appeared to be at peace with the world, and while he complained to his companion about the food being too much in the English way, that seemed to be the sum of his discontent.

"What'ya talkin' about?" the other gardener asked.

"Not enough spices. Everything is so bland."

Well, from what she experienced so far, Madame Caupon's cookery was most accomplished, but they used more spices in the East. Anyway, everything with him seemed to be shipshape and Bristol fashion, so she withdrew once more.

That left Jones-Evans, the footman. Like the cook and the housekeeper, he worked inside the hall, which gave him opportunities to sneak up on people.

Though how he would do it remained a mystery. Haversack was as efficient a butler as they came, and wouldn't let the lad go idle.

There he was, standing with the grooms and drinking porter. Behind the group, his ladyship, and the liveried servants played a merry country dance. Music was sweaty business for sure. Their faces appeared flushed and even if a person of quality never sweated, Lady Demoral's forehead glistened with perspiration.

Jones-Evans stood further away from her than the others had been, so Corinna ripped off another leaf and rubbed it between thumb and index finger. Then, she sent out her consciousness like she did before, only slower. She needed to be sure, since he remained now her only suspect.

But like the other four, Jones-Evans appaeared to be clearly pleased, relaxed, and there wasn't anything untoward to be spotted about the man.

Corinna's mood plummeted to the floor, headed for the cellars that no doubt lay below.

She had failed. Failed when so much depended on her success.

The musicians ended on a high note, and applause thundered through the ballroom.

Caught in the outburst of merriness, the bubble with Corinna's consciousness got tossed around like dandelion fluff in a gust. It whirled over the heads of the crowd, cheering now and stomping their feet. The ballroom became a whirligig of confused images, up and down and down and up, until Corinna finally regained control of her wayward mind.

She breathed hard against her stays, nausea in her stomach, and her environment still swaying and wobbling.

Suddenly, rock-hard loathing crashed against her mind, like a punch thrown out of nowhere. Her consciousness snapped aside, and she staggered backward with the motion, her shins banging against the potted palm. It swayed, but fortunately didn't topple over. Nobody had noticed her antics, it seemed, so Corinna breathed easier.

Where did that hatred come from?

There it was again. Spiteful, dark, and bitter, swelling like thunderclouds, it slammed against her consciousness.

Which was where, exactly? How utterly confusing. All she could sense was anger, malevolence—and quite a bit of dust.

Corinna ripped another leaf from the poor potted palm and rubbed it between her fingers. This time it took longer for nature to do her job, but eventually, her befuddled mind cleared.

Her consciousness seemed to rest on the carpet on the raised dais, right under the piano.

When she expanded it carefully, oh so carefully, she ran into a wall of viciousness so sharp, she had to withdraw or get singed.

The marquis appeared to have been backing the wrong horse. Neither of his servants was to blame.

Instead, something was very wrong with his stepmother.

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This chapter is dedicated to fellow Wattpad Star @kaiddance who is participating in ONC with the mother of all shipwrecks. Check out her "Aurora Endeavor". 

Image is by kellepics from pixabay