Chapter 1

December 22, 1888

My Dear Mira,

I think you almost deserve a scolding for I have not heard from you since you left for France some three weeks ago. We could blame it on the postal system, but I’ve received several letters from our uncle in that time. Some with the most distressing news. I’m sure you have more information about all that unpleasantness, but in a way I’d rather wait to hear it all from you directly.

Our uncle’s business is much more interesting than I thought, though not so interesting that I’ll bore you with the details here. Liza and I have perfected several secret languages and have even managed to evade her vicious Aunt Eleanor on multiple occasions. I’m afraid that I love her, Mouse. One of these days, once you and uncle return of course, I think I’ll propose.

In a different vein, what do you think of Loretta Lavigne? I laugh to think that all this time we had an aunt out there. How dreadful of uncle to keep it from us. When you write me, which ought to be immediately after receiving this letter, you’ll need to tell me all about her and our new cousins.

I will let you know that Nero is alive and well and getting his fur all over my best clothes. I think he misses you. Almost as much as I miss you. Christmas is coming and I can scarcely believe it because you aren’t here. I’ll be spending it with Liza and her family, of course. And you’ll be spending it with our long lost relations. How strange it is to think that we’ll be apart.

As far as I know this letter should reach you before Christmas. Whether or not it does, I wish you and everyone there a happy one.

Your Very Affectionate Brother,

Walker

Mira folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket with a sigh. It had been too long since she’d seen her twin brother, Walker. They’d been separated for longer periods of time, of course. His schooling in France, for example had kept them apart for almost a year. But they’d always been together for Christmas. She supposed the distance was simply part of growing up, but it didn’t make it any easier. She stood and moved over to the desk in the corner of the sitting room, intending to write him a reply.

“Is something wrong?” her cousin, Emilie, asked. She’d begged a few days off from her employer, Madame de Bonnemains in order to spend time with the family for the holiday.

Mira shook her head. “Nothing at all. I’ve just realized how careless I’ve been about writing my brother.”

“You have brother?” Clarisse asked.

“No, dear one, it’s ‘You have a brother?’” Loretta corrected her English without looking up from her darning.

“Oh. I never get it right.” Clarisse crossed her arms over her chest with a “harrumph.”

“Your English has improved since I’ve known you,” Mira said. “I wouldn’t give up just yet.”

“You really think so?” The little girl’s face lit up. “It is better?”

“Much better.” Mira pulled out some stationery and set to work at the letter. She’d only been at it for about ten minutes when the door to the sitting room opened and Byron and her Uncle Cyrus stepped in.

She smiled and stood. “Are you finally done with the preparations?” They’d been holed up in the library for the past day and a half ensuring that the party could stay in France for another few weeks.

Byron shook his head. “We’re only done for today. I simply wanted to bid you goodbye before I left.”

“There can’t be that much more that needs attention,” Loretta said, moving over to straighten Cyrus’ tie. Mira smiled at that. They’d danced around each other for over a week, but had finally settled into a quiet domesticity that made Mira’s heart warm.

“I’m afraid that there are some complications,” Cyrus said, his eyes darting to the side.

Mira frowned. That was odd. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were keeping something from us.”

Byron wavered. “Well. It is Christmas, after all.” He cleared his throat. “I wish I could stay, but I promised I wouldn’t keep Fred up again.”

Mira crossed the room, following him out into the entry hall. Once out of earshot, she said, “These complications my uncle mentioned…they aren’t dangerous, are they?”

He smiled. “Of course not.”

She worried her lip. While her time in Circe’s custody had been one of the more terrifying experiences of her life, she had left the Empire of the Dead relatively unscathed with no major injuries to speak of. Some soreness and bruises that were long gone, but nothing else. So why did everyone insist on treating her like she was made of porcelain? She had appreciated it for the first few days, but it was becoming unbearably stifling.

“You’d tell me if I could help?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I would tell you now if I wasn’t sworn to secrecy.”

She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment before relaxing. “Alright then.” She reached up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Off you go.”

He grinned. “Goodnight, Miss Blayse.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Constantine.”

She walked him to the door, but he paused on the threshold. “I’ll tell you as soon as I’m able, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

With that, he gave a slight bow and placed his hat on his head, moving into the chill night air.

Mira closed the door, pressing up against it and letting out a long breath.

“It is hard to say goodbye, yes?” Klasha said as she came down the steps with her sewing things.

“Yes. And it gets harder every day.”

Klasha smiled. “Ah, but that is the nature of young love.”

“Is that the peacock dress?” Mira gestured to the bundle of fabric under Klasha’s arm.

“The hem is still in need of mending. I had intended to do it after masquerade, but then you disappeared and sent the house into hysterics.”

Mira’s stomach dropped. “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize.” Klasha waved her free hand. “Did you want to get captured by thugs? No.”

“Yes, but it is my fault that the dress was damaged. Why don’t you let me fix the hem?”

Klasha pursed her lips for a second. “Let me see your stitches, and then we’ll talk.”

Mira followed her into the sitting room where Clarisse was in the middle of an argument with her mother.

“I’m old enough! And it is Christmas.”

“Almost Christmas, Issy,” Emilie said.

Clarisse stuck her tongue out at her sister before returning to her kicked puppy expression. “Please, Maman?”

“She’s right,” Cyrus said. “It is almost Christmas.”

Loretta sighed. “Alright, love. You can stay up with us.”

“Thank you!” Clarisse bounded over and sat next to her mother on the sofa.

“Are you staying?” Loretta asked Cyrus.

He shook his head. “I need to sort out a few things before tomorrow.”

Loretta picked up her darning again. “You work too hard.”

Cyrus smiled as he left the room. “It’s only for a few days.”

