The hissing sound came again. Callie frowned and looked about the dim corners. Her sister and Dolly drank tea in the front room, poring over the fashion book while Dolly made acidic comments on the poor selection in a country town. It was only an emergency that had brought them to the length of consulting Miss Poole. Having got wind that Callie had used up her sister's rejected coquelicot wool for a costume to be worn at the masquerade ball two days hence, Dolly had positively shrieked with disgust. The impossibility of allowing this cloth to be viewed in public by the guests at Shelford Hall, particularly on Callie, had precipitated a sudden crisis. It was to be a royal blue, or she could appear in her petticoat, Dolly declared. Callie would have preferred to simply remain in her room, but Hermey protested that this would make her appear as if she wished to hog all the attention, when everyone knew that Callie was engaged now too. They would appear together—in suitably harmonious colors—or Hermey would break off her betrothal and enter a convent, or become a milkmaid, or something on that order, but worse. So Callie was at Miss Poole's, to be judged against the silks.

"My lady!" A plump white hand appeared from behind the mantled shape of a dress form. It held a note, the folded paper waving in the faint light. Callie peered around the form. Mrs. Easley crouched down behind it against the back door, holding her bottle in her lap. Callie recognized the sweet scent of gin now.

The woman pushed herself to her feet and leaned against the door frame. "The madame," she said, pushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead.

At that, Callie snapped the note from her hand. She opened it hurriedly. It said only, My good dear Lady Callista—I beg of you to come to me at once. The handwriting was shaky, and the duchesse's signature trailed off at the end to a fine thread.

Callie did not hesitate. She edged behind the dress form and followed Mrs. Easley out the back door of the shop.

"An' so you're to be married, m'lady!" Mrs. Easley mumbled as she made weaving but gallant attempts to keep up with Callie's stride. A fine sprinkle and lowering clouds threatened rain, but as yet it was only a misting. "Dare s'y you'll be wantin' a cook for the new establishmuum?"