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“My scullery maid?” Cordelia’s heart sank. Viola had called herself Jenny Sacks and claimed to be a scullery maid. Whatever Viola had done was known to Graymont.

“Do you deny it?” He turned on her.

She stood her ground, refusing to be cowed. “How could a scullery maid interfere with your work to tear the castle down? Winter told us your engineers arrived. We saw the wagon with its load of planks and poles.”

“And you assumed the men were a wrecking crew?”

“I did,” she confessed. “I thought you did not mean to honor our wager when I won.”

“Your opinion of me can hardly get lower.”

“I’m sure you can contrive something to lower it. I’ll keep an open mind. How did my scullery maid interfere with the work?”

“You must know. You put her up to it. She convinced Higson’s men that the castle is cursed, and now they refuse to do the work for which they’ve been hired until the curse is removed.” He charged ahead.

“Wait,” she said. How dare Graymont imply that she had acted in an underhanded way? “A girl, a child, a scullery maid convinced experienced men that Delamere is cursed?”

He stopped abruptly, and a laugh escaped him. He took two strides back to her, facing her in the twilight. The owl hooted again. “There is no scullery maid, is there? This is your sister’s work. She’s a hazard to a man’s sanity.”

Cordelia bit her lip. He was right, and she couldn’t admit it. She hated to ask, but she had to know. “Viola didn’t enter the castle, did she?”

“She did not,” he said between clenched teeth.

“So I can still win the bet.”

“There will be no bet if your sister drives away my workers.”

“What am I to do? Can you not simply fire men who refuse to work? And hire others?”

“There are few men with these skills, and a rumor that Delamere is an unsafe or difficult place to work will keep others away. I want you to tell Higson’s men that there is no curse.”

“Me?”

“Who else? If you want to have that ball, you must undo your sister’s mischief.”

“How can there be a ball if you tear the place down?”

The castle stood above them in the gathering darkness, stone upon stone, looking as it always had to Cordelia—her unchangeable, sturdy home.

“I haven’t decided what to do,” he said. “First, I need to know whether it’s falling down. Did your father never make repairs?”

The insult was plain. In Graymont’s eyes her family was careless, with a father who could not hold onto the house that he’d gained by marrying. And the worst of it was that Graymont was right. Papa had taken no care of Delamere from the moment her mother had become ill. As solid as Delamere looked, Cordelia had seen to the placement of buckets under several leaks during heavy March rains.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “What is the supposed curse that has grown men in a stew?”

Graymont looked away. “You must not laugh. Apparently, a single magpie swooped over them when the curse was uttered.”

“Oh, a single magpie. That is a dark omen. And the curse is …?”

Again, Graymont hesitated. “Who moves these stones will break his bones. Nevermore to sleep in his own Castle keep.”

“Oh dear, a terrifying thought. So, what’s kept them here tonight?”

“An excellent supper prepared by Mrs. Peachy.”

Her expression changed. He thought she might laugh. “Mrs. Peachy? The butcher’s wife?”

“Yes. She’s agreed to cook for us, as the inn … Well, I imagine you know the inn fare.”