March 1817

Maggie had little time over the next few days to speak with Milly. The whole of Duffield Hall was thrown into disruption by little Florence's repeated misuses of magic which she swore in a sweet, trembling voice were accidental. She seemed entirely unable to control its disastrous effects. Scarcely a day went by without her causing a portrait to begin reciting sonnets or transforming a shoe into a cheese wheel or turning the cat's fur purple. Mr. and Mrs. Porter thought that perhaps a distraction was needed, and as Mary was quite old enough to start learning the pianoforte, little Florence might learn alongside her as well. Mrs. Porter despaired of tempting any but the poorest of music-masters to such an unfashionable country seat, but Milly was more than proficient with the pianoforte (as she had demonstrated during several entertaining evenings in the servants' hall, to Maggie's delight). Thus, Milly's duties as a governess expanded, and the time she might spend with Maggie shrank.

Finally, perhaps four days after her meeting on Yew Tree Farm, Maggie was able to secure an evening alone with Milly. Young mistress Mary caught a fever and spread it to little Florence and Milly both, and lessons were cancelled until all three recovered. Maggie took a rare afternoon off to prepare a thin vegetable broth to take to her friend's cottage.

Milly laughed when she saw the broth. "Really, Maggie, it is only a fever! I am quite capable of cooking for myself."

"Well, yes, but now you do not have to. And don't you want to hear about how the meeting went?"

Milly grinned. "Oh, certainly! Tell me about it while I heat this up."

"You will stay right where you are," Maggie said, pointing a threatening finger at her, "and I will heat it."

Milly did not appear to object to this, for she settled down in her armchair happily enough. She had not bothered to dress properly for the day; she wore a dressing gown over her chemise, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. "Did you meet out in a field like the Johannites?"

The stove wasn't lit, so Maggie built a small fire and carefully nursed it to strength. "We didn't meet in a field. Mr. Ainsworth served us tea." She almost laughed at the absurdity of discussing a revolution over tea, polite and calm as can be. "There was another man there. Mr. James Goddard. Have you heard of him?"

Milly shook her head. "I have been here for almost two years, yet I never seem to have the occasion to meet anyone from the village. What sort of man is he?"

"He seems a decent enough fellow. Cheeky, though. You'd like him." Maggie determined the fire to be sufficiently built up. She fetched a kettle from the cabinet and filled it with half of the vegetable broth. She hesitated as she stirred. It would not be wise to reveal too much of their revolutionary talk. Johannites weren't precisely outlawed, but it was a close thing. For all Milly's radical beliefs about the equality of the sexes, Maggie still couldn't be sure how much of a rebel Milly genuinely was.

Milly seemed to grow impatient with her silence. "Go on, then! What did you talk about?"

"The changes England has gone through in the past few years, and those that may come about soon." That seemed like a safe, neutral answer.

"Such as?"

Perhaps too safe. "Men are angry, all across the country," Maggie said carefully. "Mr. Ainsworth said that the cities are in a state of turmoil. Lords are hoarding their wealth while craftsmen and factory-workers lose their jobs. And, of course, there is the Raven King to think about."

"A topic that requires much consideration," said Milly. "I have been reading about him, actually."

Maggie looked at her in surprise, and she held up a thin volume that Maggie hadn't noticed until now. The print on the cover was small, and Maggie had to squint slightly to read it (her eyesight was not as good as it had been in her youth). "A Child's History of the Raven King?"

"Aye," Milly said in a passably good imitation of Maggie's accent. This had the desired effect— Maggie rolled her eyes and let out a small huff of laughter. "I have heard that Mr. Norrell disapproved of it heartily, which makes me more inclined to endorse it."

"Are you a Strangeite, then?"

"Can one be a Strangeite— or a Norrellite, for that matter— without being a magician?"

Maggie shrugged. "I suppose it does not matter much, if it is the philosophy on magic you support. Are you thinking of becoming a magician?"

