For a long moment, the head housekeeper did not move.

Then, she took a clean white handkerchief from her pocket and gently wiped the sugar from Emma’s cheek.

“If Mr. Mercer finds out about this, we are all on the street,” Margaret said, looking at me. “Keep her in the old nursery on the third floor. Do not let her wander.”

That was how the secret began.

For two weeks, the kitchen staff smuggled extra milk and cookies up the back stairs.

Emma became a quiet fixture of the servants’ quarters, bringing a warmth to the cold limestone walls.

But the master of the house was bound to find out.

One afternoon, Julian Mercer returned early from a meeting downtown.

He walked into the grand foyer, his black cashmere coat wet with melting snow.

He looked tired, his brow furrowed with whatever dark business he had been conducting in the city.

Emma had slipped out of the nursery again, chasing a stray marble down the grand staircase.

She bumped right into his polished leather boot.

I watched from the shadows of the dining room, my breath catching in my throat, ready to scream.