“Normally, I would be, if not pleased, then at least philosophically resigned to the dreary prospect of an afternoon unenlivened by your company. But you see, today is a very special day, and I must ask you to interrupt whatever delightful pursuit you are about and return. Today, we have sold a painting.”

“We have!” Goncharoff’s Antiques had been struggling for business for some time. “But that’s amazing!”

“Truly it is, as you say, amazing, and the more so as it totals a full three such items we have sold this month. What a red-letter day this is for the Goncharoff family. Irena is telephoning all the relations in Saratov to spread the good tidings, and Alexander is standing in the doorway of the shop, offering finest champagne to all who pass. If we can only sell another—oh, how many shall we say?—forty or so more before the month’s end, we might just find we will be able to keep the shop open after all.”

Nikolai and Irena Goncharoff had been talking since Lulu had first started working for them of selling their dusty, ramshackle shop on a small side street off Haverstock Hill and retiring to a villa in the sun. Six months ago, Lulu had thought that they were mostly joking about this, but these days she was not so sure.

“Well, you never know, Mr. Goncharoff,” she said now. “This might just be the start of a trend.”

“It might, Miss Atwater. And, as the old people were fond of saying back in my country, the fish on the hill might whistle. But please come back to the shop as soon as you conveniently can, because we are in the unusual position of having paperwork to deal with.”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible. I’ll fly, I promise.”

“Your trusty bicycle will be of sufficient speed. But I will hope to see you later to join in all the rejoicing.”

Lulu gathered together all of the letters and replaced them in the leather case, allowing herself, here alone where no one could see her, a small frown of worry. It would make sense, she knew, for the Goncharoffs to sell their shop now: business was slow; the land on which it stood was alone valuable enough to afford them a comfortable pension wherever they decided to live; and their son, Alexander, had made it plain that when the time came, he intended to take himself off to pursue a career at an auction house. But, for Lulu, leaving the Goncharoffs would mean having to find another job, and having to find another job would mean once again being required to confront the increasingly frightening fact that she truly did not know what she wanted to do for a career.

She cast one last, envious glance at the spidery writing of Jo March, who had known what she wanted to do, and had done it, and had even been successful at it, replaced the leather bag in its spot by the bookcase, crossed the attic, and started to climb down the ladder. There was a trick to the second rung from the bottom; it had a weak spot that wobbled on the left side, and if you weren’t careful, you could miss your footing. Lulu generally made sure to take account of this, but now in her haste she forgot, and in order to maintain her balance was forced to jump back into the landing.