30 August, 1893 — Minister Ross' Office, Ministry

Juliana's desk was in a state of upheaval. This had been the case more often than not since the news had broken about Minister Ross' resignation; a half-dozen letters and reports and policies came in every day from various departments, trying to squeeze through as much red tape as they could now before the election. Some were afraid the next Minister might disapprove of their requests, but many more were innocuous. People who had been working in the Ministry a long time, another secretary had confided in Juliana, knew that nothing productive ever happened during a new Minister's first few months in office, so they were all trying to ensure their programs didn't get stuck in limbo during the adjustment period. The timing of it was terrible, really. She had been working on another paper just before he'd announced and now she'd all but forgotten what it was even about. On most occasions she drew a firm line against staying late — your lack of planning is not my emergency, as she might tell the messengers from various departments — but even so she was mentally exhausted by the end of the day, which didn't leave much of her left for research. Not that she blamed Minister Ross, of course. It wasn't as though he knew what she did after work. And — she did not exactly know the specifics, but she did not get the sense that the timing of the resignation had been entirely his idea. He was a good man, but even good men had to make concessions sometimes.

She scanned through the parchment on the top of the latest stack, looking for any clerical errors, even so much as a t not properly crossed... and to her relief she finally found one, which allowed her to push the entire report and all its associated tasking over towards the revise and resubmit corner of her desk. It was her favorite corner of her desk — it was the only one which was reliably cleaned off at the end of each day. This seemed like a good moment to pause and celebrate, so she dropped her quill and bustled off to make tea. She poked her head into Mr. Crouch's office to see if he wanted any (he did not), skipped past Mr. Macmillan's closed door, and set about preparing a tray. She wasn't really supposed to take tea breaks just for herself, though she often did. Any time Minister Ross was physically present, he could be counted on to at least accept a cup, even if he didn't drink it, and this saved her from any withering expressions on behalf of Macmillan when she eventually made it back to her desk with her own cup and plate of biscuits.

She doubled up on the biscuits this time; it had been a long day already, and the gingersnaps had been freshly delivered that morning.

When the water was done she poured the tea and carried the tray down to the Minister's door, which she pushed open with her foot (a motion made graceful through extensive practice). "Tea, sir," she announced.

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