Charlotte smiled at the image, but she was trying to think also. They rounded the corner from Francis Street into Torrington Square, facing the rising wind. A newsboy was grabbing at his placard as it teetered and threatened to knock him over. Gracie ran forward and helped him.

“Thank yer, miss,” he said gratefully, righting the board again with difficulty. Charlotte glanced at the newspaper she had saved from being blown away as well.

“In’t nuffink good, missus,” the boy said, pulling his face into an expression of disgust. “The cholera’s got to Vienna now too. The French is fightin’ in Mada-summink, an’ blamin’ our missionaries fer it. Says as it’s all our fault.”

“Madagascar?” Charlotte suggested.

“Yeah… that’s right,” he agreed. “Twenty people killed in a train smashup in France, just when someone’s gorn an’ opened a new railway from Jaffa, wherever that is, ter Jerusalem. An’ the Russians ’as arrested the Canadians fer nickin’ seals. Or summink. D’yer want one?” he added hopefully.

Charlotte smiled and held out the money. “Thank you,” she accepted, taking the top one, which was now considerably crumpled. Then she and Gracie continued on towards Keppel Street.

“ ’E’s right,” Gracie said glumly. “There in’t nothin’ good in ’em.” She indicated the newspaper in Charlotte’s hand. “It’s all ’bout fightin’ an’ silliness an’ the like.”

“It seems to be what we consider news,” Charlotte agreed. “If it’s good, it can wait.” That part of her mind still working on how to get Gracie into the Garrick house began to clear. “Gracie…” she said tentatively. “If Tilda were ill, and you did not know that Martin was not there, wouldn’t it be the natural thing for you to go to him and tell him about her? Maybe she is too ill to write-assuming she can?”

Gracie’s eyes brightened and a tiny smile of anticipation curved her lips. “Yeah! I reckon as that’s what any friend’d do-eh? She’s bin took sudden, an’ I gotta tell poor Martin, in case she don’t get better quick. An’ I know where ’e works ’cos Tilda an’ I is good friends… which we are. I’d better go soon, ’adn’t I? Give ’er time ter get ’ome, an’ be took, like, an’ fer me ter ask me mistress, an’ ’er bein’ very good, she tells me ter do it fast!” She grimaced suddenly, lighting her thin, little face with amazing vitality.

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, unconsciously increasing her pace and rounding the corner into the wind again with her skirts swirling and the newspaper flapping in her arms. “There’s nothing at home that can’t wait. The sooner you go, the better.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, fortified with another cup of tea, Gracie began. She was excited, and so afraid of making a mistake that her stomach was fluttering inside her and she had to breathe in and out deeply and speak her words carefully in order not to stumble. She straightened her coat one more time, swallowed hard, and knocked on the scullery door of the Garrick house in Torrington Square. There was no point in waiting any longer. Time would not improve her task. She must do this for Tilda, and for Martin, of course, unless it was too late.

She had planned what she was going to say as soon as the door opened. Nevertheless, it had stayed shut until she lifted her hand to knock again, harder this time, so that when it did swing wide she nearly fell in. She jerked herself upright, gasping, and found herself less than a foot away from the scullery maid, a fair-skinned girl several inches taller than herself, with hair falling out of its skewed pins. The maid started to speak, shaking her head. “We din’t-”

“Good day,” Gracie said at the same time, and carrying on when the other girl stopped. She could not afford to be refused. “I come wi’ a message. I’m sorry ter disturb yer just before luncheon, like. I know as yer’ll be terrible busy, but I need ter tell yer.” She did not have to pretend to anxiety, and her emotion must have carried through every part of her aspect, because the girl’s face filled with immediate sympathy.

“Yer’d better come in,” she invited, backing inside for Gracie to pass. It was a generous gesture.

“Ta,” Gracie said with appreciation. It was a good beginning-in fact, the only one that could be a beginning at all. She gave the girl a quick half smile. “Me name’s Gracie Phipps. I come from Keppel Street, jus’ ’round the corner, but that’s not really got nuffin’ ter do wif it. Me message is ’cos o’ somewhere else.” She glanced around the well-stocked scullery hung with ropes of onions, sacks of potatoes on the floor, and several hard, white cabbages and various other root vegetables on wooden slatted shelves. On hooks on the walls were larger cooking vessels, handles looped over the pegs, and on the floor in the corner, jars of what were presumably different kinds of vinegars, oils and perhaps cooking wines.

“I’m Dorothy,” the other girl responded. “Me ma called me Dora, but they call me Dottie ’ere, an’ I don’t mind. ’Oo’d yer come ter see?”

Gracie blinked as if she were fighting tears. She could not afford to begin by mentioning Martin Garvie’s name, or the girl might simply tell her he was not there and show her out again, and she would have learned nothing. A bit of dramatic acting might be called for. “It’s ’bout me friend Tilda,” she replied. “I dunno ’er that close, but she’s got no one else, an’ she’s terrible sick. She’s got no family ’cept ’er brother, an’ he’s gotter know afore-” She stopped. She did not actually want to say that Tilda was dying, unless it was absolutely necessary, but she was happy for it to be understood. Of course if she really had to, then she would invent anything at all that would help.

“Oh, cor!” Dottie said, her face crumpling with sympathy. “ ’Ow ’orrible!”

“I gotta tell ’im,” Gracie repeated. “They in’t got nobody else, either of ’em. ’E’ll be that upset…” She allowed imagination to paint the picture.

“ ’Course!” Dottie agreed, moving towards the step up to the kitchen, and the warmth and smells of cooking that drifted towards them. “Come in an’ ’ave a cup o’ tea. Yer look perished.”

“Ta,” Gracie accepted. “Ta very much.” Actually she was not really cold; it was a very pleasant day and she had walked briskly, but fear had welled up inside her just as it did when one was tense with cold, and it must look the same. To be inside and form some opinion of the household was what she wanted. She followed Dottie up the wooden steps into a large kitchen with a high ceiling strung with an airing rail, presently carrying only towels for drying dishes, and several strings of dried herbs. On the walls copper pans gleamed bright and warm.

The cook, a rotund woman who obviously sampled her own skills, was muttering to herself as she beat a creamy mixture in a round bowl, rough brown on the outside, white earthenware within. She looked up as Gracie came in tentatively.

“Oh?” the cook said, fixing her with boot-button eyes. “An’ what ’ave we got ’ere, then? We don’ need no more maids, an’ if we do, we’ll get our own. Yer look like a twopenny rabbit anyway. Don’ nobody feed yer?”

A thoroughly sharp rejoinder that would have put the cook in her place in a hurry rose to Gracie’s lips, but she bit it back. Tilda would owe her for her forbearance.

“I in’t lookin’ fer work, ma’am,” she said respectfully. “I got a position as suits me very well. I’m maid to a lady and gentleman in Keppel Street, wi’ me own ’ouse’old, an’ two children to care for.” That was a bit of an exaggeration-there was only the cleaning woman under her instruction-but it was not an outright lie either. She saw the look of disbelief in the cook’s round face. “I came ter give a message,” she hurried on.

“A friend of ’ers is dyin’, Mrs. Culpepper,” Dottie added helpfully. “Gracie’s tryin’ ter tell ’er family, all there is of ’em.”

“Dyin’?” Mrs. Culpepper said with surprise. It was obviously not at all what she had expected, or fully believed. “Wot of?”