Milly looked a little sheepish at that. "I confess, I may have asked little Florence to teach me some of the spells she has done, but either she is a poor teacher or I am a poor student. I do not seem to have the talent for it." She took a deep breath as though steeling herself for a difficult declaration. "In any case, Lord Portishead has convinced me that much of the information about the Raven King that has been spread about in the past couple years has been either misleading half-truths or outright falsehoods. John Uskglass seems to have very modern ideas on the equality of the sexes— did he not teach magic to Lady Catherine of Winchester himself?"

"He did," said Maggie, still stirring.

"I recall your Mr. Hastings mentioned revolution in his letter to you." Milly paused, her head tilted, and seemed to carefully consider her words. "That is— I do not think that is precisely what I want. I do not know. But your friends speak of change, and of the Raven King, and change is precisely what is needed for women at this time. Oh, I am not expressing my thoughts properly at all! It is this cursed fever; I cannot think straight." She rubbed her temples with anxious fingers.

"I understand perfectly," Maggie assured her. "In fact, you would be most welcome the next time we meet. I do not know when that will be, but soon, I hope."

Milly looked up at that with a broad smile. "Oh, capital! Oh, I so look forward to it."

Maggie tested the temperature of the broth; it was hot but not scalding. Perfect. She ladeled some into a bowl, which she set on a tray and presented to Milly. Belatedly, she asked, "Do you want owt else to go with it?"

"No," said Milly, her spoon poised halfway between the bowl and her mouth. "Only I feel wretched that I did not even think to make tea."

"No matter," Maggie said lightly. She filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. "It is no trouble."

"You are a dear, but you should not have to wait on me on your afternoon off." She adopted a guilty expression. "I fear I am an abominable hostess."

"Nay, it's better you didn't. You are ill; you oughtn't strain yourself."

Milly, who hadn't made a move to rise from her armchair throughout the conversation, capitulated easily enough. "Very well. Now, while we are on the topic of you being far too kind to me, would you possibly be willing to read to me? My eyes ache from reading all day, and I would like to hear your thoughts on Lord Portishead's accounts."

"Certainly." Maggie accepted the slim, battered volume from Milly and sank into an armchair opposite her. Fortunately, Milly had marked the page where she left off. Maggie opened the book and began to read.

The next day, Maggie was sent down to the village to purchase stationary, as little Florence had somehow caused all the stationary to fold itself into delicate paper butterflies that floated about the halls and resisted all attempts at capture. Mrs. Hughes wanted Maggie to stay and help try to fetch the things down from the ceilings, but Mrs. Porter insisted that she had many important letters to write. An acquaintance of hers from Bath had mentioned something about a magic school when they last met several years ago, and Mrs. Porter was slowly beginning to realize that perhaps distractions were not enough to prevent her daughter's mischief. So Maggie was assigned the task of fetching stationary and setting up a small writing-desk out in the garden, where hopefully Florence's influence would not cause the papers to fly away.

Maggie set out on this task quite happily, as she did not mind the chance to stretch her legs and go for a walk. She hung up her apron, buttoned her coat over her maid's uniform, and pinned a hat over her blonde hair. Then she was off, practically skipping across the lawn out of joy from being granted a reprieve from scrubbing. She entertained a few hopes of running into Hastings by chance but didn't consider it a serious possibility. No doubt he was busy at work.

Once in the village, Maggie took time to enjoy her rare mid-morning outing. She strolled up and down the streets, peering in shop windows and amusing herself by imagining herself in this elegant dress or that fashionable hat. She fancied she would look ridiculous— fashion was a game for young people with money, not housemaids approaching middle age. Though perhaps in a better world, she might be allowed to participate. The churchbells rang half-past ten, and she was reminded of her mission.

While poking around the general store for a large memorandum-book (she had decided that a memorandum-book would be more appropriate than loose-leaf stationary, as it was much less likely to fold itself into the shape of a butterfly), Maggie came face-to-face with a man she did not expect to see: Mr. James Goddard, standing next to a short woman with dark hair and a glint of mischief in her eyes.

He smiled his wide smile at her. "Miss le Roy," he said with a small bow. "Please allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Lavinia Goddard. My dear, Miss le Roy is the woman I was telling you about; Hastings's friend, you know." He lowered his voice. "She is one of the happy few."

