Dawn broke cold and gray over the capital as Nathaniel—no, Natalie now, she reminded herself—helped her mother dress for what they both knew might be their final journey together.

  Eleanor Foster was dying. The effort of the past weeks had accelerated the consumption's progression. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, and her once-graceful movements had become painfully slow. But she insisted on accompanying her "niece" to the pace gates.

  "Madame Bckwood must see me," she expined between bored breaths. "Otherwise, the letter alone might not be enough."

  Mrs. Winters had arranged for a neighbor's son to bring his cart around. The boy, Toby, was simple-minded but kind, and asked no questions when they expined they needed transport to the pace.

  "Pace folk need seamstress?" he asked, helping Eleanor into the cart with surprising gentleness.

  "My niece has an interview for a position," Eleanor replied, settling herself on the rough wooden bench.

  Toby nodded, then turned to Natalie with an open, curious expression. "Don't 'member you," he said pinly.

  Natalie felt her heart stutter. Their first test, and it was coming from the least expected direction.

  Eleanor squeezed her hand in warning. Remember your training.

  "I've been living with my parents in the countryside," Natalie replied, pitching her voice slightly higher than her natural tone. "But they passed recently, and now Aunt Eleanor is helping me find suitable employment."

  Toby's face crumpled in sympathy. "My pa passed too. Miss him terrible."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Natalie said, and found she didn't need to pretend the empathy in her voice.

  Toby seemed satisfied with this exchange and set about preparing the cart for departure. As he turned away, Eleanor squeezed Natalie's hand again, this time in approval.

  "See?" she whispered. "You can do this."

  The journey to the pace took nearly an hour, the cart moving slowly through the awakening city streets. Eleanor used the time to review final details.

  "Remember, you were born in Westshire," she murmured. "Your father was my brother, William, a clerk who died of the same fever that took your mother. You've had some education—you can read and write, which will be to your advantage. You've done household work since you were eight."

  Natalie nodded, committing each detail to memory. She had rehearsed this fictional life so many times over the past weeks that it was beginning to feel more real than her actual history.

  "And if anyone asks about your hands?" Eleanor prompted.

  "They're calloused from farmwork," Natalie recited. "Uncle kept a small vegetable garden I tended while Aunt was ill."

  "Good," Eleanor nodded. "And why do you want to work at the pace?"

  "Because Aunt Eleanor spoke so fondly of her time there, and because a pace position offers security and respectability for a girl with no family to return to."

  As they spoke, the pace rose before them, its white stone towers gleaming even in the watery morning light. Natalie had seen it from a distance all her life, but up close, its scale was overwhelming. Walls that had seemed decorative from afar now revealed themselves as formidable fortifications. Guards in royal blue and silver stood at attention at each gate.

  Toby halted the cart at the servants' entrance, a retively modest archway on the eastern side of the pace complex.

  "Pace," he announced unnecessarily.

  Natalie climbed down first, then helped her mother, acutely aware of how frail Eleanor had become. The simple act of descending from the cart left her wheezing and clinging to Natalie's arm.

  "Are you certain you shouldn't return with Toby?" Natalie whispered, concerned. "I could deliver the letter myself."

  Eleanor shook her head firmly. "No. Henrietta must see me. She must understand the urgency." She straightened as much as her weakened body would allow and nodded toward the guards. "Come."

  Together, they approached the entrance. Two guards stood at attention, their expressions neutral but watchful.

  "State your business," the older one said, his gaze moving between the elegant though obviously ill woman and the pinly dressed girl beside her.

  "I am Eleanor Foster, formerly Lady Willoughby's personal maid," Eleanor replied with as much dignity as her condition allowed. "I'm here to see Madame Henrietta Bckwood regarding my niece."

  The younger guard looked skeptical, but his companion's eyes widened slightly in recognition.

  "Foster? Eleanor Foster who left to marry that bookbinder?" he asked.

  Eleanor inclined her head. "The same."

  The guard's face softened almost imperceptibly. "Wait here." He disappeared through the archway, returning several minutes ter. "Madame Bckwood will see you in the servants' hall. Follow me."

  They entered a world Natalie had never imagined. Beyond the archway y a bustling complex of courtyards, workrooms, and storage areas—the pace's vital organs, hidden from the public rooms where nobility conducted the business of state. Servants hurried in every direction, carrying linens, food, tools, and messages. The smells of baking bread and roasting meat mingled with soap and beeswax polish.

  Natalie tried not to stare, but it was difficult. The scale of the operation was staggering. In one courtyard alone, she counted twelve undresses hanging sheets that billowed like sails in the morning breeze. In another, a line of kitchen boys carried baskets of vegetables toward what must have been the pace kitchens.

  The guard led them to a long, low building adjacent to the main pace structure. Inside was a rge room with several wooden tables where a few off-duty servants sat drinking tea.

  "Wait here," he instructed, indicating a bench near the door. "Madame Bckwood has been notified."

  They sat in silence, Eleanor concentrating on controlling her breathing while Natalie observed everything around her with careful, sidelong gnces. The other servants eyed them curiously but kept their distance.

  After what seemed an eternity, the door at the far end of the hall opened, and a tall woman entered. Even without introduction, Natalie would have known her for someone of authority. She wore a dark gray dress of excellent quality, with a ring of keys at her waist and a starched white cap over her iron-gray hair. Her posture was impeccable, her gaze sharp and assessing.

