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M illie blinked, looking up from her ink-stained hands and staring in disbelief at the sun cresting over the horizon through her curtains.

Surely she had not written through the entire night?

And yet, there was the sun, stretching her arms over her head as bright, errant rays popped out over the roofs and chimneys of Mayfair, reaching languidly toward the heavens.

She looked back down at her journal. She had just written the first line on the very last page. And if she filled this one and the back too, she might still need the inside cover to contain all of her thoughts.

It had been a truly illuminating evening.

She’d learned Ember’s particular flavor of Chicken Hazard faster than any of the other ladies, though once Mrs. Goode had a handle on the rules, she’d been able to work out the mathematical basis for her bets the quickest.

Still, Millie had won over twenty shillings! It was more than an entire week of her stipend as a companion.

She was going to buy the finest kid leather journal she could find in Bloomsbury. She was hoping she could find something in a nice, pale blue.

Her entry was slanted and harried, likely impacted by the whiskey and the single puff of a cigar she’d managed to imbibe. The words were crammed together like jostling people elbowing their way through a crowded room, sometimes jumping over one another to fit into the line.

She hadn’t even intended to record the whole affair this way.

She’d had one thing she felt she absolutely must record before she went to sleep, and once she started, she’d just been unable to stop herself recounting every impression in her mind.

She felt as though she must fully empty everything out onto the paper before she’d catch a wink of sleep.

And oh, that thing that had started it all? It was still buzzing around her head like a gnat, refusing to stop repeating itself.

Tell Abe , the gnat kept saying, you must tell Abe!

It had happened when they switched to cards, after so many rounds of Hazard that some of the ladies had no more gambling spirit left in them.

While Ember shuffled and dealt the cards, Mrs. Goode and Mrs. Smith were explaining to the younger ladies about their business creating prints on Bond Street.

“The trouble is being ahead of gossip, or at least as fast as gossip,” Mrs. Goode was saying, catching each card dealt to her like she was snatching it out of the air.

“We have reciprocal relationships with all of the big gossip circulars, but of course, sometimes you still miss the jump. It’s best when they delay printing until we can produce appropriate artwork. ”

“Yes, and often they are sensible enough to heed that,” Mrs. Smith put in, adjusting her spectacles to squint at her hand. “For example, that business this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Goode clapped her hands together, cards and all. “We had an artist work for hours to have that done tonight. I hope he delivered it on time. Zelda doesn’t like trusting the artists to deliver, but some of our regulars are quite dependable.”

Mrs. Smith made a huffing sound but did not respond.

“Oh? What happened?” Ember pressed, discarding the rest of the deck and leaning forward on her elbows. “We won’t tell.”

Mrs. Smith made another disapproving sound, but her partner was already divulging.

“Do you recall last Season when jewels kept going missing from Society events? No? Well, it was kept as quiet as it could be just due to the embarrassment of it all. Zelda and I were waiting on tenterhooks to see if it would happen again.”

“I remember,” Millie had said, her voice dry from the thrum of energy the topic had sent bolting through her.

“Ah, see?” said Mrs. Goode. “It was at least somewhat known. Anyway, a duchess had her heirloom ruby ring go missing after a ball at Almack’s and raised quite a fuss over it. It was hundreds of years old, apparently, and the ruby was pristine.”

“So she says,” put in Mrs. Smith, tapping her fanned-out cards impatiently.

“Well,” Mrs. Goode continued, her eyes sparkling, “apparently, a second-year debutante got engaged to a well-to-do merchant ahead of last night’s ball at the very same duchess’s estate.

And when the duchess went to congratulate the young lady on her good fortune, she saw her heirloom ring on the young woman’s finger! The merchant had proposed with it!”

There were appropriate scandalized gasps at this revelation.

“Of course, he claims he bought it from a reputable dealer,” Mrs. Smith said with a roll of her eyes. “The Runners were summoned and he was taken for questioning, but I hear he’s free again as of this morning.”

“Yes, it turns out he was on the Continent last season,” Mrs. Goode told them.

