Madeline Crawford discovered the truth on a Tuesday morning, which was fitting, because Tuesdays in London had a way of revealing things.
She was standing in the library of Ashford House—no, Windsor Publishing House, the correct name, though everyone who mattered called it simply Ashford—watching fog curl around the leaded windows like smoke from a candle someone had just blown out. She had been employed here for eleven months and seventeen days. She counted because counting was the only thing that had kept her sane. The contract...
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