On the left of the entrance was the closed office door of the managing director, George Armstrong-Miller, his name engraved in bright gilt script. On the opposite side was the office of his son, Rupert, onetime financial controller and now an engineer in the Royal Air Force. His image, in full uniform with a teasing half smile and a mass of dark hair, commanded attention from his portrait beside the door; his expression was the one that always beguiled people, its playful immaturity making him seem harmless and charming. That look had drawn her in, made her trust him, and given her the ill-conceived idea that she was protected here. When she took a step backward his eyes seemed to follow her, just like when they’d first met and he’d always kept her within his sight. He’d never hidden what he thought of her or been too shy to show it.

Alice averted her eyes and tried not to think of him as she hurriedly backed away, trying to focus on what lay ahead as she recovered her things and climbed the staircase.

The third-floor editorial department was accessed from a helter-skelter arrangement of stairs, with uneven landings pivoting off in all directions. It always felt to Alice as if she were stepping off a fairground ride to be propelled through small doorways, their brass handles far too low down. She held on to the handrail and planted her feet firmly as she climbed, striving to ignore the growing tightness in the pit of her stomach as she passed the production department on the first floor, with its unmistakable chemical reek, then accounts on the second floor.

On the third floor she stood outside the boardroom for a moment to steady her breathing, worried her rapid heartbeat and flushed cheeks might give her away—just as Nelson had, scratching at the bottom of the door.

Alice unbuttoned her coat, letting it fall loosely around her hips, and turned the handle. The door opened into a large wood-paneled room where a meeting was under way, and they all turned to look at her. George was at the head of the grand mahogany table in a haze of cigarette smoke; Tommy Simpson, their bald-headed production controller, was seated at his side; and Emily Dalrymple, the nonfiction editor, was at the other. Ursula Rousson, the fiction editor, had her back to the door, a brightly patterned scarf tied around her neck and her chestnut hair tousled into a hairstyle every bit as unorthodox as her personality. She swung round to look down her nose at Alice, then tutted good-humoredly. “Good morning, Alice,” she said, smiling warmly.

“Come in,” George said, motioning at the seat next to Ursula. “You haven’t missed anything, although I was just saying that we do have some important discussions to get through.”