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small sound in the back of her throat. “No home?”
    Ivy shook her head. “No, Mrs. Chang. No home.”
    She felt the spokes of the comb touch her scalp as Mrs. Chang succeeded in pulling the tangles from one side of the hair. “It is a difficult situation, isn't it? Although, perhaps, difficult is the wrong word. Do you have any family?”
    “No,” said Ivy. “No family.”
    That, at least, was the truth. She would never admit to having Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Melissande as family. She was better off alone than with the pair of them.
    “I'm sorry to hear that,” replied Mrs. Chang. “So even if Mr. Whitley offers to buy you a ticket to your home...”
    Ivy sighed. “Even if that were the case, I'd have nowhere to go.”
    Mrs. Chang ran the comb through her hair. “My, it's long, isn't it? Tangled into bunches, I never noticed.”
    “It's silly, I think,” said Ivy after a moment of silence. “I was proud of my hair. My mother always said how much she envied it.”
    “There are places that would buy hair such as yours,” said Mrs. Chang, her mouth muffled by the comb held in her mouth, as she gathered Ivy's hair off the nape of her neck. “But I suppose that had already occurred to you, hadn't it?”
    Ivy nodded. “It did.”
    “You refused. Just as I'm sure you refused to give up your body,” said Mrs. Chang in a startling display of frankness. “Don't give me such a look. I've seen a lot of the world, and I know what happens when girls such as yourself fall on hard times. It's either the brothel or the stage for them. But as you are here and not there, I can only assume you've refused to do so. Why?”
    How could she possibly explain the revulsion she felt walking past such places, hoping people who just see a little girl in a large man's coat, maybe even a little girl with a belligerent drunk for a father, a man who would think nothing of killing someone, the daughter of a man who had nothing to lose. Had it not been for her small frame and young looks, she would have most certainly been unable to resist the advances of a man.
    And that knowledge made goose bumps rise on her skin. “Mrs. Chang, I....well, quite simply, the truth is, I come…came from a somewhat wealthy family.”
    “Obviously,” said the housekeeper. “That's easy to see. Your hands don't look like they've ever been put to use. You move like you've been raised with a ruler strapped to your back. Am I wrong?”
    The memories of Lady Bellina forcing her to walk down a flight of stairs with a stack of books on her head and a yardstick tied to her back was enough to bring a smile to her lips. “Every day. Half an hour every day, even on Sundays. She would’ve made me walk up and down our stairs on Christmas if my father hadn’t stopped her.”
    Her throat tightened almost painfully. “I miss them a great deal.”
    Mrs. Chang squeezed her shoulder gently. “Of course, you do,” she said quietly. “Of course you miss them. Anyone can see that. But you needn’t worry while you’re here. Mr. Whitley, he’s a gentleman. And Timothy…well, I suppose you’ll know when you’ve gotten a chance to meet him. He’s like yourself.”
    She remembered the boy, small and thin with a charming gap-toothed smile. “Like myself?”
    Mrs. Chang twisted up her hair, her hands strong but gentle. After years of getting used to being burned by curlers and the unfeeling hands of her maids, Ivy relished the lack of pain. “Like yourself. Mr. Whitley found the boy curled up in the stable, half-dead. We took care of him. It took him two weeks to say anything, but Mr. Whitley has a way with people.”
    Charisma. As quiet and still as he seemed, there was certainly a presence about him that made people want to stand and just look at him. “But he’s not married yet? And there is no one he is sweet on?”
    Surely it was none of her business.
    But she had seen the echoes of despair and unhappiness drift through those dark eyes, and they mirrored the