“So he couldn’t have been the thief. But then, how did he come to propose with the duchess’s priceless heirloom?

It’s delicious, and if we made it to print on time with our illustration, the inevitable sale of the original art will cover our expenses for quite a while. ”

Millie took a deep breath, stretching her back into an arc and releasing a little sigh at the memory of it all.

Of course she had to tell Abe. She wanted to be the one to tell him, before the gossip sheets could. Why was that so important?

Her heart didn’t feel like it had slowed all night. There was just so much to think about and ponder and record.

That is to say, the night had not finished with shocking revelations at the mention of a development in the matter of the jewel thief. What had happened next had been salacious enough to have originated in a cheap penny novel like the ones Claire always had lying around.

“I am curious,” Dot had said, speaking up for the first time this evening with any real volume and drawing the attention of all the women in the room to where she’d been nibbling on what was left of the fruit.

“If the merchant paid for the ring in a legal dealing, but the duchess has original ownership, whose claim to legal rights over the item will prevail? It is much like the case my husband is working right now.”

“Oh?” said Mrs. Smith, suddenly more alert. “What case is this?”

“A relation to the royal family had a family estate in Reading, some hunting box–style manor that has largely fallen into disrepair,” Dot answered. “The fellow who owned it grew old and died in Portugal, leaving it to his son.

“When the son sailed over to England to inspect his inheritance, he found a family living in the estate, apparently having purchased it through the full legal proceedings twenty years past. The paperwork, though certainly forged, was filed with the courts, and as such, the new family is refusing to leave the home or elsewise pay the Portuguese gentleman for his loss.”

There was a beat of silence. A beat of heavy silence.

It took a moment for Millie to realize that all of the Spinsters had turned their attention from Dot to Lady Bentley, who was white as a ghost.

“My husband is representing the Portuguese gentleman as a favor to the crown. It is likely the outcome of the case will lead to him taking the silk,” Dot continued, her pride in Silas outshining her awareness of the shift in the temperature of the room.

“So he is here?” Lady Bentley asked, her voice thin. “He is here in England? Right now?”

“Yes?” said Dot, blinking as she realized something odd had occurred. “Dom Raul is staying with us in Bloomsbury this week while he seeks other lodgings. He will remain in Britain until the matter is settled.”

At this revelation, Lady Bentley had stood up and walked briskly to a window. She gripped the sill and appeared to be drawing in deep, ragged breaths, and the matter only dissolved when Mrs. Billings took her by the shoulders and steered her into the night air beyond the doors of the Forge.

Mrs. Smith had sighed, tossing her hand onto the table with a frown now that it was clear the game of Whist would not be proceeding. “Shall we take to the balcony for those cigars, then?” she’d suggested impatiently.

“Of course,” replied Ember, moving to stand. “But, please. Who is Dom Raul?”

“Oh, him,” said Mrs. Smith with a dismissive flip of her hand. “He was the one she didn’t marry.”

Millie had forced herself to lie down, at least until it was an appropriate time to go down for breakfast, but her mind never stopped buzzing.

She was arranging paragraphs in her mind, chiseling out sentences and concepts that she intended to put to paper once she had this new journal.

Now that all of the events of the evening had been poured out into the page, she was bombarded with what remained: the spark of an idea she’d been given by Dot.

She wanted to write Miss Lazarus a letter, and the longer she lay abed, staring at the cresting waves of plaster on the ceiling, the more it took shape in her mind.

At first, she’d thought she must simply have a conversation with her about all she’d witnessed, a quick exchange of shared wisdom the next time they crossed paths at a ball. But the more she’d thought on it, the more she felt certain that she must write this speech down.

After all, there could be other girls like Miss Lazarus someday, and Millie would hate to forget everything she’d learned and considered lately.

She would write it out in her new journal, a master draft that she could edit and adjust to her liking, and then she would make a copy for Miss Lazarus. This way, the girl could read it in private, and if she had any questions, Millie could amend her original draft with the necessary improvements.

Dot had a daughter now, didn’t she? Perhaps Vivian Cain would benefit from this knowledge someday too.

