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here, she could see that. She felt the knots tighten in her stomach.
    After turning off Farringdon Road and driving along a little farther, the driver began to slow the motor. “Well, here we are then, Miss. Sekforde Street.” They turned a final corner. “Cor blimey! Looks like someone’s expecting you an’ all!”
    Tilly gasped at the sight before her, pressing her nose up against the glass window. “Oh, my goodness!”
    â€œA sight for sore eyes that is! Well, I never.” The driver whistled through his teeth as he stepped out of the motorcar and walked around to open the door for Tilly. He helped her stepdown from the cab and lifted her trunk onto the street, both of them unable to take their eyes off the sight that greeted them.
    Tilly handed him a shilling and thanked him.
    â€œGod bless you, Miss.”
    He tipped his cap and stepped back into the motorcar.
    Vaguely aware of the engine firing up and the cab rumbling off down the street, Tilly stood motionless on the cobbles, gaping at the sight in front of her.
    Flowers.
    Flowers, everywhere.
    Garlands and garlands of flowers decorated the entire street; draped around the windows on all three floors of the terraced houses; crisscrossing the sky above her, suspended on invisible wires, giving the impression that they were floating there by themselves. Flowers were draped over window boxes and framed the doorways of every house. Roses, geraniums, daisies, lilies, carnations, orchids—every conceivable type of flower was represented in the display, and every single one, Tilly knew, had been made by hand.
    A small crowd had gathered to gaze at the astonishing display of color: vivid blues; regal purples; soft, candy-floss pinks; strawberry reds; vibrant lime greens; sun-bright, buttercup yellows; rich oranges; and creamy, vanilla whites. Tilly’s eyes were unable to take it all in, her mouth unable to suppress a smile of sheer delight. It was as if someone had poured a box of paints onto this one street, leaving nothing with which to brighten up the drab gray of the rest of the city she had just passed.
    â€œWonderful, isn’t it.”
    Tilly turned to see a woman next to her, three children scampering around her skirts. “It’s magnificent,” she whispered in reply.
    â€œIf only they could open a new factory here every day,” the woman said, smiling. “How bright our days would be then! Are you visiting one of the girls?” she asked, noticing the trunk at Tilly’s feet.
    Tilly felt a glow of pride flush her cheeks pink. “No,” she said. “Actually, I work here.”
    â€œWell, God bless you, love. It’s wonderful work those girls do. God bless them all.”
    The woman called her children to her and continued on her way.
    Taking a moment to smooth her skirt and adjust her hat, Tilly turned to walk down the street, her eyes darting from left to right and upward to make sure she didn’t miss any of the fabulous displays. She strode purposefully toward Violet House, passing the low iron railings that ran along the fronts of all the houses on the street. She read the names that had been etched into a stone lintel above the door at the front of each: Bluebell, Rosebud, Primrose, Orchid, and Iris. She remembered taking such hesitant steps along this same street just a few months ago, but something was different today; she walked a little faster, stood a little taller.
    Reaching Violet House, she pushed open the wrought-iron gate. It squeaked a welcome. Her heart pounding in her chest, she walked along the short pathway of red and gray diamond-patterned tiles leading to a neatly varnished front door. Each small footstep felt like a great stride—away from one life and toward another. She stopped in front of the leaded glass panels of the door and placed her trunk at her feet. Her hand poised over the brass knocker, she paused for a moment and took a long, deep breath. It