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Sally, Charlotte, Louisa, and Roscoe were putting on a pantomime for the servants.

Roscoe was in the midst of a tumbling routine that involved flipping from his feet to his hands to his feet to his hands, over and over.

Sally stood on the tea table, singing, as Charlotte pirouetted by the fireplace, a half dozen petticoats flaring out from her waist. Louisa stomped here and there, hatted, in a long coat and breeches.

Last night, Georgie had established the Quiddington sisters in their parents’ unaired but commodious bedchamber, where they’d clearly ransacked the wardrobes.

No one in the audience seemed worried about the pilferage, or about the fact that Roscoe’s left foot had just kicked the petals off a tulip in a vase.

Mrs. Smedley, the housekeeper, bounced on the edge of the love seat, face wreathed with smiles.

Bagshaw sat ramrod straight beside her, steel-gray hair clashing with his expression of childlike wonder.

Bess, the other maid, was kneeling in an armchair, shouting encouragements.

“We weren’t any of us able to see yesterday’s performance.” Jenny had come to hover behind them in the hallway. “And they offered to give us an entertainment, and it didn’t seem any harm, so—”

“Of course,” said Georgie, clearing their throat. “No harm.” They felt like a louse. They’d canvassed the gentry on behalf of the company, helping to spread the word and fill the boxes. They’d forgotten about the manor staff completely. They should have given everyone the evening off.

“No harm,” they repeated. “Why don’t you…” They made a gesture, and Jenny beamed at them as she skipped through the door to claim a chair.

Georgie stalked to the breakfast room. Phipps was seated at the table, staring meditatively into his teacup.

“Your theatrical comrades already ate,” he said, lifting his gaze. “They’re juggling plates in the drawing room.”

Georgie grunted. There was no one to bring them their eggs, so they loaded up with double toast.

“Are you really going on the road?” asked Phipps.

Georgie heard a faint crash from the drawing room.

Were they really going on the road?

Elf had all but ushered them along. And it wasn’t because she despised them.

Perversely, it was because they’d risen in her esteem.

She’d come to assume they were like her , staunch and decisive, persevering toward one all-consuming aspiration.

They’d whined for more excitement, claimed they’d rot if they stayed in the country.

How vacillating and frivolous it would seem if they spontaneously reversed their position.

They’d end up with more of Elf’s time and less of her respect.

You want to go , she’d said to them, but they wanted one thing, and then another, flipping over and over, like a bloody clown in a harlequinade, and their inconstancy recommended them for precisely nothing.

Phipps frowned, seeming to take their silence for assent.

“It’s not at all sensible.” He filled a second teacup and pushed it toward them. “But I shouldn’t talk. Sensible is kissing my father’s ring and marrying Cecy.”

Georgie accepted the teacup. Confound it, they’d even miss Phipps.

“Do you think Hartcliffe is looking for you?” They took a swallow of tea. Usually, tea swept away the mental fog. Today, they’d need to drink a gallon. “Not personally,” they added. Hartcliffe himself wouldn’t stoop. “I mean, hired some Bow Street Runners.”

“No.” Phipps hesitated. “Because I wrote him.”

“You wrote him.” Georgie set their teacup down on its saucer. It clinked.

“Said I was sailing for Switzerland.” Phipps tipped back his head. “ There comes a time in a young man’s life when he must, before taking any other steps, reconcile himself with nature on the summit of Mont Blanc… ”

“Mont Blanc.” Georgie blinked. “Golly. Is that where you’d go? The Alps? If you got together the blunt?”

“I don’t suppose I’d go anywhere.” A line of crimson decorated Phipps’s fine, high cheekbones, and he sipped at his tea without meeting Georgie’s eyes.

“I see.” Georgie tried to sound innocent. “You have found a pastoral pastime.”

“He’s a person, not a pastime.” Now Phipps looked at them, offended. This from a man who’d tumbled half the House of Commons.

The prickliness. The blush. Phipps was in love.

“You have found a person.” Georgie leaned forward, relentless. “With whom you share a pastime.”

“We share several pastimes.” Phipps sniffed. “There’s one, of course, that’s extremely agreeable. But we also talk about seed drills.”

“Seed drills.” Georgie fell back. It was too good. “ Seed drills. ”

Phipps glared. “Just so. But we haven’t much cause to pass any time together, so it’s all a bit too furtive for my taste. And I can hardly lodge at his cottage when you jingle off. In fact, I’m hard-pressed for what to do.”

“Stay on here.” Georgie waved their hand.

“Without you? Just stay on, at your house? Bagshaw enjoys my flirting, but I hardly think—”

A sound interrupted him. This time it wasn’t a crash. It was pounding footsteps.

They pushed back their chair, were already rising, when Elf pelted into the room. Blades of wet grass stuck to her skirt, and all her hair had come loose. She smelled like wind and electricity and came at them like a storm.

“The answer!” She had to grab their arms to arrest her forward momentum, and even then, her damp skirt slapped their shins. “I have it.” She sobbed for breath. “I have the answer.”

So do I , they almost said, but didn’t, because she was running again, and they had to chase her down the hall.