Tess smiled wryly at her. She was beginning to realise her life, the printshop, had handed her a list of oddly-specific skills and not afforded her much in the way of hobbies beyond it. Reading: she did to proof things. Writing: she did to pen the occasional pamphlet on women’s rights. Her outings were work-related, or errands for her sisters and the flat. “Well, I make that a whole five minutes before I brought things back around to printing,” Tess said dryly, a little chagrined by herself. “I s’pose that means I really do need a hobby.”

(Was it strange, to think that dressing up as some other person felt like more fun than anything else in her life? Probably.)

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