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“You wore it last year,” Chloe protested. “Besides, our office is supposed to be going with the Peter Pan theme.” She leaned a little closer. “If it’s just me and Dave, people will think we’re dating, and that will be the end of my chances to get to know Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome upstairs.”

There was a hint of desperation in Chloe’s voice, and Isla experienced a pang of guilt. Chloe had suggested the Peter Pan theme at least a fortnight ago. And Isla had agreed to go along with it. Added to that, her friend had been gushing over Mr. Mahoney’s new chief-of-staff on the floor above them ever since she’d shared the same lift with him a few weeks before. The Fall Ball was a big enough deal that it was a virtual certainty that he’d be there. It really was a perfect opportunity for Chloe to get to know him better.

“If you have any suggestions for finding a Wendy costume in the next two days, I’m listening,” Isla said. “On the condition that it doesn’t break my bank account.”

“It won’t,” Chloe said. “McQuivey’s Costume Shop has one. I saw it when I picked up my Tinkerbell costume. Their rental prices are cheaper than anywhere else, and you could stop by on your way home tonight. The owner told me she stays open late on Thursdays.”

As much as Isla would rather go directly home after work and curl up in a chair with a good book, she did need a costume. And she was running out of time. “All right. Where’s the shop?”

Chloe’s eyes shone triumphantly. “It’s in Pickering Place, just off St. James Street. If you take the Tube to Green Park, you’ll see the alley entrance right next to Berry Bros. & Rudd.”

“McQuivey’s Costume Shop,” Isla repeated, entering the name into her phone.

“Yeah. It’s actually a really cool shop. If you have time, you should look through some of the other costumes. Maybe it’ll give you some ideas for next year.”

Next year. Would she still be here then? Isla dropped her phone into her handbag. Two and a half years ago when she’d graduated with her degree in political science from the University of York, she’d accepted an intern position on Audrey Marshall’s election campaign team. Soon afterward, Ms. Marshall had been elected the member of Parliament for the York Central District and had asked Isla to stay on as her assistant in London. The job offer had been a dream come true. After three years of studying political history and the current issues facing Britain’s government, she’d been presented with an office that overlooked the Houses of Parliament and the opportunity to work shoulder to shoulder with the politicians now leading the country.

She glanced at the email about school funding shortfalls again, and her shoulders slumped. It had not taken long for reality to dim the imagined glamour of her work in London. Despite her education, her role here was little more than secretarial. She dealt with a discouragingly large number of complaints and had no influence whatsoever on their resolution. Every day, she left the office exhausted but aching to do more than simply keep up with Ms. Marshall’s correspondence or offer placating words to her constituents and the press.

“I’ll take a look around the shop while I’m there,” Isla said. It might be fun to browse through the costumes for a little while. The new book about Oliver Cromwell that she’d been looking forward to reading would still be waiting on her coffee table when she got back to her flat.

“Fabulous,” Chloe said. “Shoot me a text to let me know how it goes. If the nightgown I saw there comes with a blue ribbon for your hair, you’ll be all set. In theory, you don’t even have to wear shoes.”

Isla chuckled. “This may be the best idea you’ve ever had. If I go to the Fall Ball in pajamas and bare feet, I’ll be the envy of every single female stuck wearing high heels.”

“Me too.” Chloe grinned. “I’ll be wearing green slippers with pompoms on them.” She moved back toward her own desk. “We just need to remember that when some big, tall chap dressed as a construction worker gets too close to our toes.”

“Good point,” Isla said. “We’d better avoid all men wearing bovver boots.”

Chloe’s laughter filled the small room as Dave walked in carrying a box of copy machine paper.

“Glad to see someone’s enjoying themselves,” he grumbled. “I had to lug this box all the way from the ground floor.”

“You’re our knight in shining armor, Dave,” Chloe said.

Smothering a smile, Isla went back to her work. This was why she couldn’t change jobs yet. She’d miss Dave’s chronic crankiness almost as much as Chloe’s idiom-filled cheeriness.

The Green Park Tube station was packed with commuters heading home. Grateful to escape the chaos, Isla wove her way through the congestion toward the exit and the street beyond. Turning left, she followed Piccadilly until she reached St. James Street. There, she took a right and slowed her steps.

She loved this part of London. History seemed to seep from the very walls of the buildings that lined the street. Brick Georgian houses with their tall, elegant facades stood beside older, smaller sixteenth century shopfronts, their doorframes low and their timbered walls uneven. The modern, sleek, and shiny vehicles driving by seemed out of place on the narrow road. And yet, there was something rather wonderful about the natural melding of centuries of London life in this small section of the city.

The sign for Berry Bros. & Rudd hung suspended a few feet over the pavement. Isla approached the old wine merchant’s shop curiously. She had almost reached it when she noticed an arched entrance beside it. A familiar City of Westminster sign hung on the black timbered walls beyond the archway, announcing the entrance to Pickering Place. She stepped through the archway. The alley beyond was narrower than the corridors in her office building. She followed it about twenty feet until it opened into a tiny flagstone square.

The buildings surrounding the square were at least two hundred fifty years old. They were built of gray brick, with white windows and doorframes. Black railings ran along the fronts of the houses and up the steps leading to the front doors. Shrubs in planter boxes dotted the area, and a wooden bench to one side of the square invited visitors to linger awhile.

Turning in a slow circle, Isla studied the half dozen doors. One bore a small sign. Moving closer, she made out the lettering on the brass plaque. McQuivey’s Costume Shop. She’d found it. Climbing the three stone steps to the door, she glanced at the nearby window. Two mannequins stood beside each other. One was dressed as a Roman soldier, the other as Cleopatra. Isla pushed open the door and walked inside.

A bell rang somewhere at the back of the shop. The tap of brisk footsteps crossing the wooden floor followed, and moments later, a woman appeared between the racks of clothing. She was at least four inches shorter than Isla’s five feet, six inches. Her hair was snowy white and pulled back into a tidy chignon held in place with a mother-of-pearl hair fork. She wore a purple dress with matching purple shoes, and a string of multicolored glass beads hung around her neck.

“Good evening,” she said with a smile. “Welcome to McQuivey’s Costume Shop.”

“Thank you.” Isla returned the lady’s smile. “Are you Mrs. McQuivey?”

“I am, indeed.” The older lady studied her owlishly through her round, wire-rimmed glasses. “And may I ask your name?”

“Isla Crawford.”

“Lovely to meet you, Isla. How may I help you?”