Once the door to the sitting room closed, Mira moved to her sewing things and pulled out a sampler. She handed it to Klasha who poured over each line of thread. After a moment, the Russian woman let her shoulders relax and she handed the dress over.

“Keep your stitches neat and hidden. I shall work on some crewel.”

***

The fire crackled in the hearth as Mira repositioned the heap of fabric on her lap. The satin skirt was slick and the beaded bodice heavy. The combination made it incredibly difficult to keep a handle on Klasha’s dress, and even harder to mend. At least she hadn’t damaged the peacock cape that had come with it. The feathers would have been a nightmare to work with.

A gentle touch came to Mira’s shoulder and she looked up. Emilie placed a finger to her lips and pointed across the room.

Loretta sat on the opposite sofa darning a sock for one of her boys. Little Clarisse was smooshed up against her mother’s side, her chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep.

Mira smiled at the sight. Perhaps the girl still needed an early bedtime, but she didn’t blame her for wanting to stay up with the rest of the women, even if they were only sewing.

It had become somewhat of a routine for them all to gather in the sitting room with each of their projects. Sometimes her Uncle Cyrus would join them, reading the newspaper or a book, although he was still in the library from what Mira knew.

Klasha leaned forward and set another log on the fire before returning to her needlework. She always sat closest to the hearth, citing a need to warm her bones. The old Russian woman pulled out another skein of crewel and set to work separating out the threads.

“Why do you only use red yarn in your needlework?” Mira asked, pitching her voice low to avoid waking Clarisse.

Klasha glanced up at her. “There are many reasons. It is economical. It is beautiful. Red is the warmth of the sun and the blood within our veins. But mostly, I use red yarn because my mother did, and my grandmother before her. It is tradition.”

Emilie smiled. “I didn’t realize it had that much meaning.”

“Oh, and more.” Klasha took up her needlework again. “It is always good to think of family. Especially at this time of year.”

Mira swallowed, Walker’s letter coming to mind. Christmas was only a few days away and yet it felt as if it were months off. She’d never spent the holiday away from home, whether at the estate in Yorkshire before her parents died, or at Swan Walk in London with her uncle. While she was thrilled to get to know her long-lost aunt and cousins, she missed home.

The clock struck half-past nine, and Klasha tied a knot on the back of her handiwork, snipping the thread.

“I shall to bed. See you all in the morning.”

Each of them murmured their own good night as Klasha left the room. The wind howled outside, ushering in a snow storm. If Clarisse were awake, she’d likely be jumping for joy at the prospect.

In her musings, Mira’s hand slipped, sending the needle jabbing into her finger. She hissed and absent-mindedly sucked on the wound, a faint metallic taste dancing across her tongue.

“Do you want to borrow a thimble?” Loretta asked. “That’s the third time you’ve nicked yourself tonight.”

“Oh, I have one upstairs that I forgot to put back with my sewing things. I’ve just been too lazy to get it.”

“I’m almost finished here,” Emilie said. “And then you can use mine.”

Mira considered her throbbing fingers. “Perhaps I should be done sewing for the evening. After all, I still need to finish my letter to Walker.” She set the dress to the side, and went about tidying up her sewing supplies. As she moved, a slip of white caught her eye, peeking out from a seam on the inside of the bodice. She frowned. There hadn’t been any damage to the bodice that she had seen. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that the stitches there were looser, as if intended to give way. Careful not to damage the seam further, she pulled the small piece of paper from between the two layers of fabric.

“What’s that?” Emilie asked.

“I’m not sure,” Mira turned the paper over. “Whatever it is, it’s old. The paper is all yellowed and the creases are too soft.” She gently coaxed the note open, but the paper tore along the folds in a few places regardless.

A small sketch of a butterfly sat in the upper left hand corner of the page, with a slew of letters in an unrecognizable pattern below.

CZ TNMDTGJ LBJETP,

W AOEF FTPIOPL VGEI UE BMJK MCR JIQC AGG ZEWU VMK CSLFH KQ WCCMO Y FDUIS JIYB ZAIS JIQC YMN BUWUA NQ HSUO EWQ RXBQM CREEXJU UXJF NCK XYUX NTOH PD HAGG VUBHC IUIVEVJ TZALWDH Y UAHT MEV QWP IXPX ZEF XMHHYOO QMBEWDFIB UZ IVU MYOQ KDI XBLN OWCIFD.

HAGG TUSDJZP

“It’s some sort of code, I think,” Mira said.

“A code?” Emilie took the paper from her. “Like the kinds that spies use?”

“I suppose?” Mira picked up the dress. “Why would it have been placed in Klasha’s bodice, though?”

“It is strange,” Loretta said. “May I see it?”

Emilie handed it over.

Loretta’s brow knit together. “Very strange.”

Clarisse yawned and sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “What’s strange?”

“Nothing, little one. Other than the fact that you aren’t in bed yet,” Loretta said.

Clarisse huffed. “I’m old enough to stay up.” Her gaze caught on the paper. “What’s that?”

“Some old note that we found in Madame Ivanovna’s dress,” Emilie said.

“May I see?” The little girl bounced in her seat, all hints of sleep gone.

Loretta held the page out so that Clarisse could see.

“Hm.” Clarisse worried her lip. “It isn’t in French. Or English. Is it in Russian?”

Her mother shook her head. “No. Russian has a different alphabet, love. We think it’s in code.”

“Oh! Do you think we can decode it then?”

Mira paused. It would be quite a bit of fun to try and discover the cipher. But as it was, they didn’t know what type of note it was. She shook her head.

“Perhaps we will,” she said. “But we’ll need to ask for permission first.”

Clarisse looked towards Klasha’s usual seat, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Has she gone to bed already?”

“Yes, she has. And the rest of us should too,” Loretta said, kissing Clarisse on the forehead. “We can save this code nonsense for the morning.”