I say, "I'm Figs," to cover for him.
Aunt Primrose turns to you. "What did you say?"
"I'm Figs," you say again.
"I'm Figs," says Rory, catching on.
Figs goggles at you all and holds his hands over his mouth.
"I'm Figs," says Mopsie.
"No, I'm Figs," says Rory.
"Well, I'm Figs, then. Why not?" says Haze.
"Is this one of those new parlor games?" says Frankincense.
"But how does one play?" asks Aunt Primrose, bemused.
"I'm sorry, Auntie, you've lost," says Rory.
"Well, I don't really appreciate not being told the rules," she says, gruffly. "In my day, we played charades and tableaux vivant. This game seems rather arbitrary."
"It's all the rage these days," says Mopsie.
"No it's not," says Figs, and then clamps his hands over his mouth again.
"I think you'd best get going," you say to Figs, grasping him by the arm and shoving him out the front door.
When you turn around, Regina is there, hands on hips. "So," she says, "you've helped uncover an imposter. At the same time, you've helped him escape. What's your angle, Savage Wendigo?"
"I…"
"There are no excuses. I will simply mark your mixed success on your record. It's a bit of a shame, really. But there will be an opportunity to redeem yourself. I fear there is more mischief afoot. I will see you again late tonight for your next mission."
"Another mission?"
"Your most difficult yet. This will be the true test. Now, we have a bit of business down in the servants' dining room to conduct. Won't you join me there in a few minutes?"
While Aunt Primrose tries to figure out the rules of "I'm Figs," you decide that Regina is right: you should probably excuse yourself for now.
A few minutes later, you seat yourself at the servants' dining table, adjacent to the kitchen. The servants' dining area has little to attract the eye, the only decoration an old devotional painting rejected from upstairs, the subject barely visible through layers of cracked and yellowed varnish. Most of the furnishings, like the plain oak table or the rough-hewn chairs, are refurbished pieces from secondhand shops. But while the room is plain, it is filled with laughter and lively conversation. Many of the household workers are enjoying a well-deserved meal and a moment's rest after the dinner service, and the footmen hang their jackets over their chairs in a striking display of relaxed casualness.
Chef Beauregard serves the leftover food from dinner upstairs, as well as some rustic ham, carrot, spinach, and pea quiches with chèvre.
Valentine pulls up a chair next to yours, and she helps herself a very large slice of quiche. Then she takes another large slice and puts it next to the first one.
Valentine nods to you, and then begins chatting with some of the second-floor maids about the events of the day, telling a few off-color jokes. She gobbles up several helpings until finally defeated by a goblet of chocolate mousse. "Uuugh," says Valentine, leaning back and putting two hands on her belly.
Chef Beauregard, on your other side, pours himself a glass of wine and takes out a leather portfolio caked with flour. "So," he says, in a French accent so thick it is difficult to make out without full attention, although you know for a fact that he has lived in England for over twenty-five years. "Ze boat race at ze Harvest Festival, she ees to be taking place tomorrow, no? Who would like to make ze race plus intéressant--ah, more interesting? Who would like to place le wager?" He pronounces "wager" as if it rhymes with "dagger."
He pulls out a chart from his portfolio which indicates a number of people from the environs who have placed bets for the upcoming race; several of the servants make a small wager with Chef Beauregard, who notes down their bets carefully. "Ah, Pennyworth," he says, wagging a finger at you. "You are looking forward to the boat race, yes?"
"It is always a highlight of the festival," you say.
"And I hear from—what ees ze word—ze vine of ze grapes that Mrs. Patterson has put together a strong team. I hear Scrubs will be coxswain of ze team. She will be extraordinary."
"Scrubs?"
"A neekname, only. Beatrice Scrubbers…non? Well, perhaps you don't often have cause to go visit our fine laundress." He says "laundress" as if it rhymes with "undress." "With her experience, our team will be…" He can only express how the team will be by kissing his bunched fingertips. "But Col. Firesnuff's team ees always strong, and we must not discount ze police boat, led, as usual, by Deputy Hardcastle. Then, there ees the Cordwainers' team, who are all quite aged and long bearded. They might safely be discounted. They have never come in other than last place in decades of racing. They are rather a confused lot."
"I see."
He leans forward conspiratorially. "I even heard eet claimed zat you might be asked to row as well."
"Me?"
"Eet ees ze rumor going about. But tell me. Purely out of la curiosity, what ees your rowing technique?"
1. "I think of rowing as more an intellectual pursuit than one of strength."
2. "Rowing is a game of dirty tricks and deception," I say. "There is no place for finesse or manners in the cutthroat world of rowing."
3. "My raw strength will carry the day. In rowing, one must pay attention to nothing but pulling the oars through the water."
4. "Rowing is a noble sport, and its traditions and regulations should be abided by in the spirit of elegance and fair play."
