I had slept in my underthings again, having laid out the sad, green walking dress to air. With the dawn light peeking in through the curtains, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for it. My dress was gone. My suitcase was still at the foot of my bed, where I had left it. I hefted it onto the mattress and clicked it open with a sigh.

Several underskirts and one very rigid corset later, I stepped out into the hallway in a red evening gown, a gift from my mother for my sixteenth birthday. The bodice was constricting, the buttons were snug, and the neck was high and tight around my throat. The hem swept the floor, and I felt like a porcelain doll with the layers of lace around my collar—not to mention the ridiculous, full sleeves that puffed out so much at the shoulder that they actually restricted my peripheral vision. Even through all the layers, I could feel the oversized bow bobbing up and down on my backside with every step. I considered returning to the room and emerging instead in the filthy work pants—but no, I had spent enough time in those ruddy trousers to know I would be no more comfortable in them.

I navigated the stairwell carefully and found the door to the laboratory ajar. Jackaby was inside, humming tunelessly and shuffling an iron skillet over a small burner. He snatched a pepper mill from amid the jars and bottles around him, and gave it a few twists into the skillet. The counter was littered with eggshells and bits of vegetables, and dusted here and there with powders of various hues. I pressed into the room, and Jackaby turned as the squeaky door announced my entrance.

“Ah, good morning, Miss Rook. Omelet?”

“Er—perhaps in a bit. Thank you, Mr. Jackaby.” I pulled out a chair to sit, awkwardly navigating the inconvenient bustle and bow into the seat, and tucking the skirts beneath me. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my other dress, have you?”

“No, although Jenny mentioned something about laundry this morning. She’s quite good with the wash . . . all the more impressive given that she can only physically interact with relics of her own belonging. I believe she wears an old pair of gloves for the exercise. It would be nice if she would remember her little impairment and wait for assistance when rearranging my things, but she is impossible to reason with. You can have a look out back and see if it isn’t on the line.”