Mrs. Goddard raised an eyebrow. "Your little band of brothers, you say?"

"Brothers and sisters now, I imagine," said Goddard, winking at Maggie.

"Are you a believer in the cause, then?" Maggie asked.

Mrs. Goddard eyed Maggie, ignoring her husband ("The cause! Why, she sounds just like Ainsworth!"). When she spoke, it was carefully, as though any stray word might cause judgement to fall upon her. "I am not sure. My husband's friends are very eloquent men. But it seems to me they care little for the danger, either to themselves or to England, that might be unleashed should they pursue their goals."

"You mistake us, madam," said Goddard. "It is not that we are careless for danger. Rather, there are more important things that are worth the danger." He glanced around uneasily. "But this is not a proper topic for the happy meeting of new acquaintances. Let us save it for our next tea-time."

Maggie and Mrs. Goddard obligingly shifted to safer topics— the weather, and Mrs. Goddard's garden, and their families. Maggie did not say much on that front, but it turned out she didn't have to, for Mrs. Goddard was delighted when she heard that Maggie's brother previously worked for a magician. "I myself have an interest in magic," she said. "Purely theoretical— I haven't gotten the nerve to try a spell— what if it all went horribly wrong? But the theory of it is just enchanting, don't you think?"

A poor choice of words, Maggie reflected, given the rumors circulating about Lady Pole's madness and recovery, but apt. "It is a fascinating topic, to be sure. But then, my brother does not write of it nearly as much as I should like him to, so I fear I am ill-informed on the theory." The churchbells struck eleven, then, and Maggie jumped as though she had been pricked with a needle. "Oh! I lost track of time. Forgive me, but I must return to work," she said as she hurriedly made her purchase.

"I ought to go as well," said Mrs. Goddard. "The garden needs seeing to. And now that you—" she pointed a threatening finger at her husband "—have no excuse not to help me, I'll thank you not to shirk pulling the weeds this afternoon."

"Of course, my dear," Goddard said meekly.

The three made their goodbyes and promised to meet again soon, and Maggie hurried back to the hall with much less enthusiasm than when she had set out. Mrs. Hughes tutted at her for her choice of purchase, but refrained from scolding her when Maggie explained her reasoning.

"I suppose it will do," Mrs. Hughes said, and Maggie handed over the memorandum-book, feeling rather piqued. Her irritation evaporated, however, when Mrs. Hughes passed her a letter. "This arrived while you were out."

One glance at the writing on the envelope was all it took to send Maggie's heart fluttering— not only because of the man who had written it, but because of what she expected to find within. "Thank you," she said in a passable imitation of calmness. "I ought to see to the bedding now." Mrs. Hughes nodded and returned to her ledgers, and Maggie made her way out of the housekeeper's sitting room and to her own small bedchamber as fast as she could without drawing attention to herself.

Once she was safely ensconced in her room with no fear of prying eyes, Maggie broke the wax seal and opened the letter from Mr. Hastings with trembling fingers. It was just as she expected— half a page of pleasant civilities, another half detailing his daughters' exploits, and a hastily-scrawled invitation for her and Milly to meet him, Goddard, and Ainsworth for tea at Yew Tree Farm the following day. No hour was named, nor was one necessary; it was understood that circumstances required the meeting to be held at night. Maggie and Milly would arrive whenever they were able after their work was done.

Maggie penned a quick note accepting the invitation on behalf of herself and making her excuses for Milly, who was still ill and confined to her cottage, and tied a string around her finger to remind herself not to miss the afternoon post. After that important business was taken care of, Maggie supposed she ought to get to work— she really did need to see to the bedding.

Milly, of course, wouldn't hear of missing the meeting due to such a trivial thing as illness. "I will cover my head and wear a shawl, and if it makes you feel better, I shall bring heated bricks to lay at my feet. But I will not," she insisted, "miss the opportunity to speak with like-minded people who want to change England for the better!"

"There will be more opportunities," Maggie said. "It is not an instantaneous process." But eventually she capitulated to Milly's determination, and when the hour arrived, they set off across Duffield beneath a clear, starry sky.

