The train station thrummed with bodies. Porters hauling trunks. Families reuniting with shrieks of joy. Businessmen brushing past without apology, umbrellas tapping against cobblestones like impatient fingers.

You stood at the edge of it all, valise in hand, coat buttoned to your chin against the October chill.

The address you'd been given was crumpled in your pocket. A boarding house in Kensington. A room waiting for a girl nobody was expecting.

And then—

She was young. Younger than you, perhaps. With sharp, intelligent eyes the color of autumn leaves and a smudge of ink across her cheekbone. Her hair was escaping its pins in rebellious waves. Her coat was too large, her boots scuffed, her expression caught somewhere between apology and amusement.