The bell above the door of The Quill & Press chimed. It was a cheerful, tinny sound that did not match the heavy gray fog swirling in the street outside.
Parker looked up sharply from the counter. He had been wiping down the wooden counter for the last hour, rubbing at the same spot until the wood was nearly worn away.
He was nervous. His heart was beating against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Behind him, in the back room, the heavy rhythmic clank-clank-clank of the printing press could be heard. Mr. Hobbs was busy. Mr. Hobbs was a good man, but he was deaf to the world when the press was running. He wouldn't hear a conversation in the front room. He wouldn't see what Parker was about to do.
Parker stared at the door. A woman stood there.
It was Miss Gladys.
She stepped inside quickly, closing the door behind her to shut out the damp London air. She wore a simple brown cloak, the hood pulled up to hide most of her face, though Parker could see a few stray curls escaping.
