I sat at my desk going over my possessions in my mind. They were too costly to sell at any of the normal outlets, and reputable dealers would wonder why I sold them. If I tried to disguise myself, was able to sell an item, and Tony found it on someone else, they might be in danger.

I felt deflated: another avenue blocked.

I rang for Amelia. “Is the afternoon paper here yet?”

“Why yes, mum. I’ll fetch it at once.” She brought it in, her face puzzled. “You’ve never asked for it before.”

I opened the newspaper to the zeppelin schedule. The zeppelin ran all day and night, although with fewer flights after dark. Meal service, bar, sleeping rooms — these flights sounded magnificent. I imagined lifting from the ground, flying.

The paper listed the current prices. I almost had enough for one ticket if we went to the least expensive city. I tapped the paper with my pen, circled the price. I didn’t like Joe selling himself to get our tickets, but no other ideas came to mind.

Perhaps once the account was set up at the bank, I might withdraw that money. Well, most of it. If I closed the account, Tony might hear of it. How long would that be?

Pearson came to my study and knocked. “A Mrs. Gertie Pike here to see you, mum.”

After a moment, I remembered the stout woman married to Thrace Pike. Whatever might she be doing here? “Seat her in the parlor, Pearson, I’ll be there at once.”

Gertie Pike was twenty, somewhat thinner than I remembered, but she wore the same ugly gray dress she had the last two times I saw her. Her hair, straight, blonde and lank, her skin sallow, her teeth uneven, her eyes too close together. But she loved Thrace Pike and their child dearly, although I saw little in the man to warrant such interest.

Mrs. Pike stood in the middle of the room, her coat still on, slowly turning to face me when I came in. “It’s all as he said.”

Evidently she’d read her husband’s pamphlet, which detailed — without naming me, fortunately for him — an afternoon in January when I tried to seduce him.

This was going to be awkward.

I forced myself to smile. “What a pleasure to see you. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, mum, thank you.”

I rang for a maid; Mary Pearson came in. Mary, like Gertie, was twenty, although just turned, with straight blonde hair. Unlike Mrs. Pike, Mary was pretty, with rosy cheeks and a bright smile. She curtsied. “Yes, mum?”

If my guess was right, Mrs. Pike didn’t eat well. “It’s almost tea-time; set it up here.” It was actually twenty minutes before tea-time; I hoped Monsieur wasn’t too put out by it.

After Mary left, Mrs. Pike said, “I don’t wish to impose.”

“Nonsense. Mr. Spadros is out today; otherwise, I’d have to take tea alone. You do me great service.”

“Thank you, mum.”

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“How’s your daughter?”

“She’s well, mum, thank you.”

The hem of her skirt had dragged in mud recently; the stain still lingered. “How may I help you, Mrs. Pike?”

“You contracted my husband to perform tasks for you.”

I chuckled. “On the contrary — he volunteered.”

She stared at me, mouth open. “Aren’t you going to pay him?”

That was a fair question, especially in light of their poverty. “As I said, he volunteered to do this for me. So I hadn’t considered the matter.”

“And now that you’ve considered the matter?”

I sighed, feeling melancholy. “I’m not pleased with what he found, but it was helpful.”

“Then I ask that you pay him, not his grandfather.”

“Why do you ask this?”

Mary came in with tea, slices of cake, and a small crock of butter. “There wasn’t time for icing, mum. I hope butter will do.”

“It’s lovely, Mary; please thank the kitchen staff for it.”

She curtsied. “I will, mum.”

Mrs. Pike took cake, spreading it with butter, then sat regarding me. “You’re an odd woman.”

I smiled, selecting my cake and tea. “How so?”

“You’re ready to take any advantage, even over someone far your inferior, yet you’re kind to servants. It’s unusual.”

My inferior? Did she not know I was a Pot rag? “I suppose I’m in an unusual situation.” The saltiness of the butter was lovely with the warm sweet cake. “I enjoy it when people speak truth. You find it so seldom.”

She ate her cake, sipped her tea. My answer seemed to embolden her. “Then I’ll speak truth.” When she spoke next, her voice shook. “What are your intentions toward my husband?”

I blinked. “What?” A laugh burst from me. “I have no intentions towards him whatsoever.”

Mrs. Pike glanced away, cheeks reddening. “It’s just that —”

“You read his pamphlet.”

“Yes, mum.” The way she spoke made me think she had more to say but decided not to share it.

“Then it was unwise for you to visit. It’s likely my staff has read it as well.”

She turned crimson.

“Why don’t you want me to pay his grandfather? Is he not your husband’s master?”

She shook her head, agitated. “My husband did the work without any instruction or aid, yet his grandfather will take the great share, leaving us with a pittance. It’s unjust.”

So it was. “Is that why your husband became a reporter?”

Her head drooped. “His grandfather would have nothing to do with him so long as we were Bridgers.” She paused, rubbing her ring finger. “My husband believed he could do good work at the Bridges Daily ...”

“But ...”

Mrs. Pike didn’t meet my eye. “It’s corrupt; real news never sees daylight. It’s what the Families want printed, nothing more.”

She was such a foolish girl — much too trusting. I hoped she survived long enough to see her baby grown. “Mr. Pike was right to leave if he felt unable to do good work there.”

She finished her cake, drained her cup. “May I have more?”

I smiled at her. “Have as much as you wish.” She reminded me of Tenni, with thin arms and a child’s honesty.

Mrs. Pike put a second piece of cake on her plate and slathered it with butter.

“How did you and Mr. Pike meet?”

She blushed. “We grew up together, mum. In the Bridgers. It’s our way.” She took a deep breath. “It’s a blessing, being as I am.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

She snorted in amusement. “I know what I am: an ugly woman. Don’t deny it! Here, I’m a pitiable creature, secretly ridiculed and scorned. Ugly women are doomed to live at home as a burden to their fathers, or sent off to try to join the Dealers. But in the Bridgers, it’s the pretty girls have the most trouble. All the men want them, yet none are allowed to pay them court.” She gazed off to the side. “Most pretty ones run off. But I had many suitors.” She smiled to herself. “I could pick any I wanted.”

I frowned. “You get to pick?”

“Of course! We receive the man’s attentions, bear the children, raise them, keep the home — it would be cruel to force a man on us we didn’t want! That’s why I’m so blessed.” She smiled, pride clear on her face. “I chose the best, the kindest, the most righteous man of them all.” Her expression became fierce. “And I won’t have him toyed with, by you or anyone else.”

Oh, dear. I might need Mr. Pike in the future. “I most sincerely apologize for any distress I’ve caused.” There! That should mollify her. “As a token of goodwill, I’ll pay him for his work, at your grandfather’s stated rate. I recall the paper Doyle Pike presented to me the day I sat in his office. It said, ‘For retrieval of documents: ten dollars,’ did it not?”

“Ten dollars?” Her eyes widened in dumbfounded wonder, as if learning she had hit the jackpot at our casino. “Oh, thank you, mum. Thank you so much.”