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tradition,” Betsy said. She wiped her forehead. “I could use a wee nip.”
    Miss Brown reached into her skirt and pulled out a flask. As her gaze met Betsy’s, her eyes widened. “Oh, dear.”
    “Oh, dear, indeed. You know spirits are forbidden in our workplace. As is stealing food. You can keep your uniform, Miss Brown, but I’ll have your badge now, please.”
    The girl unclipped it. She started to hand it over, then snarled and tossed it at Betsy’s feet. “You can have the bloody thing. My brother will take care of me, and you, too, for not having the decency to give me a second chance. He’s a prizefighter. I wouldn’t be walking alone after dark after I tell him about you, Miss Perfect.”
    The girl spun on her heels, almost falling, then dashed toward the loading dock.
    Betsy followed her. “Miss Brown. Eugenia. Let me give you your pay. We need to finish our business.”
    The girl ignored her, speeding up. She pulled up the door, showing surprising strength, and moved onto the loading dock. Betsy ran after her, hoping she wouldn’t break an ankle leaping off the dock. But Miss Brown ran down the steps. On the ground, she turned back toward Redcake’s and made a rude gesture, then strode off down the street.
    Betsy sighed. She’d need to write a report and check the girl’s shelf for a coat. Who would she send to the girl’s home with her pay and things? It didn’t sound like she’d better go, but she didn’t want to bring the matter to Mr. Redcake’s attention. Somehow, she didn’t feel the story would put her in a good light.
    She passed by Grace in the hallway.
    “Are you well, Miss Popham?” the cakie asked.
    “Well enough. Could you find someone to wipe up the corridor behind the bakery trays? We’ve chocolate on the wall and cream on the floor.”
    “Yes, miss,” Grace said. “I’ve a minute. I’ll do it myself.”
    “Thank you. I wish we could find a couple more like you. Do you have any friends who need work?”
    Grace shook her head. “I had three girlfriends I grew up with. I’d trust any of them with my life, but they’ve all married.”
    “Why didn’t you?” Betsy asked. “You must have had followers.”
    Grace clasped her hands together in front of her apron. “I loved a boy, too, but he had scarlet fever when he was twelve and was never well after that. He died in his sleep about two years ago.”
    “I’m so sorry.” Betsy touched her shoulder in sympathy.
    Grace sighed. “One of my friends married his twin brother. At least they weren’t identical twins. That would be too much to bear.”
    “How old are you?” Betsy asked.
    “Eighteen.”
    “That’s right.” A year younger than Violet Carter, but she seemed older. “At least there is plenty of time to find someone else.”
    “I wanted him,” Grace said softly. “He wrote the most beautiful poetry and he had a lovely singing voice. I could have listened to him for days. You should have heard the weeping when he died. I wasn’t the only girl who loved him. At least as a friend,” she amended. “He was a popular boy.”
    “I hope you were able to keep his poetry.”
    “I memorized my favorite parts,” Grace said. “But he’d made me a little book of his poems for my birthday, just a couple of months before he died. That’s why I know I was special to him.”
    Betsy nodded. “What’s your favorite line?”
    Grace’s gaze seemed to leave the corridor where they stood. “I think it is this one. ‘My heart sees, my eyes remember, those slender youthful dreams, your sun-kissed cheek, my sturdy legs, our hearts wee and tender.’ ”
    “That’s very sweet,” Betsy said sincerely.
    “He wrote it about all of us, the children on the street. But he was the first boy I ever held hands with, the first who kissed me. You never forget that.”
    Betsy shook her head. “No.” In truth, for herself, she scarcely remembered her first kiss. Some stripling from the factory had stolen a kiss from her