Despite the mild weather, Milly was indeed wearing a shawl beneath her warm hooded cloak. Maggie had not pressed her on the heated bricks, however, so she had not bothered with them. They wore dark dresses, to better blend in with the night, and they slipped through the streets like creeping shadows. Milly stumbled two or three times along the lane that led to the farmhouse, and Maggie insisted on linking their arms together so she would not fall.

An unfamiliar woman in a plain dress with a dirty hem answered Maggie's knock.

"Mrs. Ainsworth?" Maggie ventured.

The woman nodded.

"We're here for tea," said Maggie.

Mrs. Ainsworth looked them up and down and sighed, but stood aside so they might enter. She poked her head out the door and glanced around the yard as though looking for spies. "The men are in the kitchen," she said, closing the door firmly. "I'd ask you to talk some sense into them, but seeing as you're here at this hour, I don't expect it to be a terribly productive conversation."

Maggie absurdly felt as though she should apologize, but for what, she had no idea. She led Milly to the kitchen, where tea was once again laid out before the three men. The situation in the kitchen was tense. Mrs. Ainsworth bustled around the periphery, picking up dishes and sweeping up crumbs and shooting looks of disapproval at the company every few moments. Ainsworth seemed to be acutely aware of his wife's silent reproaches, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat every time she glanced their way.

"Sirs," Maggie said in a vain attempt to ease the strained atmosphere, "allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Milly Greene."

Milly curtseyed, and Goddard (with a wink at Maggie) reached out to shake her hand. She handled it more gracefully than Maggie did, perhaps due to Maggie's forewarning about mischief. Maggie poured them both a cup of tea, and they settled into chairs across the table from the men.

"I'll say goodnight then," said Mrs. Ainsworth, rather too loudly for the modest size of the kitchen.

"Sarah, dear—" Ainsworth began, but Mrs. Ainsworth disappeared from the doorway, and the sound of a door being shut quite firmly echoed through the kitchen a moment later. Ainsworth sighed. "I apologize for my wife's behavior. She thinks this is a foolish venture."

"She's not wrong," Goddard said. Maggie looked to him in surprise, and she was not the only one at the table with a shocked expression. "What? It is foolish, and dangerous besides. Revolution? On English soil? Sirs— and ladies— that's a tall order, an' no mistake."

"Do you have any doubt in our cause?" Ainsworth asked.

"Oh! Certainly not. The cause is just and right. I am with you all the way, sirs." Goddard paused and ran a hand through his hair. "But it won't do us any good to pretend that it isn't a rash and reckless scheme."

Throughout all this, Hastings's eyes scarcely left Milly's face. Maggie might have been jealous, but he did not gaze at her as though enchanted by her beauty; rather, he studied her as though trying to remember the name of a long-forgotten acquaintance. "Miss Greene, was it?"

Milly nodded. "Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hastings. I have heard so much about you from our dear friend Maggie."

"You wouldn't be related to the Greenes of Leicestershire, then?"

"The Greenes of Leicestershire?" Ainsworth interrupted. "Who in Heaven are they?"

"You ought to know who they are, Ainsworth," said Hastings without taking his eyes off Milly's face, "as Lord Greene, Baron Segrave, of Leicestershire, owns the mill from which you were fired."

Milly shrugged, though Maggie could see that her shoulders were tense. "I may be distantly related, perhaps four or five generations ago. Are you accusing me of being a closer relation? If I were the niece or the daughter of a baron, I shouldn't think I would be a governess in Duffield."

Hastings relaxed fractionally. "You've got a London accent."

"Do you really think a great family would hire a governess with any other accent? I may have been raised middle class, but I certainly mayn't sound like it if I want a job." And indeed, as Milly spoke, her accent softened and took on some of the muddy consonants of the Midlands country speech Maggie had grown so used to hearing.

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Honestly. Greene is a common enough name, I'd wager. Mr. Hastings, you'd do as well asking after the origins of my name."

Hastings had the grace to look abashed. "Don't hurt to be cautious."

