As I watched the crimson liquid running down the drain in front of me, I remembered a time when I had first heard about this strange invention. I had been sitting on the loveseat in the Langley's drawing room, listening to Elena's latest gossip as we sewed.

"And you know she dyes her hair," she was telling me in reference to some society woman she greatly disliked.

"Die?" I asked, unsure if I had heard her correctly.

"Dye," she repeated. "Yes, it's this strange new product which allows you to change the color of your hair."

I hissed. Ouch.

"Sorry," the woman behind me spoke as she turned my head to the side to rinse out the excess dye. I caught sight of her in the mirror in front of me. Her hands, stained red, worked diligently through my hair, making sure every strand had been properly colored. Her lips pursed as she told me, not for the first time, "You should've had this done professionally."

I turned to face her, taking the offered towel and scrunching at the sides of my hair as I replied, "I'm sure you did fine."

She chewed her lip, watching me for a moment before she said, "You know, normally, I wouldn't do this. As a tenant, you're every sort of red flag I would look out for. But if my brother says he trusts you-"

"You're a good woman, Marie," I interrupted her, tossing the towel to the side as I headed for the door. "But you should trust your instincts."

I stepped out of the washroom into the small studio apartment beyond. Harold was sitting at the small dining table in the kitchen. He looked up as we entered.

"It's not much," Marie told me, following me out into the room. "But Harold said you wouldn't be needing much."

I knelt and ran my fingers over the rough wool of the comforter.

"Harold's right," I told her. "This will do nicely."

"It's three up front and one every week after."

I nodded, crossing the room to my bag on the table in front of Harold. I dug around for the requested rent and handed it to my new landlady. She took it, pocketing it within her apron and looking from me to her brother as I busied myself with tying my mostly dried brand new red hair into a knot atop my head.

"Thank you, Marie, Harold," I said then, nodding to them each in turn before collecting my bag and heading for the door. As I emerged onto the street, I found Harold following close behind.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"This time? To a gentlemen's clothier," I told him but then turned to face him, placing a hand on his arm in gentle reminder. "But in the future, you shouldn't know that."

"Oh, right," he answered. I turned on my heel and headed off down the street. This time, he did not follow but called out after me. "The red hair! It looks nice!"

I shook my head as I rounded the corner, out of view of Harold and on my way to my destination. The shop in question was not terribly far from my new apartment which had been precisely my design in renting it. Located on the very border between the wealthy district and the merchant's, Keene's Clothiers was so large that it took up nearly an entire city block. I hesitated at the end of the street, watching the bookshop across from it, waiting for Johnathan Birmingham to find himself so busy with a customer that there would be no chance of him recognizing me on my way to the clothiers. Jonathan was cruel but smart. Convinced as I was that my new red hair and daring new makeup would fool casual acquaintances into believing my new identity, I wasn't convinced that my ex-fiance wouldn't see right through it.

So I waited. The moment Johnathan Birmingham went to the back of his shop with an interested customer, I made my way to the clothier across the street.

A bell chimed above my head as I entered and a man perhaps in his early thirties looked up at me from the counter. He smiled as he made his way around to meet me in the threshold. As he approached, I gazed around myself.

Various workers, all men, ran to or fro locating coats, hats, canes, anything the gentlemen customers standing on literal pedestals asked for. The shop was far busier than my family's had ever been and I took a moment to marvel in the business before the man approached.

"Good morning, madam," he said with a smile as he bowed slightly to what he presumed was my superior status. I smiled kindly at him and gave a silent thanks for the dress that Harold's seamstress sister had been able to smuggle me. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for a gift," I told him with a smile right back. "For my brother. Something that says 'Welcome to the city, now look like you belong'."

The man chuckled warmly but I could practically see him salivating at the potential sale as he gestured toward a nearby rack. He led me to one near the door, not to the more expensive clothing in the back. Apparently, I hadn't made quite the impression that I'd hoped for. He droned on about the superior fabrics of Keene's Clothiers and I half listened, making comments of interest while glancing around at the shop around me.

Nearly everyone on the shop floor was a man, either customer or merchant. That was typical. What was not typical, however, were the two ladies on the opposite side of the counter, nestled into a corner and engaged in a whispered conversation that was growing louder by the minute. By the time they had reached all out giggling, a middle aged man appeared at the top of an elegant staircase which led to a loft above. He made his way down the stairs to bows and greetings of respect.

I narrowed my eyes in examination as he snapped at the giggling women to "Stop this foolish nonsense and get off my shop floor."

They hushed abruptly and practically tripped over each other fleeing to the rooms above. George Keene, I presumed, given the fact that he'd called this his shop and was of the same age. There was also the fact that he was now snapping his fingers and two men from across the shop were abandoning their customers to approach him.

I hurriedly requested that my own salesman check the back room for my brother's size and feigned interest at the rack of clothes as he left. I watched the men approach and remained silent as he gave them whispered orders. I needed an in and, from the looks of his sour expression and unquestioned authority, George Keene was not it. So, who was?

She came down the stairs a moment later, diamond earrings dangling gracefully against an elegant pale neck, every inch of her covered in the most elaborate finery. She pecked her shiny pink lips against George Keene's cheek and I could practically see the man melt at the sentiment.

"Goodbye, papa," she cooed. "I'm off to the West End for shopping."

"Of course, dear, enjoy," George Keene repeated in a gruff tone before disappearing into the back room with his men.

I stood straighter, watching the girl approach the exit. The moment her hand touched the door, I channeled my inner Elena Langley and called out, as casually as I could, "I absolutely adore your bag."

She paused, turning slowly to face me. When she did, she smiled, but it was disingenuous. I recognized that smile. It was the same smile that Felicity Walsh or Elizabeth Herbert offered me when they saw me out. That uptick of the brow, eyes roving over me in appraisal, lips curled in a way that allowed for a smile to become a sneer in an instant. I had to work fast.

"Is that a woman's voice I hear in a men's clothier?" she asked sharply. "How odd."

"I'm in search of a gift for my brother," I told her, allowing my eyes to lazily appraise her as she'd done to me. "I see you're a fan of Shakespeare."

I indicated the theater program sticking out of her aforementioned bag. She did not glance down but, rather, held my gaze.

"What's your favorite work of his?" I asked, smiling to indicate that I wasn't a threat.

She was still suspicious of me but answered all the same, "Romeo and Juliet."

Of course. I smiled, "That's a good one. I prefer A Comedy of Errors myself."

Finally, her elitist mask cracked and she allowed herself a smile. She stuck out a hand, "Cecily Keene."

"Gwendolyn Marlowe," I lied.

"Well, Gwendolyn, I was just about to head to the West End for some shopping. Would you care to join me? I could use the company of a woman cultured enough to engage in conversation of the arts."

I smiled, "I'd be honored. No offense to your family's shop, it's all very nice, but I would have to force my brother into these elegant waistcoats and I don't suppose that's very much a gift."

"Excellent. I know of a lovely little cafe just outside of the West End shopping district," she told me with a smile, pushing the door open and waiting for me to join. "Shall we?"