Lemon-oil polish holds a strong scent of expectation. Everything has been aired out, sudsed over, or plumped up for the party, even rooms where no guest will tip a toe inside. I pause on the landing to stare out the window, where Madame’s trap waits. Soon this view will be filled with carriages. A rare spectacle. Toby loved dinner parties, though he could be mischievous. So many voices to eavesdrop in on. So many secrets to absorb.

A spy must never let down his guard.

Pritchett House is a theater before the curtain rises, with the principal actors offstage. Aunt and Uncle are in their respective rooms, dressing and presumably bickering, while Quinn has rushed off in the carriage to the newspaper offices to personally submit the announcement of our engagement.

“The most precious errand of my day,” he’d spoken in my ear, sending sparks up my spine.

Servants pass me with quick deferential bows. Some unfamiliar faces have been hired on for just this evening.

As I try my heels on the next flight of stairs, I run into Mavis. Her arms are weighted with the tea tray. “Why, you’re a picture, Miss,” she breathes. She herself looks exhausted and can hardly perk up a smile or wait for my response before she disappears into Aunt’s lair.

At the end of the hall I pause at the entrance to Uncle Henry’s study. Though this is his private sanctuary, I dare myself to enter. After all, no room should feel off-limits to me. Not as the future Mrs. Pritchett.

Defiant, I brace myself. I open the door and loop the room, one pinched step at a time. The room carries a whiff of authority, of old scotch and pipe tobacco and leather-bound books, and of Uncle’s own pine-scented cologne. I am drawn to the clutter on Uncle’s desk. Perhaps there is an opened ledger where I can see for myself what sort of expenses have been incurred this month.



The morning newspaper partially obscures the letter. But I recognize the handwriting. I pick it up.