"If you're quite finished interrogating me," Milly said drily, "I have a few things I would like to say."

Hastings flicked his gaze to Ainsworth, who gave a tiny nod.

Milly seemed to track the reaction, and she smiled into her tea before she spoke. "I am here for two reasons: because I believe in the equality of the sexes, and because I am recently a follower of His Grace, the Raven King." Maggie blushed for her friend at the address but said nothing. "I am not a northerner like my dear friend Maggie, but everything I read about him suggests that if any king were to grant us equality, it would be he."

"How frustrating it is that we must apply to a man for equality," said Maggie.

Milly set her tea down in his saucer with rather too much force. "Precisely!"

"We are all here for different reasons," Hastings said, gesturing to the people that sat around the table. "Ainsworth and Goddard lost their jobs and were replaced by machines, like so many other craftsmen in every corner of this country. As for myself, I have no great love for the Raven King, nor any great hate. What we all share, what unifies us, is a desire to change England for the better."

"Do you consider yourselves Johannites, then?" asked Milly.

"We do," Hastings said.

Goddard nodded his agreement. "Though for Hastings and myself, the term is less a statement of our regard for the Raven King and more of a pragmatic allyship. If a house be divided against itself, and all that."

Milly took a sip of her tea. "Maggie informed me that you do not intend— that is to say, Johannites are known for burning factories and mills and such, but Maggie seemed to imply that such actions are not your intention?"

"Not just yet," said Ainsworth. "Ideally, not ever. But we must make ourselves heard, and if that is the only way the lords will hear us, then so be it."

"I believe that is wise. Being a Johannite is a dangerous business these days. It is one thing to talk of change, but quite another to commit arson. You could end up executed for treason."

"Miss Greene," Ainsworth said with a frown, "please do not misunderstand our intentions here. We do not wish only to talk of change. We wish to enact it."

Milly raised an eyebrow. "And how will you do that?"

"Well." Hastings smiled. "I'll allow that it does begin with talk, much as we are doing right now. We talk to people and hear their stories. Then we talk to them about what changes they'd like to see. For example, you want to see equality for women. These gentlemen and I want protections for craftsmen who might lose their jobs to machines. Miss le Roy, you've been very quiet. What would you like to see in a changed England?"

Maggie had been following the conversation with a quiet intensity like she might watch a duel, or more likely a fistfight, and the question pulled her up short. "I would be remiss if I didn't say that I want to see the Raven King on the throne of Northern England."

Hastings made a mocking half-bow. "Spoken like a true Yorkshirewoman. That cannot be all, though."

"No, it is not all." Maggie paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. "I want a future where Milly and I do not work ourselves to the bone every day in service of another family's comfort, where women have the same employment opportunities as men. I am grateful for my job, of course—"

"No, none of that," Goddard interrupted. "Don't start with this nonsense of gratitude. The family is not doing you a favor by employing you."

No, but the housekeeper did my brother a favor when she agreed to take me on. Maggie didn't voice her thoughts. Instead, she considered— what kind of a future did she want, aside from the obvious and nebulous better? She found it a surprisingly difficult question to answer. "I want a future where children don't have to pick pockets just to survive," she began haltingly, "and where mothers don't have to— to sell themselves to get enough money to pay the landlord for another week, and where their daughters aren't threatened with the same if they don't steal enough." She was aware that she was revealing rather more about herself than she had really intended to, but now that she had started, she did not wish to stop. "I want it so that every person has a home, and a sure job, and the ability to provide for their families, so that no child is forced to steal and no man loses his job so lords may line their pockets and the rest of us starve!"

A stunned silence met her words. Maggie did not realize that her hands were shaking, rattling her teacup in its saucer, until Milly reached out a hand and laid it on her wrist. "Well said," she murmured.

"Hear, hear," said Hastings. "So you see, Miss Greene, it begins with talking, and talking turns to anger. We are few now, but there are many angry men in England. We just need to ensure their anger remains directed at the people above them, not each other. And then, when every man speaks with one voice, we will not be ignored any more."

"You really do want a revolution," Milly said, her eyes wide.

