“The most important issue is the folding game board. We can do lithograph printing directly onto the board with a flat-bed press. If you want a multi-colored game board, we could create a metal plate for each color—five to ten would be sufficient—and apply ink to the board in layers until the image is complete.” Mrs. O’Cairre viewed Pandora’s hand-painted game board thoughtfully. “It would be much cheaper if we only applied the image in black and white, and you hired women to hand-color the image. But of course, that would be much slower. If your board game is in high demand, which it will be, I’m sure, you’ll make greater profits by producing the game entirely by machine.”
“I would prefer the hand-colored option,” Pandora said. “I want to provide good jobs for women who are trying to support themselves and their families. There’s more than profits to consider.”
Mrs. O’Cairre stared at her for a long moment, her eyes warm. “I admire that, milady. Very much. Most ladies of your rank, if they think of the poor at all, do little more than knit stockings and caps for charity groups. Your business would help the poor far more than knit-work.”
“I hope so,” Pandora said. “Believe me, my knitting wouldn’t help anyone.”
The woman laughed. “I do like you, milady.” She stood and rubbed her hands together briskly. “Come to the back rooms, if you please, and I’ll give you a pile of samples to take home and view at your leisure.”
Scooping up her papers and game materials, Pandora dumped them into her valise. She glanced over her shoulder at Dragon, who was watching her from beside the door. He stepped forward as he saw that she was heading to the back of the shop, but she shook her head and gestured for him to stay there. Frowning slightly, he folded his arms and remained in place.
Pandora followed Mrs. O’Cairre past a waist-high counter where a pair of boys were busy collating pages. To the left, an apprentice worked a treadle-operated letter press with huge gears and levers, while another man operated a machine with large copper rollers that pressed images continuously on long rolls of paper.
Mrs. O’Cairre led her to a sample room brimming with materials. Moving along a wall of shelves and drawers, Mrs. O’Cairre began to collect pieces of paper, card stocks, boards, binding canvas and muslins, and a variety of type-specimen lettering sheets. Pandora followed closely behind her, receiving handfuls of pages and dropping them into her valise.
They both paused at a discreet knock.
“It’s likely the warehouse boy,” Mrs. O’Cairre said, heading to the other side of the room. While Pandora continued to browse among the shelves, the printer opened the door just enough to reveal a boy in his teens, with a cap pulled low over his forehead. After a brief, muttered exchange, Mrs. O’Cairre closed the door. “Milady,” she said, “I beg your pardon, but I have to give instructions to a deliveryman. Will it trouble you if I leave you here for one minute?”
“Certainly not,” Pandora said. “I’m as happy as a clam at high water.” She paused to look more closely at the woman, who was still smiling . . . but distress had exerted subtle tension over her features like a drawstring bag being cinched. “Is something wrong?” Pandora asked in concern.
The woman’s face cleared instantly. “No, milady, it’s only that I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m with a customer.”
“Don’t worry on my account.”
Mrs. O’Cairre went to a set of drawers and pulled out an open-ended envelope. “I’ll be back sooner than you can take a hop, skip, and a jump.”
As the printer exited through the warehouse door, closing it firmly behind her, something fluttered to the floor in her wake. A slip of paper.
Frowning, Pandora set down her valise and went to retrieve the small piece of paper. It was blank on one side and printed on the other with what appeared to be different samples of typographic lettering, but it wasn’t organized like the type-specimen sheets. Had it fallen from the envelope that Mrs. O’Cairre had just pulled from the drawer? Was it important?
“Bother,” she muttered. Opening the door, she went after the printer, calling her name. When there was no reply, Pandora proceeded cautiously through a dimly lit gallery that opened to a warehouse working space. A row of segmented windows near the roof let in a wash of greasy light that fell over lithographic stones and metal plates, rollers, machinery parts, and stacks of filter troughs and vats. The heavy smell of oil and metal was cut with the welcome pungency of wood shavings.
As Pandora emerged from the gallery, she saw Mrs. O’Cairre standing with a man, next to the massive bulk of a nearby steam-powered printing machine. He was tall and solid-looking, with a square face and a broad, bunchy chin, as if more than one chin had gone into the making of it. Fair-haired and moon-pale, he possessed brows and lashes so light as to appear nonexistent. Although he was dressed in inconspicuous dark clothes, his stylish chimney pot hat would only have been worn by a gentleman of means. Whatever else he might be, this was no deliveryman.
“Forgive me,” Pandora said, approaching them, “I wanted to ask—” She halted in her tracks as Mrs. O’Cairre whirled to face her. The flash of undisguised horror in the woman’s eyes was so startling that Pandora’s mind went blank. Her gaze darted back to the stranger, whose lash-less cobra eyes regarded her in a way that made her flesh creep.