Daisy Dagger: “The Irish Wench

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They call me the “Irish wench.” Or the “wretch,” depending on how many sherries Lady Mapfold’s had before lunch. I’ve heard worse. I’ve been called worse. And I’ve survived worse.

I’m Daisy Dagger. No, it’s not my real name. But it’s the one I earned. You don’t get a name like that for being sweet and silent. You get it for speaking your mind, for telling the truth when it’s inconvenient, and for refusing to curtsy to people who think their blood’s bluer than yours.

I was born in the back room of a pub in Ballyshannon, raised on stories and scraps. My mother scrubbed floors for the Mallons. My father vanished before I could walk. I grew up in the shadow of Mallon Hall—what the locals call “Fort Knox,” on account of the gold that’s supposedly buried beneath it. I used to sneak into the kitchens as a girl, nicking biscuits and listening to the old man—Rowan Mallon—mutter about maps and Montezuma. I knew more about that treasure than half the so-called experts who came sniffing around.

I worked at Mallon Hall for a time. Maid, cook’s help, occasional confidante when the old man had too much port. I was there when he got the letter from that nun in America. I was there when he locked that map away in the chest in the library. I dusted that chest every Thursday. I know what’s in it. Or at least, I know what used to be.

Then came the Mapfolds.

They hired me for a spell. Said they needed someone “with local knowledge.” What they meant was someone who could tell them where the good whiskey was kept and which side of the bed the old man preferred. I lasted three weeks. Fired for “insolence.” That’s what they called it. I call it honesty. I told Lady Mapfold her perfume smelled like mothballs and regret. I told Sir Maverick that if he wanted to shoot elephants, he should try the zoo. I told their son Magnus that if he touched my backside again, I’d introduce him to the business end of a rolling pin.

They didn’t like that.

So when I heard they were coming back to Mallon Hall for the will reading, I knew I had to be there. Not for the treasure. I don’t care about gold. I care about justice. I care about seeing the smug wiped off their faces. I care about Mary Mallon keeping her home. She’s had it rough, that one. Branded “Typhoid Mary” by the same kind of people who’d never dare say it to her face. She’s got more grit in her little finger than the whole Mapfold clan put together.

Mary and I, we’ve got an understanding. She lets me in through the scullery door, I keep my ears open and my mouth shut—until the right moment. I’ve already found a few things in the Mapfolds’ luggage that might raise eyebrows. A bottle of laudanum in Lady Mapfold’s vanity case. A letter from a certain “Lady Cressida” tucked into Sir Maverick’s shaving kit. And a photograph—well, let’s just say it’s not the sort of thing you’d want passed around at a will reading.

I’m not here to steal. Not this time. I’m here to balance the scales. To remind the Mapfolds that not everyone bows and scrapes. That some of us remember. That some of us bite back.

So let them call me a wench. Let them sneer and whisper. I’ll be the one standing when the dust settles. And if I have to twist the knife a little to make sure Mary keeps her home, well… they don’t call me Dagger for nothing.