It was all rather grander than her little brass butterfly, she thought, suddenly nervous. She realized Lord Chatham might not be in his shop anyway and felt a little relieved at the thought. But she ought to try now that she was here.

Gathering her courage, she pushed the door open, and a discreet bell rang in the luxurious interior. Two women were sitting together at a glass display case, picking out something small and glittery. One of the women—young and pretty, with dark and elaborately styled hair—turned and raised an eyebrow at Lena.

“Are you lost?”

Lena bristled. “No. I’m here to see Lord Chatham.”

The eyebrow raised itself higher. “Card?”

“Umm…” She patted her pockets.

“If you haven’t got a card,” she started to say, with a satisfied expression on her face, “I’m afraid…”

Lena dug the bedraggled card from the bottom of her pocket, blushing furiously as she handed it to the woman, who examined it briefly, then glanced up at Lena’s birthmark with disapproving eyes. She tutted. “Very well, this appears to be legitimate. Name, please? I shall see if he’s available.”

“Lena Grey,” she replied brusquely.

“Do excuse me, Lady Honoria.” The shop assistant simpered at the older, plumper lady waiting at the display cabinet. “I shan’t be a moment. Why not try the dragonfly for size?” And she disappeared through a large wooden door behind the highly polished counter.

Lena didn’t have to wait long. The assistant returned with a different manner. “Miss Grey,” she said, “Lord Chatham will see you now for tea in the workshop. This way, please.”

Lord Chatham was sitting at a long wooden desk strewn with cogs and springs and other small pieces of shiny metal. He was peering at something in his hands through a silver tube clenched in the socket of one eye and making a small noise of frustration.

The workshop was compact but very tall, and every available wall was lined with shelves from top to bottom. On some of the high shelves there were large books stacked with neat precision … or perhaps they were ledgers, Lena thought, for each one was numbered. The shadows crowded around the shelves nearest the top of the high room. The shelves farther down were full of labeled wooden boxes. The labels were embossed metal. She picked out a few: “Springs, size 7D,” “Joint, Silver, size 1F,” “Misc. Gold.” The single window in the room was a stained-glass arch depicting a series of scenes involving a man and bits of machinery, as well as a large gold crown, and it cast ghosts of red, green, and yellow on the carpeted floor. She couldn’t see outside at all.

And no one can see in, a quiet part of her added.