I had sold poison to women three times her age who thought nothing of the vials snapping inside their pocket; Eliza, it seemed, was wiser than all of them put together. I handed her a reddish glass jar and, together, we carefully placed each egg in the jar, then covered it with a centimeter of wood ash, before placing the next egg on top. “You must still handle it carefully,” I warned. “And—” I placed a hand softly over one of hers. “One egg will do the trick if it must.”

Her look darkened, and in that moment I sensed that, despite the youthfulness and buoyancy she had demonstrated thus far, she did indeed understand the gravity of what she meant to do. “Thank you, Miss, ah—”

“Nella,” I said. “Nella Clavinger. And what is his name?”

“Thompson Amwell,” she said confidently. “Of Warwick Lane, near the cathedral.” She lifted up the jar to ensure the eggs were properly nestled within, but then she frowned. “A bear,” she observed, gazing at the small image etched onto the jar. My mother had decided upon the bear etching long ago, as there were countless Back Alleys in London, but only ours ran next to a Bear Alley. The little etching on the jar was harmless enough, and recognized only by those who needed to know.

“Yes,” I urged, “so you do not mix up the jar with another one.”

Eliza stepped to the door. With a steady hand, she ran a single finger down one of the blackened stones near the entrance. It left a sharp line in the soot, revealing a finger-width band of unblemished stone. She smiled, amused as if she’d just drawn me a picture on a spare sheet of paper. “Thank you, Miss Nella. I must say that I loved your tea and I love this hidden shop, and I very much hope we meet again.”

I raised my eyebrows. Most of my customers were not killers by trade and, unless she returned needing a medicinal remedy, I did not expect to see her again. But I merely smiled at the inquisitive girl. “Yes,” I said, “perhaps we will meet again.” I unlatched the door, swung it in and watched as Eliza exited through the storage room and out onto the alley, her small frame melting into the shadows outside.

Once she had gone, I spent a few minutes thinking about the girl’s visit. She was a strange young thing. I had no doubt she would accomplish her task, and I was grateful for the momentary gaiety she brought into my otherwise cheerless shop of poisons. I was glad I had not refused her, glad I had not heeded the ominous feeling first brought on by her letter.

Taking my seat once again at the table, I pulled my register close. I turned to the back, locating the next empty space, and prepared to write my entry.