Easier for a kid like me, anyway. I couldn't make much sense out of the accompanying text, it was a mixture of English and French and some other foreign languages – sometimes just the name of the artist and a gallery or museum. At first I couldn't even tell if it was supposed to be an art collection or a book about sexy women without men. My reading ability was pretty good then, and I even knew some of the French words, drummed into my head at an early age by another of the long line of maidservants, one who must have fancied herself a high-class governess. And the French sure helped, I soon discovered, adding just enough to explain some of the scientific English. (Phony scientific, I found out later, but still loaded with goodies for a beginner like myself!) So after a while I got the hang of the thing and could look at it for pure enjoyment as much as for information. And that was the extent of my progress by the time I realized the vacuum hum had quit.

I didn't notice it right off, the sudden silence. It sounded eerie now, eerie and ominous and crackling with suspense as my ears strained for some telltale clue. Nothing reached me, though, and I leaped into action and got the all-important book put away in a mad rush. In its proper place, I hoped. With just the right tilt to the covering heap of silky panties and such. Only I was pretty panicky by then, too much in a hurry to stop and calm down and get everything perfect, especially with my hands shaking and my tummy full of butterflies. Anyway, it looked okay when I slid the drawer shut and finally strolled out into the kitchen, all smiles and coy innocence, hiding the secret that I knew about her secret…

False alarm. Bernadette was nowhere in sight. I even considered going back in there for one last check, wondering now if the spread on her bed had been left noticeably wrinkled. And were the throw-rugs on the floor any different than before? Then, with a nervous little giggle, I simply shrugged the whole thing off and found myself almost wishing that she would catch on. After all, the mystery was no longer quite so mysterious – and what kind of woman would even dare own such a naughty book?