Slowly, inevitably, Simone’s work drew to a close. She’d been dreading it; she dreamed about her afternoons with Evangeline, who never complained when plaster dust drifted down on her head or when Simone’s finger slipped and she cursed in Arabic. She found herself working slower just to postpone the inevitable.

Fortunately, Evangeline rescued her in this, too.

“It’s too gorgeous a day to spend inside,” she declared as Simone finished installing a new panel casing. “I simply must go for a walk. You’ll join me, right?”

“Your father doesn’t pay me to walk.”

Evangeline leaned closer, conspiratorial. “My father is detained in a lengthy parliamentary debate on how we should respond to the annexation of Poland, and it’s expected to last well into the evening. So he’s in no position to judge how either one of us spends our time.”

Simone’s breath fluttered. She’d been taking care with how she dressed, but she was still a girl from the immigrant neighborhood of Goutte d’Or, after all, scraping and scratching and clawing for work. Evangeline had braided her white-gold hair and coiled it on top of her head; in the sunlight streaming through the room, it gleamed like a halo. Her delicately draped sundress further canonized her. And Simone, well—she wore trousers and a tunic and boys’ leather shoes; wood shavings lurked in every crease of her clothes. Despite her best efforts, tufts of her fluffy hair had drifted free from the cap she’d pulled snug on her head. She had no business walking around Trocadéro—with Evangeline besides.

Evangeline gave her an assessing look, as if reading her mind. “Let’s brush that dust off you. Maybe I could style your hair?”

Simone’s breath rushed out of her. “I’d love that.”

Evangeline winked and beckoned her into the closest powder room.

She twisted up the sides of Simone’s hair, then joined them with the rest to sweep it into a carefree bun like showgirls wore. There wasn’t much to be done about her clothing—she was too tall and broad-shouldered for anything of Evangeline’s, not that she dared ask—but Evangeline wiped a smudge of grease from her nose and declared her perfect.

Perfect.

Simone clutched the word close to her chest, like it might fly away.