The first day after the opera, I stayed in my bed, claiming that a fever might be taking hold. In truth, I only felt safe when I was under the covers, freed from the possibility of encountering Mr. Barlow.

On the second day, I believed myself safe if I only stayed in our quarters. Walking into the shop would have been like striding out on the promenade again, or showing my shoulders at the opera within view of a man who had once ravished me.

In fact, there were a few men who attended the opera and had, in the past, had relations with me. But they were always such dogs that I was never ashamed to see them again, and they looked on me as one might look on a discarded piece of furniture.

Mr. Barlow was to one of those men, I was sure. If he saw me, the scorn in his eyes would be truly unbearable. And I knew that whatever the cost, I must continue to avoid him. Even if I had wished to go mind my shop, as I had for eight years, I could not have done it. Every time that I was near the stair, my feet took me back into the safe confines of our above-stairs rooms.

They were quiet and very nearly empty. Since mama had to mind the shop for me, I was left alone with my daughter, and she was long past the age to come find me in the morning after she woke.

Viviana was always supposed to do her lessons in the morning, but it was my mother who forced her to comply with that particular regimen. I thought that she might not even be awake, but she was up and dressed, sitting at our table with her pencils and books before her.

However, she seemed interested in something rather more peculiar than her Latin grammar lessons. When I approached her, I saw that she was adding detail to an immense drawing, and that she must have been at work on it for hours.

“Good morning, Vivi,” I told her, “You’ve a lovely drawing there.”

“It’s not a drawing,” she told me, not bothering to wish me a good morning in return.

This forced a little smile from me. “It’s not a drawing? What is it then,” I asked, pleased that she was embarking on some sort of project even while she neglected the course of study that I had set out for her.

“It’s a map of England,” she said, and I wondered why Dover was drawn as a large place with many details, while larger Manchester was only a tiny spot on the map. In the countryside, she had drawn faeries, dragons, and other fantastical creatures.

“Interesting map, then,” I told her.

“All the best places are big,” she said, “And the horrid places are small.”

London was about the same size as Manchester. “You think that our city and Manchester are both equally horrid, then?”

“Not horrid, mama. But not interesting.”

“You should draw the places that have the most votes as large cities, and the ones that do not as small villages. That would let you keep Manchester small, and it teach you a bit of politics.”

“You already forced me to do that, mama,” she answered, and I recalled that I had.

As Vivi worked away at her drawing, I began to think again of the past. Her map made me remember the conversation I had once had at the Barlow dinner table, in which Miss Courtenay had insisted that it was stupid for me to even hold an opinion on the state of political affairs. One of the few things that had not changed since the conversation was the unequal distribution of votes in our nation.

I wondered what had happened to Miss Courtenay. A broken engagement could not have given her an easy future. It was some little consolation that we were most likely both miserable. At least I had ended up with a magnificent girl, I thought, drawing Vivi to me and kissing the top of her head.

“Mama,” she complained. “You are so dull today!”

I smiled at her. “Yes dear,” I said. “I am rather tired. I think that I will go and have a nap.”

“You’re always napping,” I heard her complain as I went into my bedchamber and put my hands up to take down my hair, forgetting that I had not put it up properly all day.

It would have been easy for me to sleep on a normal day, but my body had been given so much sleep that it would not surrender. I tossed about on the bed, rubbing at my neck.

If nothing else, I should have been able to feel secure that my mother would not disturb me, as she must have been far too busy in the shop. But before too long, I felt her at my shoulder.

“Are you coming down, then?” she asked.

My mother’s gift with words was that when she could use her voice, she did. As soon as I heard the bristle in it, I understood right away that she wished me to go down, even if her wishes were not quite strong enough to get me from my bed.

“You can manage for the afternoon, mama,” I told her, my voice heavy with the anticipation of sleep.

She made no answer, and so I was forced to protest. “Yes, mama,” I said. “Really, there’s nothing that I must do there. All of the newest hats are ready, and all of the orders are made up. And if you’re taking new orders, I’ll help you with them tomorrow if you need it.”

“Well, then,” she said. “I suppose you’re going to see that the bills are paid, because I cannot.”

And the thought of my business going down in flames made me sit up straight. Of all the scenarios that I could not face, the one in which my home and work was taken from me was somehow worse even than the one in which I had to speak to Mr. Barlow.