Morning brought reality in harsh, unforgiving light. Thomas Foster's body had to be prepared for burial—a task that fell to Mr. Collins, the neighborhood undertaker who had already buried too many fever victims that season.

  "No coffin," Eleanor instructed when the gaunt man arrived at their door. "Just the shroud. We can't afford more."

  Mr. Collins nodded without judgment. "The parish cemetery, then. They're digging a new common grave today."

  Nathaniel bit his lip until he tasted blood. His father, who had crafted books for earls and duchesses, would end up in an unmarked pit with the city's destitute. But he said nothing. His mother's grim expression told him she'd already fought this battle within herself and lost.

  The morning passed in a blur of practical matters. Nathaniel was sent to inform his father's clients while Eleanor dealt with the immediate creditors. By midday, he had visited six noble houses, standing in servants' entrances to deliver the news that their commissioned bindings would never be completed.

  Most expressed perfunctory condolences before asking who would be taking over the business. When Nathaniel expined there would be no business, their sympathy evaporated like morning dew.

  All except one.

  "Master Foster." Lady Emmeline Harrington received him not in the servants' hall but in her private study—an uncommon courtesy that left the butler visibly disapproving. "I was so sorry to hear about your father."

  At sixteen, Lady Emmeline was barely a woman herself, but as the only daughter of the schorly Lord Harrington, she had inherited his love of books and his patronage of Thomas Foster's bindery.

  "Thank you, my dy," Nathaniel replied, eyes fixed on the Aubusson carpet beneath his worn boots. "Father had nearly finished your collection of poetry before he... before the fever."

  Lady Emmeline gestured to a chair. "Please, sit. Tell me, what will happen to the shop now?"

  Nathaniel remained standing. "Mother says we must sell everything to pay the creditors."

  "And what will become of you and your mother?"

  The question caught him off guard. None of the other clients had asked.

  "I don't know, my dy."

  Lady Emmeline studied him thoughtfully. "Your father once told me you have a gift for detail work. That your hands are steadier than his ever were."

  Nathaniel felt a flush of pride through his grief. His father had been sparing with praise.

  "I've been helping since I was six, my dy."

  She nodded, then moved to her desk where she withdrew a small purse that clinked with the unmistakable sound of coins.

  "This is payment for work already completed," she said, pcing it in his hands. "And an advance on future commissions, should you ever find yourself in a position to take up your father's craft again."

  Nathaniel stared at the purse. It was heavier than it should have been for the unfinished poetry volumes.

  "My dy, this is too much—"

  "It's an investment," she interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. "Talent shouldn't be extinguished by circumstance."

  Nathaniel clutched the purse, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears that threatened. "Thank you, my dy. I won't forget this."

  Lady Emmeline smiled sadly. "Neither will I, Master Foster. Your father's work has preserved my thoughts and dreams. I only wish I could do more."

  As Nathaniel left Harrington House, the weight of the coin purse temporarily lightened the heavier burden on his shoulders. But his relief was short-lived.

  Turning onto his street, he saw a group of men outside the shop. Even from a distance, he recognized Lord Keller's enforcers—the ones who collected debts by any means necessary.

  Nathaniel slipped the purse into his boot and circled around to the back entrance.