Blima held Harpo’s hand tight, and pulled him into the stairway first, then into the dining room. A young woman in an impeccably pressed uniform stumbled past them, and Blima stopped and watched. “That was Bessie the maid,” she whispered. “She’s the help. Every time she touches anything cold, she faints. She believes in the evil eye and if you see her cross her fingers behind her back, that’s why, it’s for protection.”
“Wait,” said Harpo. “What did you say about cold things?” He watched the maid, the weavy one from the morning before, weavy again now and smelling like a cross between a fruit cocktail and a medicine cabinet. Sam probably kept her on staff because nobody else would hire her. It was Depression time. People needed protecting. Sam was a big old softie. Nothing should change th
