Other mornings, like this one, Tiglet slept late, often tucked out of sight beneath Philippa’s dressing table or her bed or the wardrobe.

Philippa could not sleep. When she did, she dreamed of Tommy. She ought to have been dreaming of how to decipher the markings on the edges of the manuscripts. But they only reminded her of how isolated she was from Tommy. Even if Philippa could concentrate long enough to discover something, she had no way to send word. Mother had halted outgoing correspondence until Philippa was properly betrothed.

She wasn’t just prohibited from hosting her Thursday afternoon reading circle. She was cut off from her friends altogether. Even Great-Aunt Wynchester.

Philippa moved her stool a little closer to her dressing table and looked at the illuminated manuscript before her. It was in splendid condition. So splendid, she was hesitant to poke at the sturdy binding even with a gloved finger. There was no way to tell by touch whether it contained reused scraps or another hidden letter.

Nor could she destroy such a perfect specimen to satisfy her curiosity. Especially when said specimen had been stolen from the Cambridge University Royal Library.

The Wynchesters intended to return this illuminated manuscript in the same pristine condition in which it had been found…didn’t they?

There. That was a professional, not-remotely-related-to-kissing reason to contact Tommy Wynchester. The public might take interest in the chivalric tales involved in the famous cipher, which would increase the value of the set. The theft had not yet been discovered, but it could only be a matter of time.

And then what? Philippa was the one in possession of stolen goods, not that anyone would think her capable of sneaking into Cambridge for a spot of burglary. Wallflowers were rarely suspected of conspiring with criminal masterminds.

Or kissing them, which she was definitely not thinking about.

Having a tendre was torture.

It was nine thirty, and all she’d done this Sunday morning was watch the clock and think of Tommy.

She wished she could write to her. Better yet, Philippa wished Tommy would write to her. She wished Tommy would appear on the doorstep as…well, anyone. The disguise didn’t matter. Philippa missed Tommy.

Perhaps Philippa should release Tiglet.

Should she? The kitten was asleep somewhere. Surely it was rude to awaken a sleeping kitten. But Tiglet was a trained cat. A professional homing kitten, specifically placed in Philippa’s possession in the event she wished to summon Tommy.

Philippa quickly wrapped the precious illuminated manuscript for safekeeping and tucked it back into its hiding spot at the back of her wardrobe. She checked for Tiglet behind each stack of neatly folded clothes, then shut the wardrobe.

“Tiglet,” she called. “Come and drink your milk before your long journey.”

Tiglet did not come. The milk beside her dressing table remained untouched.