Mrs. Roseingrave had been a singer as well as a piano tuner, before she lost enough of her hearing range that performing and tuning became impractical. Between the shared talents and her resemblance to her eldest daughter, sometimes Sophie felt as though she were staring into one of those enchanted mirrors from a fairy story, looking forward through the years to her own future.
It was a perfectly acceptable future, she tried to assure herself. A husband, a shop, a family. Comfort enough for the most part, and an abundance of love to go around. These weren’t unpleasant things, not at all—in fact they were often considered the very best things in life.
But Sophie was greedy—and deep inside, to her secret shame, Sophie was ambitious. She’d helped raise her siblings while her mother performed, helped her father build pianos and keep the books. She’d lived this life already for over twenty years.
She wanted, desperately, to see what other kinds of life there were. In other places, with other kinds of people. Who weren’t so... ordinary.
Sophie felt steeped in ordinariness, the dregs of it left too long in the cup, turning her bitter.
Mr. Verrinder had promised the Roseingraves an extraordinary future. But even the shock of that betrayal had not cured Sophie of her ambition. It still pulsed inside her, fluttering its wings and beating at the lock on its cage.
This surely meant she was a selfish person. So she did as her mother asked, and went shopping for her siblings.
Mrs. Narayan’s shop was two streets away, part of a row of clothing shops on the edge of Carrisford’s Jewish quarter. The buildings here were a bit older, a more somber stateliness than the fresh paint and plaster flourishes of the high street. Sophie found the sign that readNoureenNarayan, Clothing Bought and Sold, Fine Tailoring. She stepped in and took a breath—and for a moment it was just like being back in London.
Mr. Giles’s shop had smelled new: the bite of fresh dye had puckered the air. His cloth and notions had been dazzling, but they weren’t garments yet—he sold the promise of clothing, the potential of something to become a gown or a coat or a cloak.
Here, though, was the soft, human scent of clothing that had been worn and washed and worn again, often by more than one person during its lifetime. It reminded her of the secondhand shops the Roseingraves had known in London. Everything here had to be taken as it was—or nearly, at any rate. A signboard behind the counter listed prices for different types of alterations: hemming, taking in, letting out, mending seams.
A young woman with dark hair and gold-brown skin sat behind the counter, stitching a seam along a chalked line bristling with pins. She glanced at the bundle under Sophie’s arm and set her work aside. “Good afternoon—have you brought those to sell?”
Sophie nodded and placed the bundle on the counter. Miss Narayan—the shop owner’s niece, as she introduced herself—went through the twins’ clothing quickly, tugging to test the strength of seams and checking for marks or damage.
Her hands, Sophie couldn’t help noticing, were efficient and remarkably quick, the fingers small but strong and sure.
They agreed on a price for the trade, and then Miss Narayan showed Sophie to the precise shelves where she would most likely find the sizes and garments she needed: dresses for Julia, trousers and shirts for Jasper.
Sophie was going through a stack of linen shirts at the front of the store when movement caught her eye. She looked up and there, across the street, was Miss Crewe. Auburn hair, mischievous smile, enchanting figure, and all.
Sophie was fixed in place by twin spears of righteous anger and irresistible lust.
Miss Crewe was in her gray gown again. She stood chatting with a man holding the reins of a trader’s wagon, paint gleaming in the winter sun. He was slender, and the deep blue of his coat made his dark hair shine.
As Sophie watched, Maddie held out her hand—those mittens again—and the man shook it, black leather dark against that bright blue wool. They made a beautifully matched couple: blue and blue, dark hair and red. Sophie’s belly clenched with jealousy.
“Do you know her?” asked Miss Narayan.
Sophie swallowed. “We’ve met. That’s Madeleine Crewe, a ribbon weaver.” She glanced at Miss Narayan. “I don’t suppose you know the man she’s speaking to?” Was he also involved in whatever Miss Crewe was planning?
Miss Narayan nodded, though her eyes never left the couple across the way. “That’s Mr. Micah Samson. His father is an old-clothesman. He must be on his way here—he usually stops in around this time.”
And indeed, Mr. Samson was handing the reins to an earnest young groom to hold. Sophie’s hands clenched in the fabric of the shirt she held. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
“I’ve often thought so.” Miss Narayan began refolding the stack of shirts Sophie had disrupted, smoothing out the fabric, then smoothing it out again.
Not very efficient. Her jealousy set up a sympathetic chime in Sophie’s breast. Miss Narayan’s lovely lips were pressed thin, her smile a little pinched. She flicked one glance up to the couple across the street, then dropped her eyes again. But that one glance hadseared. “They look well together, don’t they?” the young woman said lightly.
Sophie’s stomach twisted again. “Yes,” she rasped. “But then, I can’t imagine Miss Crewenotlooking well, no matter whom she was standing next to.”
Miss Narayan’s hands stopped moving.
Oh dear. Sophie’s heart thumped, and she concentrated on breathing normally, even though she wanted to suck in air out of panic. Had there been too much obvious longing in her voice? Had she not hidden herself properly? She’d known, in London, who it was safe to say such things to—but she’d forgotten for a moment she was in a new place, among new people.
Miss Narayan looked at her, her mouth relaxing enough to lift one corner in a rueful smile. “Isn’t itrudehow some people are too beautiful to resist, even when you most want to?”
Relief, pure and sweet, poured over Sophie like spring water. “Especially when you most want to,” she replied, with a small laugh. “There must be some magic to it, don’t you think?”
Miss Narayan’s smile turned sly. “It’s only magic if you don’t know how it’s done. I know quite a few tricks—I was a lady’s maid in London until this past summer.” She turned to the dresses behind her, a riot of color and pattern. “If you’re looking to balance things a little in your favor, I have a few things presently that might help you turn the tables...”
