Free The Transformation of Bartholomew Fortuno: A Novel by Ellen Bryson

behind.
    “I want no complaints about the food tonight,” Cook yelled. “And no third helpings. You people are working me half to death.” Cook flung the plate of sweetbreads onto the serving table, and as soon as her back was turned, Ricardo jumped up and slid over to Bridgett. He held a burning candle in one hand.
    “Ah, fresh little chicken. Have you ever seen my act?” Holding the candle an inch beneath his chin, he moved the flame back and forward, casting grotesque shadows across his face.
    Bridgett’s young cheeks drained of blood. “S’cuse me, sir, but I don’t . . .” Her eyes darted to Cook’s back, then down to the floor.
    Cook whirled around and banged her fist against the serving table. “Stop that, you reptile! You’ll scare the girl half to death. And put down that candle! You know better than to play with fire around here.”
    Feigning fear, Ricardo set the candle on the table and waited until Cook left the room, then reached down and grabbed his leg, snaking it into the air. He wrapped it around his neck, glaring over at Bridgett the whole time.
    “For you, a special show.” Ricardo’s tongue stretched out and up, and he licked his own forehead, one hand already fussing with the buttons of his trousers.
    Not knowing that Ricardo rarely made good on his obscene threats, the poor girl blinked wildly and began to wring her hands, until Alley pushed back in his seat. Ricardo grumbled a bit, but he dropped his leg and slunk back to his chair.
    Just as things calmed down and I settled in for a nice cup of hot tea, Matina leaned close to me and said, “Barthy, would you be a sweetheart and go fetch my cape? I left it in the exhibit hall behind the riser.”
    Irritated at her forgetfulness, I scraped back my chair, fluffed up the pillow on my seat, and stomped out of the dining room, ignoring the snickers of my fellow Curiosities. I lingered for a minute in the back courtyard and lit a cheroot, complaining mildly to myself about Matina’s assumption that I would do whatever she asked. The courtyard was a walled-in area that held the communal garden, benches and rickety tables for the help to use during nice weather, and some lovelytrees. An ivy-buried storage shed sat at the far end of a weedy path. Ragged and unkempt though it was, the yard proved a godsend to those of us with aversions to the outside world. And it was an excellent place to waste a bit of time. I took a deep drag on my cheroot and blew smoke up into the leaves of a sycamore tree, thinking that while I didn’t mind fetching for Matina, I didn’t want her to take my help for granted.
    My train of thought was broken when the service door leading onto Ann Street opened and two burly roughs skidded inside, lugging a six-foot wrapped canvas between them. One of them nearly dropped his end into a puddle of late spring mud, and the other cursed loudly, hefting his own side higher until his partner regained his balance. They navigated the canvas through the vegetable garden and down the flagstone walk toward the kitchens. I strained to read what was written across the covering.
Do Not Open or Disturb in Any Way
. It was the same poster I’d seen outside the Ballroom only the week before. It had to be.
    Throwing my smoking cheroot to the ground, I took off after the roughs, trailing behind them to the far end of the kitchens, where the door to the south cellar stairway stood wide open. When they maneuvered the thing down the stairs into the bowels of the Museum, I followed, cringing when the poster banged against the stone steps and then scraped one corner of the east cellar wall. Mold and the scent of fish sent me scrounging for my handkerchief, and the chill of the cellar floor seeped through my shoes, despite the padding inside them, but I kept up. They stumbled on past discarded animal cages, wooden crates, piles of tomato jars, the hippopotamus tank and, finally, dragged the covered poster through another door at the far end of