  "Eleanor?" she called, scanning the room.

  Eleanor stood, swaying slightly. "Henrietta."

  The woman's stern expression transformed into one of shock as she took in Eleanor's condition. She crossed the room swiftly.

  "My dear girl, what has happened to you?" she asked, her official manner dropping away.

  "Consumption," Eleanor replied simply. "The doctors give me weeks, perhaps a month." She gestured to Natalie. "This is my niece, Natalie. I wrote to you about her."

  Madame Bckwood turned her attention to Natalie, who immediately dipped into the curtsy she had practiced so diligently. When she rose, she found herself being studied with an intensity that made her want to squirm. Instead, she folded her hands at her waist and lowered her eyes, as her mother had taught her.

  "You have Eleanor's features," Madame Bckwood observed. "The same eyes."

  "Thank you, ma'am," Natalie replied softly.

  Madame Bckwood turned back to Eleanor. "Come, we should speak privately. You look ready to colpse."

  She led them to a small office off the main hall, furnished simply with a desk, three chairs, and shelves filled with ledgers and boxes. Once the door closed behind them, she helped Eleanor into a chair and took the one opposite, gesturing for Natalie to sit as well.

  "Now, expin why you've brought your niece to me when you should clearly be in bed under a doctor's care," she said, her tone gentle despite the bluntness of her words.

  Eleanor withdrew the letter from her bag and handed it to her old friend. "All the details are here, but the essence is this: Natalie has no one else. My husband died, his business is lost to creditors, and I will be gone soon. She needs position and protection."

  Madame Bckwood broke the seal and read the letter carefully. Natalie held her breath, knowing that the story it contained was rgely fabrication. Would Henrietta Bckwood see through the lies?

  When Madame Bckwood looked up, her expression was unreadable. "I see," she said simply. She turned her attention to Natalie. "Can you read and write, girl?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Natalie replied.

  "Stand up. Turn around slowly."

  Natalie complied, fighting the urge to tremble under the woman's scrutiny.

  "You're small for your age," Madame Bckwood observed. "Eleven, your aunt says?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Nearly twelve."

  "Hmm." She gestured for Natalie to sit again. "The pace is not a charity house, Eleanor. The girl is very young."

  "I started at her age," Eleanor countered. "And she's clever, Henrietta. Observant. Quick to learn."

  Madame Bckwood's gaze moved between the two of them. Something unspoken seemed to pass between the older women.

  "There is a position," she said finally. "Not what I would typically assign to a new girl, especially one so young. But given the circumstances..." She gnced again at Eleanor, whose breathing had become more bored. "The royal library needs an assistant. The previous girl married a guardsman st month. The work is simple—dusting, fetching books, organizing returns—but it requires literacy and careful hands."

  "The royal library?" Eleanor repeated, surprise evident in her voice.

  "Yes. It would keep her somewhat separated from the other maids, which might be... advantageous, given her age and inexperience." Madame Bckwood's emphasis suggested she understood more than she was saying aloud.

  Natalie's heart raced. The library. Books. Something familiar in this strange new world.

  "When would she begin?" Eleanor asked.

  "Today, if she's willing," Madame Bckwood replied. "There's a dormitory for the younger maids. She would share with five others, all under sixteen." She turned to Natalie. "The work is not difficult, but it requires attention to detail and absolute discretion. The royal family and their schors use the library. You would be invisible to them, do you understand? Present but unseen."

  "Yes, ma'am," Natalie said, thinking that invisibility might be exactly what she needed.

  Eleanor reached for Natalie's hand. "This is more than I hoped for," she said softly. "Thank you, Henrietta."

  Madame Bckwood nodded once, then rose from her chair. "I'll have someone show Natalie to the dormitory where she can leave her belongings. You and I will complete the necessary documentation." She paused, then added more gently, "And then, my dear, I think you should return home and rest. The girl is in good hands now."

  As Madame Bckwood called for an assistant, Natalie felt her mother's grip tighten on her hand. This was it—the moment of true separation. Once Eleanor left, Natalie would be alone in this vast, intricate world, with only her disguise to protect her.

  "Remember everything I taught you," Eleanor whispered urgently. "And remember who you truly are, even if you can never speak of it."

  "I will," Natalie promised, fighting back tears. "I'll make you proud."

  Eleanor touched the silver locket at Natalie's throat. "You already have."

  A young woman appeared at the door—a head maid, judging by her uniform.

  "This is Natalie Foster," Madame Bckwood announced. "She's joining the library staff. Show her to the east dormitory and find her a uniform."

  The maid nodded. "Yes, Madame Bckwood."

  Natalie stood, smoothing her simple blue dress. She curtseyed to Madame Bckwood, then bent to kiss her mother's cheek.

  "Go on," Eleanor whispered. "Don't look back."

  Gathering all her courage, Natalie followed the head maid from the room, across the threshold between her old life and her new one. As instructed, she did not look back, though she felt her mother's gaze following her until the door closed between them.

  Nathaniel Foster disappeared that day, left behind in Madame Bckwood's office with his mother's fading breath. Natalie Foster emerged instead—a quiet, watchful girl with a silver locket and secrets locked as tightly as the pace gates behind her.