The woman seemed to sense my discomfort. She cleared her throat gently and returned her attention to the ledger, flipping through pages with practiced efficiency.
"Agnes Marlowe," she murmured, scanning the entries.
"Yes, here she is. Arrived at age three. Left at age seven when Lady Catherine offered her a position." Her finger stopped on a line. "One of the few happy endings we had in those years."
"Do you know where she is now?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
The woman's finger continued down the page, then moved to another ledger, this one more recent, the leather still dark and supple.
"We try to keep track of former residents when we can," she explained. "Letters, visits, word from travelers. It's not perfect, but..." She found what she was looking for and looked up at me. "Agnes came back about two months ago. Briefly. She was looking for work."
My heart jumped. "Two months? Did she say where she was going?"
