Devil in Spring

“You don’t need to wait in the shop with me, Dragon,” Pandora murmured as he gave her the valise. “My appointment will last at least an hour. You can go somewhere and drink some ale, or something.”

He ignored the suggestion and remained exactly where he was.

“I’m visiting a printer,” Pandora couldn’t resist pointing out. “The worst thing that could happen to me is a paper cut.”

No response.

Sighing, Pandora turned and went to the first in a row of counters that extended across the large interior and divided it into several departments. The print works was the most wonderfully cluttery, colorful place she had ever been in, except perhaps Winterborne’s department store, which was an Aladdin’s cave of sparkling glass and jewels and luxury items. But this was a fascinating new world. The walls were liberally papered with caricature prints, cards, playbills, engravings, penny-sheets, and toy theater backdrops. The air was perfumed with an intoxicating mixture of fresh paper, ink, glue, and chemicals, a smell that made Pandora want to snatch up a pen and frantically start drawing something. At the back of the shop, machinery clacked and clattered with a start-run-stop rhythm as apprentices operated hand presses.

Overhead, prints had been hung up to dry on hundreds of lines strung across the room. There were towers of mill-board and card stock everywhere, and high columns of paper in greater quantities and varieties than Pandora had ever seen in one place. The counters were piled with trays of printing blocks carved with letters, animals, birds, people, stars, moons, Christmas symbols, vehicles, flowers, and thousands of other delightful images.

She loved this place.

A young matron approached. She was tidy and slender and bosomy, with curly brown hair and long-lashed hazel eyes. “Lady St. Vincent?” she asked, and curtseyed deeply. “Mrs. O’Cairre.”

“A pleasure,” Pandora said, beaming.

“I’ve never been so intrigued as I was by your letter,” Mrs. O’Cairre said. “Your board game sounds very clever, milady.” She was a well-spoken woman with the musical hint of a brogue. There was a lively air about her that Pandora liked exceedingly. “Would you like to sit with me and discuss your plans for it?”

They went to sit at a table in a sheltered spot at the side of the room. For the next hour, they talked about Pandora’s game and what components it would require, while she unearthed sketches, notes, and prototypes from her valise. It was a shopping-themed game, with pieces that moved around a track that wove through the departments of a whimsically detailed store. It would include merchandise cards, play money, and chance cards that would either help or hinder the players’ progress.

Mrs. O’Cairre was enthusiastic about the project, making suggestions about various materials to use for the game components.

“The most important issue is the folding game board. We can do lithograph printing directly onto the board with a flat-bed press. If you want a multi-colored game board, we could create a metal plate for each color—five to ten would be sufficient—and apply ink to the board in layers until the image is complete.” Mrs. O’Cairre viewed Pandora’s hand-painted game board thoughtfully. “It would be much cheaper if we only applied the image in black and white, and you hired women to hand-color the image. But of course, that would be much slower. If your board game is in high demand, which it will be, I’m sure, you’ll make greater profits by producing the game entirely by machine.”

“I would prefer the hand-colored option,” Pandora said. “I want to provide good jobs for women who are trying to support themselves and their families. There’s more than profits to consider.”

Mrs. O’Cairre stared at her for a long moment, her eyes warm. “I admire that, milady. Very much. Most ladies of your rank, if they think of the poor at all, do little more than knit stockings and caps for charity groups. Your business would help the poor far more than knit-work.”

“I hope so,” Pandora said. “Believe me, my knitting wouldn’t help anyone.”

The woman laughed. “I do like you, milady.” She stood and rubbed her hands together briskly. “Come to the back rooms, if you please, and I’ll give you a pile of samples to take home and view at your leisure.”

Scooping up her papers and game materials, Pandora dumped them into her valise. She glanced over her shoulder at Dragon, who was watching her from beside the door. He stepped forward as he saw that she was heading to the back of the shop, but she shook her head and gestured for him to stay there. Frowning slightly, he folded his arms and remained in place.

Pandora followed Mrs. O’Cairre past a waist-high counter where a pair of boys were busy collating pages. To the left, an apprentice worked a treadle-operated letter press with huge gears and levers, while another man operated a machine with large copper rollers that pressed images continuously on long rolls of paper.

Mrs. O’Cairre led her to a sample room brimming with materials. Moving along a wall of shelves and drawers, Mrs. O’Cairre began to collect pieces of paper, card stocks, boards, binding canvas and muslins, and a variety of type-specimen lettering sheets. Pandora followed closely behind her, receiving handfuls of pages and dropping them into her valise.

They both paused at a discreet knock.

“It’s likely the warehouse boy,” Mrs. O’Cairre said, heading to the other side of the room. While Pandora continued to browse among the shelves, the printer opened the door just enough to reveal a boy in his teens, with a cap pulled low over his forehead. After a brief, muttered exchange, Mrs. O’Cairre closed the door. “Milady,” she said, “I beg your pardon, but I have to give instructions to a deliveryman. Will it trouble you if I leave you here for one minute?”