Patricia Gaffney

JUDAS!”

Lily whipped her hand away from the red-hot handle of the roasting spit and flapped her fingers in the smoky air. “Ow, ow, ow,” she yelped—softly, so her guests couldn’t hear. Gripping her wrist, she squeezed her watering eyes shut as a blade of intense irritation sliced through her, so sharp it almost eclipsed the pain. It was at times like this when she wished she knew more swear words.

The roast pork was black, ruined; even the grease in the pan was only a dried-up charcoal glaze. Fanny, of course, was nowhere in sight; her twelve-year-old maid-of-all-work must have gone home as soon as she’d put the meat on the spit, no doubt expecting it to turn itself. Maid-of-no-work was a likelier title, fumed Lily. But what in God’s name was she going to feed them now?

One
“JUDAS!”

Lily whipped her hand away from the red-hot handle of the roasting spit and flapped her fingers in the smoky air. “Ow, ow, ow,” she yelped—softly, so her guests couldn’t hear. Gripping her wrist, she squeezed her watering eyes shut as a blade of intense irritation sliced through her, so sharp it almost eclipsed the pain. It was at times like this when she wished she knew more swear words.

The roast pork was black, ruined; even the grease in the pan was only a dried-up charcoal glaze. Fanny, of course, was nowhere in sight; her twelve-year-old maid-of-all-work must have gone home as soon as she’d put the meat on the spit, no doubt expecting it to turn itself. Maid-of-no-work was a likelier title, fumed Lily. But what in God’s name was she going to feed them now?

JUDAS!”

Lily whipped her hand away from the red-hot handle of the roasting spit and flapped her fingers in the smoky air. “Ow, ow, ow,” she yelped—softly, so her guests couldn’t hear. Gripping her wrist, she squeezed her watering eyes shut as a blade of intense irritation sliced through her, so sharp it almost eclipsed the pain. It was at times like this when she wished she knew more swear words.

The roast pork was black, ruined; even the grease in the pan was only a dried-up charcoal glaze. Fanny, of course, was nowhere in sight; her twelve-year-old maid-of-all-work must have gone home as soon as she’d put the meat on the spit, no doubt expecting it to turn itself. Maid-of-no-work was a likelier title, fumed Lily. But what in God’s name was she going to feed them now