Miss Millie leaped to her feet, fumbling with the cube. “What? Who’s there?”

Sitting in the farthest corner of the room was a young woman close to Miss Millie’s own age, perhaps a year or two older, holding a quill. The girl set the quill aside and, in no great hurry, fanned the pages she had written before closing her book. She got up from her chair and walked toward Miss Millie. She was small and lithe, brown-eyed and brown-skinned, wearing a simple gray gown that complemented her so well that Miss Millie was even more vexed than before.

“You could have said something so I knew you were there,” snapped Miss Millie.

“I believe I just did,” said the girl.

“Then why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch me a . . . a . . . sherry.” Miss Millie wasn’t yet allowed to have sherry but this servant wouldn’t know that.

“You look healthy enough,” the girl said, one side of her mouth quirking up. “Fetch it for yourself.”

“Well! I never!”

“Are you certain?” the girl said.

“What? I—”

The girl set her book on the seat of the chair, held out her palm. “Give me the cube and I’ll show you what it does.”

Reluctantly, Miss Millie pressed the cube into the other girl’s hand. The girl started twisting the cube. “This cube is made up of twenty-six smaller cubes attached in the center. The object is to spin the blocks until each face of the cube has all the same color stones.” She rotated the cubes faster and faster, left and right. After a few minutes, she handed the cube back to Miss Millie.

“The stones on each face don’t match,” Miss Millie said.

“Not yet. I got you most of the way there. You can solve the rest easily, I’m sure.”

Miss Millie slapped the cube back on the tabletop. “I have no interest in silly games.”

“No?” said the girl. “You seemed quite interested in that one a few moments ago.”

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Miss Millicent Magdalena Mariah Munsterberg,” said Miss Millie.

“Oh, dear,” said the girl.

“So you know who I am,” said Miss Millie, lifting her pointed chin.

“No earthly idea,” the girl said. “But your name is quite . . . alliterative.” She fingered a large silver pin on the bodice of her dress. A butterfly, or perhaps a moth. The wings fluttered lazily at her touch.

All of a sudden, Miss Millie worried that this girl wasn’t a servant at all, that she’d insulted someone . . . important. “You’re a guest of the Morningstarrs?” she asked. “I don’t recall you from dinner.”

“I don’t much care for parties. I’d rather read a good book.”

No matter how important this particular girl was, Miss Millie couldn’t stop herself from blurting, “You prefer reading to parties? How peculiar!”