When we stood across from the Lyndon mansion, it was striking how untouched it appeared in contrast to its neighbors. Most of the damage to the nearby mansions was merely vandalism, but it still looked unseemly against the gleaming, virginal white of the Lyndon home.

“Why didn’t they attack us?” Rollo wondered out loud.

“We may never know,” I said. I was about to suggest that we return home for lessons when a glint of white against the dark stones of the park wall caught my eye. The Mechanics’ gear symbol had been scrawled there in chalk. At first, I thought it was a signature claiming credit for the riot, but then I noticed a gap in the stones at the middle of the gear where the mortar was missing.

I’d read a novel once in which the spies left secret messages in a gap between stones in a wall. They’d called it a “drop.” Was this my drop? The children were busy arguing about which house on the block was most badly damaged, so I slipped the folded paper out of my glove and tucked it into the niche before saying briskly, “Enough of that, you two. It’s time to get to our lessons. Rollo, you may make all your arguments in your essay.”

As we crossed the avenue, I hoped I hadn’t misinterpreted the symbol. It would be dangerous for my article to fall into the wrong hands.

*   *   *

It proved to be my busiest day thus far in the Lyndons’ home. I not only had to teach Rollo along with Olive, but we also got word shortly before lunch that neither the drawing master nor the music teacher would be coming that day. The police were restricting access to the magisters’ district, and only residents were allowed to pass the barriers. While Rollo and Olive worked on their assignments, I concocted lesson plans for the afternoon.

Lord Henry was absent from lunch, and I had my hands full keeping the three children from turning their squabbling to physical violence. I barely caught Rollo before he flung a spoonful of soup onto Flora’s skirt. Even Olive, who was usually so obedient, tried to roll peas across the table. “You’re behaving like slum hoodlums,” I finally snapped in frustration, startling Rollo and Olive into temporary silence while Flora smirked.

That afternoon, I moved lessons to the family parlor so I could make sure Flora was reading her book. She sighed dramatically a great deal while she read, but she was regularly turning pages. I assigned Rollo some Latin conjugations to do while I supervised Olive’s piano practice on the parlor’s grand piano.