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family and had been her pet growing up. She held her at arm’s length to have a good
    look at her. “How are you? Are you still studying? Your window dressing for Father is lovely.”
    “Thank you.” Lorrie let go of one of Miss Allardyce’s hands and waved it in a spiraling pattern. A
    strong scent of violets and new-mown grass filled the shop. The customer at the counter looked up,
    startled.
    “How’s that?” she asked, grinning. “I’ve just had flowers on the brain lately. Spring, I guess.”
    Miss Allardyce shook her head but smiled. “Discretion, Lorrie,” she murmured, with a glance at
    the man by the counter. “You shouldn’t do that sort of thing in here.”
    “Pooh,” Lorrie stage-whispered back. “I get bored when it’s my turn to mind the shop, and think
    these spells up. I can do roses, eglantine, and lilac too. I tried to do lavender for you, but it’s not quite
    right yet.”
    “Melusine cannot stay long, Lorrie. Would you mind putting on the kettle so we can have some
    tea?” said Mr. Allardyce. He turned to the customer, who was watching them keenly. “May I help
    you, sir?”
    “Oh, ah, not just now, thank you,” said the man, looking away. An Irish lilt tinged his speech though
    his accent was cultured, and Miss Allardyce saw that his hair under his silk hat was a beautiful dark
    auburn. “I’ll just browse, if I may.”
    “If I can be of assistance in finding anything—”
    “Indeed, sir, I’ll ask.” The man went back to his book.
    Miss Allardyce untied her bonnet and hung her cloak on the rack behind the counter where her
    father kept his working coats. She sat down in the chair her sister had vacated and looked around the
    shop in satisfaction. The delightful chaos that had reigned in it all through her childhood, despite her
    and Mother’s efforts to organize it, had vanished. Now all the books were off the floor and in cases,
    and small, neatly lettered signs at the top of each tier of shelves indicated subject matter. Here and
    there velvet-covered stands displayed particularly handsome or quaint volumes. “It looks very nice,
    Father. I like how you have rearranged it all.”
    Mr. Allardyce looked sheepish. “That’s Lorrie again. I could never have done this. She cannot be
    troubled to open a book other than a novel, but she does enjoy arranging them. Your brother gets
    irritated, but she keeps the shop so well dusted and swept as well as organized that he cannot fault
    her. I don’t think a bookshop’s the place for her, but your mother and I don’t know what else to do
    with her. Especially after that business with Mrs. Thibault.”
    Miss Allardyce nodded gravely. Lorrie’s design talents had led her parents to apprentice her to a
    nearby milliner, Mrs. Tibbs—or Thibault, as she had taken to calling herself in hopes of attracting a
    more fashionable clientele.
    All had gone well until the milliner had entered her workroom unusually early one morning to see
    her new assistant standing before a row of hats, arms raised like an orchestra conductor’s, watching
    them trim themselves under her airy guidance. Fortunately for Lorrie, Mrs. Thibault had had a tumbler
    of gin along with her morning bread and egg, and it hadn’t been hard to convince her that a different
    choice of breakfast beverage would be wise if she didn’t want to keep “seeing things.” But she had
    never been comfortable with Lorrie after that day, and had released her without argument when she
    cited family needs and came back to work at the bookshop.
    “We’ve all rather spoiled her, haven’t we? You know that I will be leaving Lord Atherston’s
    employ sometime this year. Maybe I can find a suitable situation for her when I start looking for
    myself,” she said, patting his hand.
    “How are Miss Persy and Miss Pen?” asked Mr. Allardyce, looking happy to change the subject.
    “Very well. Excited about their coming out. At least, Penelope is. Oh—before I forget—”