In any event, the speculation and planning had prevented any sleep from overtaking her.

By the time Irene had come in with warm water for the basin, Millie had practically sprung out of bed in relief, startling the other woman nearly out of her wits.

Millie had apologized profusely, nearly pouncing on her writing desk to retrieve a note she’d written for Abe in the night. “I need a letter delivered,” she’d said, aware that she sounded quite mad, “and transportation to Bloomsbury once the shops open. And some more paper, if you please.”

Irene had nodded, opening the curtains and tugging the duvet off the bed as though nothing at all was amiss. “At least another two hours for the shops, ma’am,” she’d said. “And the other things are no trouble.”

Millie had nodded, passing her the letter with a frown. “I don’t know his address,” she realized. “But Mr. Cresson at the Cain law practice on Bow Street will have it. Shall I write that down?”

“No need, ma’am,” Irene had replied with obvious amusement. “How about we wash that ink off your lovely white fingers and get you dressed, hm? Maybe some food in your belly would also calm you down a bit.”

“Oh,” Millie said, “yes, that’s sensible. I’m afraid I had rather too much whiskey last night.”

“Whiskey!” the maid repeated with a low whistle. “Well, really, Miss Yardley. You’re lucky I’m not a gossip.”

“I am,” Millie agreed with a sheepish smile, allowing herself to be led over to the washbasin like a child while the other woman scrubbed at her fingers with scented soap. The feeling of it, so warm and reassuring, did take some of the urgency out of her body.

There was so much she’d need to remember for Miss Lazarus’s letter, she reasoned. It was a stressful thing, to have to wait to write it all down.

“Irene,” she said, watching the clean water turn murky with the shedding ink. “Are you married?”

“Me?” Irene replied, startled into a laugh. “Not yet! But by winter, I hope. I’ve got a beau.”

“And will you continue in service, once you are wed?” Millie asked, raising her gaze to the other woman’s eyes. “How does that work for women in service, typically?”

“Oh, well, ideally we’d find placement in the same home,” Irene told her, turning to retrieve a fresh towel for her hands.

“My man’s a groom, driving carriages and tending the horses and such, so there are many houses that might take us both.

Sometimes, married folk live apart on their work days.

It’d be daft to cut our wage in half just when we’re starting out, don’t you think? ”

“I suppose so,” Millie answered, her brow wrinkled. “But what if you have a baby? Wouldn’t you need a home of your own?”

“Depends on our employer, I suppose,” Irene said cheerily, patting Millie’s dry hands and turning to the closet.

“If we have a placement in a country house or the like where the family is always in, sometimes there are allowances for such things among the staff. Most married folk in service don’t have their own houses, though.

Why shoulder the expense when part of your wage is room and board, you see? ”

“I do see.” Millie’s mind gave a threatening little buzz, ready to start reeling again. “But surely you don’t live here all year. The house is shuttered in the fall and winter.”

“Indeed. This is my third year at this house for the High Season. Hopefully, with the reference from Lady Bentley, I can find something more permanent after she returns to her country home.” Irene smiled.

“I live with other girls from the agency in the colder months. There’s a special boarding house for us. ”

“Oh,” Millie replied, a little flabbergasted. “There are many moving parts to service that I suppose the rest of the world doesn’t see.”

“I imagine so.” Irene laughed. “You should’ve seen how it was before I got this assignation. I used to have to hop house to house for a night at a time until I’d worked up enough trust to be placed somewhere more permanent. It’s all a bit tedious, finding a good placement in London.”

Yes, the buzzing was definitely back now. Millie had to shake her head to try to clear it enough to arrange her thoughts into words. “Irene, can you go ahead and fetch me that paper before I dress? I really must jot some things down before I head into town.”

Irene paused, withdrawing a dove gray dress with indigo beading, and smiled, setting it on the bed. “Of course, ma’am,” she said. “Right away.”

Millie glanced at her ink-smeared quill and gave a guilty little sigh.

They’d have to wash her hands all over again.