Only to somebody looking hard, of course, but Freddie knew the risk was there. Someone looking hard, or someone who knew what they were looking for. It was practicality, as much as vanity, that made her balk at cutting her hair off. As long as she kept it, she could blend seamlessly back into that other world. The world in which, ostensibly, she belonged. And it was far easier to disguise the hair in this world than to explain its absence in that one. Lately, some daring young ladies had taken to bobbing their hair. But it was not yet the general rage, and Freddie hesitated to draw excess attention to herself by leaping into the vanguard of fashion. So for now, at least, she remained the plumpish, round-faced lad in the comically oversized hat. Fred Merchant, tinker-makesmith extraordinaire. Quick and curious, clever with his hands and known not to adhere to Marquess of Queensberry rules when cornered in a fight. Handy chap to know, bad chap to cross, such was the consensus on the streets of London.