"A revolution may be brewing regardless of our involvement," said Ainsworth quietly. "The cities are in a turmoil now. Men are losing their jobs by the thousands, to say nothing of the Raven King. There's some in London who believe he may try to reclaim his northern throne, and there are many in the north who hope he does." Here he inclined his head to Maggie. "The winds of change are howling. Whether they will drive us to an all-out revolution, I cannot say. The important thing is, when the winds die down, they leave behind a more just and equitable England."

"Powerful words," said Milly. "Very well. You have convinced me. I shall support your cause to the extent you support mine."

"You and Miss le Roy both are easily persuaded," Hastings said.

Milly laughed at that. "Or perhaps we already agreed with the sentiments you have expressed, and we only wanted to hear you say them!"

Hastings raised an eyebrow at Maggie.

"Miss Greene has the right of it," she said. "I agreed with you from the start. All you had to persuade me of was your own intentions, which you have all done admirably, sirs."

Goddard raised his teacup. "Let us have a toast to a brighter future!"

"I think we can do better than a toast with tea, man," Ainsworth said. He stood and collected an armful of beer bottles from a cabinet near the stove, then passed them around the group. "To the Raven King, and to a better England!"

The company echoed the toast all around the table and clinked the necks of their bottles together. Maggie took a long pull, savoring the taste— dark and bitter, with a strong malt scent. She gave a quiet hum of approval and took another sip. She glanced over at Milly, only to see the faintest expression of displeasure.

"Is it not to your taste?" Maggie asked under her breath.

Milly shook her head minutely and gave the shadow of a shrug. "I never developed a taste for beer. It is too bitter for me."

"You drink your coffee black, yet this is too bitter?" said Maggie, amused. Milly just gave another small shrug, and Maggie accepted it as another of her friend's idiosyncrasies. "Well, I'll have it if you don't want it."

Milly nudged it closer to her. "I did not want to be rude and refuse a toast."

"It's quite alright. I like it enough that I would not mind drinking two."

Conversation after that lapsed into topics more mundane than the looming possibility of revolution. Milly asked after Hastings's daughters and appeared delighted by their antics. In turn, she shared stories of the young mistresses of Duffield Hall, who were similar in age but somewhat less mischievous. She wisely refrained from mentioning any of Florence's magical mishaps, as the Porters had made it quite clear they did not want rumors circulating. Ainsworth pulled Hastings into a conversation about the farm and the various chores they would have to do in order to prepare for the growing season. Maggie did not find this conversation particularly interesting, as she had no care for farming, but Milly appeared fascinated and was following the conversation intently.

Goddard caught Maggie's eye. "I believe yesterday you said your brother is a magician?"

"He works for a magician," Maggie corrected him. "Rather, he did previously. I do not know his situation now."

"I have heard some rumors that there may be a school for magicians opening in Yorkshire soon."

"I have heard the same." Maggie suspected she knew where this line of questioning might lead. "If you like, I can write to my brother to ask if he can verify those rumors."

A relieved smile spread across Goddard's face. "Oh, would you? It seemed impertinent to ask, but my wife has a great love for magic, and it's her dearest wish that she might learn it."

"I shall write to him tomorrow to inform him of your wife's interest."

"I am much obliged to you, Miss le Roy." Goddard raised his beer for a toast. "To magic!"

"To magic," Maggie echoed.

The company (with the exception of Milly) were all rather red-cheeked by then, so it was no surprise when Goddard stood a few minutes later and declared that he ought to head home. Hastings agreed, as did the women, and there was a general carfuffle as gloves were drawn on and overcoats were buttoned and tied. They made their goodbyes with vague promises of meeting again as soon as could be arranged, and Maggie thought that Ainsworth looked rather relieved as he saw them to the door. She couldn't blame him— it was somewhat later than she had originally planned to stay out.

Hastings offered her his arm as they made their way through the yard, and she took it happily. "A successful tea-time, I should think," Maggie said.

She could barely see his smile in the darkness of the lane, illuminated only by starlight, but she heard it in his words. "Aye, tea was certainly consumed, and more besides."

