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Martha, I’m going to start you off with a leg up. What do you say to a raise?”
    I looked excitedly at Ma, who had already promised I could keep thirty cents a week toward the bicycle I wanted.
    â€œOh, Mr. Sewell,” Ma blushed, “sure, you’re too generous. Just to take on Martha at all has been—”
    He silenced her with a wave of his hand and dug into a pocket on his waistcoat. Into my hand he dropped two pennies, which clinked dully together, as if even they were embarrassed.
    â€œFourteen cents more a week, Mrs. O’Doyle; two cents a day for the
Daily Standard
each morning. See to it. Your daughter will have the vote soon enough, and she’ll need the vision of my paper to keep her—and this country—on the right path.”
    â€œOh, thank you, Mr. Sewell,” I mustered, closing the two dull coins in my fist.
    â€œJust remember, you may have gotten this job thanks to your mother, but you’ll only keep it thanks to your own hard work. We reward dedication and commitment here, and shirkers will be shown the door, no matter who their parents.”
    As I backed out the door, as if leaving the presence of a king, I spotted yesterday’s
Daily Standard
in a wastebasket. I snagged it and tucked the pennies into my shoe.
    â€”
    Pluck (not luck) was all well and good, but it did nothing to vanquish those carrot cubes and greasy pots and tea trays. The basement tedium dragged on without interruption for a week or two—until one night, with the last copper pan polished and shining and hung over the stove, my mother reported that Mr. Sewell would be dining at home that night. Late. With a guest.
    Well, that’s when the pots really started flying.
    â€œJust some sandwiches,” Mr. Sewell had said, but Chef started in on some kind of puff pastry and insisted I hack the bones out of a chicken. Then Ma started squawking about the dinner tray, which I guess I’d forgotten to send up.
    A pile of unpeeled potatoes still loomed at my elbow, where hot oil drippings landed from Chef’s scalding spoon.
    â€œWhy can’t she eat whatever Chef’s creation there is?” I whined. “Or we could give her some of the vegetable slop he made for lunch,” I said, ignoring Chef’s glare. “There’s plenty of that left over.”
    â€œShirkers will not be tolerated. That’s what Mr. Sewell said, and he meant it. And so do I.”
    Ma was called off to supervise the table, and I managed to get Mrs. Sewell’s dinner tray into the dumbwaiter and out of sight, freeing me to finish Chef’s multicourse banquet for two, snatching bites of potato soufflé and rose-shaped slices of ham when he wasn’t looking.
    By the time dinner was handed off to Alphonse for serving and the pots had been washed, it was well past ten o’clock and I was dead on my feet. I felt like I was climbing Everest instead of the back stairs behind Ma, and as we left, I almost didn’t notice the shadowy figure loitering just outside the servants’ entrance. Instead of removing his hat as he entered, he pulled it further over his eyes and snub nose and pushed past us.
    â€œPress for Mr. Sewell, ma’am,” he muttered, and flashed something in his wallet at her. She nodded and let him proceed.
    â€œWho was that?”
    â€œOne of Mr. Sewell’s contacts,” she said, shuttingthe door firmly behind us, “and dinner guest, I presume. Many of the leads and stories he depends on take place behind closed doors.” She looked up and down the street before stepping out on the sidewalk. “Discretion, my dear. That’s the true secret to success in this job.”
    I fell asleep on Ma’s shoulder before the train even left the Fifty-Ninth Street station. But around Thirty-Fourth Street, my eyes snapped open. In the distraction of the dinner rush, I’d sent up a nice, hot bowl of porridge to Mrs. Sewell, but I’d