his suitcase, which sat stubbornly out of his reach on the overhead rack.

Henry snorted with laughter. He’d seen Professor Stratford fall asleep at the High Table over a plate of jam and toast, but he had clearly underestimated the professor’s ability to wake up and function. Rather, he had underestimated the lag time between the two.

Standing on tiptoe, Henry heaved both of their suitcases off the luggage rack and, with one in each hand, somehow managed to coax the professor out onto the platform.

As they stepped onto the platform and were jostled from all angles by the surging crowd, Professor Stratford came awake at last.

“Good heavens, Henry, you can’t be carrying both suitcases? I’m awake. Here, hand me my bag.”

Hefting his book-filled suitcase, Professor Stratford wove his way in the direction of a sign that helpfully read way out and depicted a pointing hand.

This sign led them into the station proper, which bustled with travelers. Henry and the professor threaded through the crowded, tunnel-shaped building, all the while following posted arrows that finally deposited them at a vast set of doors.

Outside, a line of hansom cabs stood at the curb.

“Where to, guv’nor?” a cabdriver asked Professor Stratford, politely doffing his cap to give a brief glimpse of his shiny bald head.

The professor gave an address and slid into the carriage, leaving his luggage on the curb. Sighing, Henry heaved the professor’s bag into the back of the cab along with his own.

It was only when Henry climbed onto the cool bench seat next to Professor Stratford that he realized the cabdriver had been expected to handle their bags.

Reddening slightly, Henry stared out the window as the horse and driver jostled their way down the road. He’d never been in a carriage before, but that experience paled when compared with what he saw on the other side of the window.

Skinny town houses crowded together on opposite sides of narrow alleyways, their chimney tops nearly touching. And along the sidewalks: carts selling everything you could imagine, from wind-up toys to books so tiny they would fit in the palm of your hand to exotic-looking fruits and newspaper cones of fresh-roasted chestnuts. Carved wooden signs shaped like animals marked the entrances to darkened taverns, and ragged children played in the streets.

All too soon, the cab came to a stop. Henry looked around. They were in front of a pleasant four-story brick building with cheery red shutters and a dusty shop on the ground floor bearing a hand-lettered sign that read alabaster & sons, purveyors of rare books since 1782.

“Where are we?” Henry asked.

“A shot in the dark, actually,” Professor Stratford admitted, climbing out of the taxi. “After university, I rented a small flat above this bookshop for a summer. I was hoping it might be available.”

Professor Stratford paid the driver and, with his suitcase banging purposefully against his leg, pushed open the door to the shop.

Mrs. Alabaster, the widow who ran the bookshop, did indeed have a set of rooms available on the third story that she’d be delighted to let out. Before Henry knew it, he’d been hired for the summer to help out in the shop and was unpacking his bags into a small wardrobe in his new room.

His room. For the first time, Henry had a room all to himself. It was an undreamt-of luxury. Between them, Henry and the professor shared a small washroom, two bedrooms, and a cramped sort of parlor. Never mind that the carpets smelled slightly of cats or that the wallpaper had begun to peel in the corners, to Henry, it was the finest flat he had ever seen.

And before he knew it, Henry came to think of the flat as his home. He and Professor Stratford settled into a routine: steaming mugs of tea together in the mornings during brief tutoring sessions, which always seemed to focus on history these days, and then Henry would spend his afternoons downstairs in the shop, cataloging, mending torn spines, helping customers, and often curling up in a threadbare armchair with any book he pleased. Professor Stratford found work tutoring a young woman who had just moved from abroad and had apparently learned everything backward and all wrong—she spoke of measurements in inches instead of centimeters and didn’t understand Celsius at all.

In the evenings, Henry got to know the City: He learned the footpaths and alleyways, the hour at which the gaslights came on, and the moment when the baker down the road put fresh pastries on the