"Why, Hastings, are you teasing me?"

"I might be. What of it?"

Maggie couldn't help but laugh at that. "I ought to tell you to leave off, as I am a spinster and thus beyond the age of teasing, but I suspect that will have little effect."

"None at all, Miss le Roy. I will stop, but only because I cannot see you blush in this darkness, and I wish to save all my teasing for a time when I may observe its effects."

As he surely intended, Maggie felt her cheeks heat. "You say you will stop, and yet you continue! I hardly know what to believe."

"Very well, very well," Hastings said, his voice tinged with laughter. "I shall stop now, if only to save myself the embarrassment of being overheard by our friends."

They spoke no more as they made their way through the streets of Duffield to Hastings's neat little apartment near the church. He bowed over Maggie's hand as they said their goodbyes as though he were a gentleman and she were a great lady, which made her laugh once again. Goddard left the group then as well, as he would be heading south and the women would be heading north, so Maggie linked her arm with Milly as they set off.

"Well, I am very glad that Mr. Hastings invited me," Milly said. "The possibility of change is thrilling, is it not?"

"Certainly!" said Maggie. "It's a daunting prospect— we are so few now, but surely our numbers will grow. Perhaps we may join forces with the labor unions, though they are not so strong in the Midlands as in London."

"The labor unions!" Milly repeated. "But they are all socialists."

Maggie glanced at her sidelong, but she could make out little of Milly's expression in the darkness. "Do you have some quarrel with socialism?"

"I must say I am ill-informed on the topic. I heard Mr. Porter mention it once or twice and say some rather unkind things about socialists."

"I suspect Mr. Porter may be somewhat biased," Maggie said drily. "No matter. An hour-long conversation with Mr. Hastings on the topic is sure to inform you."

"He seems to be a very politically-minded man."

"Aye, and if I have to sit through his lectures, then you do too!" Maggie laughed. "We shall suffer together."

They walked in silence for a moment, and the only noises were their footsteps and the quiet hum of insects.

"Do you truly want the Raven King to be restored to his throne?" Milly asked. "Even though it may take a revolution to see him there?"

Maggie considered for a moment. "I am a Yorkshirewoman. Loyalty to John Uskglass is part of who I am. He is in my mind and my heart at all times. Nothing would make me happier than seeing my King home on his throne once more." She paused. "And you? You say that you are now his follower. How far does your loyalty go?"

"How far indeed," Milly murmured. "I suppose, if our new friends have their way, we will find out. I must say, I rather hope not." She glanced at Maggie. "Forgive me, but I must speak my mind. Revolutions are a bloody business, and I cannot in good faith condemn English men and women for the sake of my principles."

Maggie just shook her head. It wasn't a proper answer, but upon reflection, she realized that her answer hadn't been straightforward either. Fair was fair, she supposed.

By that time they were very nearly at the hall. Milly made her goodbyes and set off in the direction of her cottage, and Maggie proceeded to the hall on her own. She crept through the darkened hallways as quietly as she could. Fortunately, many late evenings with Milly had informed her of where the floor would creak and where it was safe to step.

Maggie prepared for bed in near-total darkness; the meager light of the stars was blocked by a heavy curtain, and she daredn't light a candle. She hoped sleep would come quickly, but she lay awake for almost an hour, scolding herself for her behavior at Yew Tree Farm. She had revealed too much, she knew. She could never again hint at coming from a disreputable background., or the facade of respectability she had so carefully constructed would come tumbling down and she would lose everything— her livelihood, her friendship with Milly, even her dear Mr. Hastings.

Fretting would do no good, she told herself firmly as she stared up into the darkness above her bed. She had spoken out of turn, and she couldn't take that back, but she could attribute it to the passion of the moment and moderate her words in the future. Thus resolved, she shut her eyes. She turned her thoughts with great determination to a lullaby she vaguely remembered her brother singing to her when she was but a child and he was scarcely older.

For always and for always

I pray remember me

Upon the moors, beneath the stars

With the King's wild company.

The ancient, familiar words soothed her, and she fell asleep not long after.