2 April, 1894 — Applegate House, Cotswolds

Ezra had sent a letter in to the Ministry that morning instead of going in. He had a good excuse, since his supervisor knew he needed to make regular site visits at the modiste's to wrap up the business of the forgotten women. And anyway, he'd worked through the last weekend, so no one was going to look too closely at him begging off a few hours on a Tuesday. He had too much on his mind after Miss Hunniford's unexpected visit the night before to focus on any of the mundane tasks. He needed to write her, because he had promised to, but he hadn't worked up the nerve yet. He didn't know exactly what to say in the letter.

He'd found the ring, after she left. The ring and a whole drawer full of other things — handkerchiefs, jewelry, little baubles — monogrammed with RA. What would have been her initials, if her last name had been Applegate.

He hadn't slept much after that, unsurprisingly. He didn't know what to make of it all. She was right, clearly — but even if he took everything she'd said at face value, he still didn't know what to make of it. So once the sun was up he did what he usually did when he was feeling shaky: he went to find his sister.

It was still relatively early; he came bearing a mug of tea, as a peace offering.

"I think I used to be in love with someone," he announced, once she'd accepted it.

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