Mrs. Hall had a shed she was willing to rent and he’d affixed a padlock to it. Tomorrow, he’d go in search of tools. He’d read long into the night, getting a sense of Esme’s political ideals and what she aimed to achieve. She wrote well. Not with high falutin’ language, but directly. She wanted people to understand why universal suffrage was important. For Esme, politics wasn’t about personal ambition. The need to serve society burned through her words. Now he looked around the drawing room of her family home and saw the people who’d chosen to ally themselves with her cause. It was a mixed bunch, not unnaturally with more women than men. Two serene middle-aged Indian women sipped tea and wore saris by the warmth of the fire. They completely ignored the miniature railway that ran the circumference of the room, circulating plates of tea cakes and treats, and rising on miniature elevators to skirt doorways and windows. There were pinwheel sandwiches, bachelor button cookies and fog cakes shimmering in a cloud of dry ice vapor and tasting of vanilla.
