They continued on until they reached the rough door that opened to the stairwell that led up to the professor’s house. Before they proceeded, he placed his hand on Karigan’s arm. It was warm through her sleeve.

“Please, I must remind you to speak of this to no one. Not any of it. And do not attempt to return unless I say otherwise.”

Karigan nodded and followed him along, up the spiraling stairs and into the house. By the time she reached her room, she was stumbling tired. Before dropping into bed, she carefully leaned the bonewood in a corner and hid the mirror shard in one of her slippers, which she tucked under the bed. She pulled the sheets over her and fell into a deep sleep full of dark passageways with only a dying moonstone to light the way . . .

. . . and was abruptly awakened by daylight beaming through her window. She squinted, taking in the silhouette of Mirriam opening the curtains, then turning round to face her with hands on her hips.

“Have we relapsed?” the housekeeper demanded, her abrasive voice making Karigan cringe.

“Relapsed?”

“It is eleven hour. Well past breakfast, so you will have to do without.”

Karigan sat up with a yawn. This was certainly a change of routine. Usually she was allowed all the rest she desired and was served breakfast no matter when she woke up.

“Your uncle deemed you well enough on in your recuperation that it was time you began fitting into the routine of this household. The dressmaker will be here after the midday meal.”

“Dressmaker?” Karigan still was not awake and found herself in need of a pot of strong tea.

“You don’t expect to spend the rest of your life in a nightgown, do you?”

“Well, I—”

Then Mirriam bent toward Karigan, drawing her monocle to her eye. Her frown deepened as she scrutinized Karigan’s nightgown. Her glance swerved to the bonewood cane leaning in the corner, then back to Karigan.

“Miss Goodgrave, have you been rolling around in a dirt pile?”

“I—” Karigan glanced down at her nightgown and saw it was smudged with dirt, and no wonder after the previous night’s wanderings through underground cities and old mill buildings.

The monocle dropped to the end of its chain, and Mirriam straightened. “Oh, never mind. Nothing a good washing can’t fix.” And she rolled her eyes.

Karigan was surprised Mirriam did not pursue the matter and wondered if the woman was simply too overcome by the sheer offense of all the dirt, or maybe it was that she knew where Karigan had been.

Mirriam steered her into the bathing room where the tub brimmed with steaming water. As Karigan eased into its warming depths, maneuvering carefully to keep her cast dry, she realized that from now on she would constantly wonder who in the household knew what, and how much, and which ones were supposed to remain ignorant. To keep the professor’s secret, she’d have to be on her guard. He’d seemed to think his enemies were everywhere.

DRESSED

After Karigan bathed and ate a midday meal, she had no time to worry about who knew what, or to think about old mills and underground cities, for a Mistress dela Enfande, accompanied by a coterie of young, stylishly attired assistants, invaded her chamber and instructed her to stand on a stool for her measurements to be taken. And measure her they did, her every dimension.

“She will need everything,” Mirriam informed Mistress dela Enfande, “including the intimate basics.”

There was much clucking of tongues among the assistants and pitying looks. Karigan hugged her nightgown to her. They were unable to conceal how appalled they were that she hadn’t even any undergarments, but Mistress dela Enfande’s expression was fierce.

“All the better,” she declared. “We shall not have to build upon someone else’s inferior work. She’s a blank canvas. We shall create perfection from the foundation up; from the most private garment to the most public.”

“That is why the professor desired you to take on this challenge,” Mirriam said.

Mistress dela Enfande discussed inseams and bust lines and hems with her young ladies, and patterns and colors and fabrics. Two of the young women took notes, while still others sketched pictures Karigan was not privy to. She sighed in resignation, the object of their attention but an object only, and listened to Mistress dela Enfande’s sing-song voice. Her accent sounded Rhovan, and Karigan almost asked her about it before remembering, just in time, that Rhovanny was probably just another part of the empire, and no longer known by its old name.

Now and then, she was instructed to turn around or stretch out her arms. She was pinched and prodded and then measured again until, after what seemed like hours, she was allowed to step down from the stool as Mistress dela Enfande and her assistants flittered from the room. She flopped onto her bed with a groan of exhaustion.

“You will have one of the finest wardrobes in all Mill City,” Mirriam told her, “suited to a young lady of your station. Your uncle is being very generous.”

“Yes, of course,” Karigan replied, though all she wished for was the simplicity and comfort of her Green Rider uniform. “I’m tired is all.”

“I shouldn’t wonder why,” Mirriam murmured before leaving.

Karigan watched after Mirriam, wondering herself . . .

Once she was sure Mirriam was gone, she retrieved her mirror shard. She’d hidden it behind the headboard of her bed after she’d nearly crushed it when stepping into her slippers earlier.

She sat back on her bed and polished the shard with one of the sheets. It was two-sided—the looking mask had been mirrored on both the inside and the outside. When she gazed into it, she hoped to see Captain Mapstone again, or any sign of her friends, but all she saw was a small fragment of her face in the now. Even when she flipped the shard over, there was no change, just in the distortion from concave to convex. The looking mask had been made in a contoured form to fit over a person’s head. Made? she wondered. Who could have made such a thing?