I shuffled to the window and peeked out. My simple dress, indeed, hung on a clothesline outside, along with my stockings and handkerchief. The petticoat looked crisp and white, and the green skirt had lost its cloudy hem of dust along with the dark oval tea stain from last night, but they were still visibly damp, and dripping lightly into the grass. In this cold, I would be lucky if they were dry by sundown.

“Drat,” I said. “That is to say, very kind of her. I should be thankful.” I turned back, and my sweeping hem caught the leg of the mannequin’s base, suddenly spinning the fabric figure toward a rack of glassware beside my employer. I reached to catch it, far too slowly—but Jackaby’s reflexes were fortunately much sharper. He stalled the figure a few inches from the expensive beakers and pipettes with one hand, then righted the mannequin and glanced down at my bulky red gown for the first time.

“What in heaven’s name are you wearing?” he said. “I do hope you do not intend to dress in such a manner while we’re working.”

I swallowed. My cheeks felt hot and the satin collar was growing tighter about my neck. “That’s just it,” I said. “This sort of thing is all I have. Well, and a few boys’ things—some trousers and the like—but I obviously can’t walk around town in those.”

“It seems you can barely manage to walk around in that,” Jackaby said, turning back to his cooking. He picked up two identical red containers and sniffed at each of them. “If you need some ladies’ things to wear, you might ask Douglas to help you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Douglas used to wear ladies’ things?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no—although I would much prefer to see him in a frock than in feathers these days. He keeps a record of my previous cases, including ledgers. I received a chest of clothes some time ago as payment from a client with no money to speak of. They belonged to the fellow’s late wife, I believe, or possibly his mother. Just ask Douglas—I’m sure he’ll remember. Does this smell like paprika or gunpowder to you?” He stuck one of the red containers under my nose, and I sniffed experimentally at the holes in the top.

“Paprika?” I guessed, never having had occasion to handle either.

Jackaby nodded and tipped a generous helping into the skillet. Then, for good measure, he tapped in a few from the other container, too. He flinched and covered his face as the powder cracked and popped violently in the greasy pan. When it did not explode, he straightened up, wafting the pleasant aroma under his nose with a smile.

I excused myself to go see a duck about a dress.