Even though she'd rubbed down the binocular's copper fittings with matt polish, Amelia Tooting-Spur still had the nagging feeling they were far too shiny. And if that was the case, then she was far too exposed behind the lace curtains of the upstairs salon window and her spying likely to be discovered forthwith.

"Poppycock," she said to herself and pressed a lever on the side of the device before lifting it up to her eyes.

With a click and a whirr, one of the five 'distanced' lenses rotated into place, snapping the ear of the newspaper boy plying his trade down on the corner of the street so close, she could see coal dust glinting in the folds.

"Too close. And once again, Amelia, poppycock." Another lever was depressed and the viewing tube of the binoculars went dark as a new lens exchanged places with the previous one. Now a filthy cheek, filthy cap, filthy hair and the top of a filthy jacket joined the filthy ear as the entire side of the newspaper boy's head and shoulders appeared in crystalline sharpness.

With a grunt of approval, Amelia removed her attention from the guttersnipe and sent it up towards the row of three story, white stone-clad houses opposite. A steam driven Glockenspiel decorated the facade of one, and a whirling glass kaleidoscope another. The window she fixed on was on the second floor, a jaunty arrangement of blue-veined tulips in a large vase sat on the window sill.

The vase zoomed within arm's reach.

"Forgot to replace the water again, Gertrude. Tsk tsk." Amelia mumbled, as she slid the copper adjuster on the top of the casing to "background". The vase blurred as the room behind it  lightened and carved itself out with more clarity. 

The massive sideboard covered with all manner of useless curios took up the far wall like the private museum of an indecisive collector. The fluffy tops of ostrich feathers – which Amelia knew to be in a bronze container in the centre of a couch table – and the tasselled pillows of the couch itself were just visible.

With a quick jerk to the right, Amelia focused in on the next window over. A mantlepiece with a stampede of framed sepia portraits around the foot of a magnificent ebony and copper self-winding clock from Featherwinds & Whistleburr came into view.

Amelia began to wheeze like a omnibus engine heating up and pin-pricks ran down both arms as she searched the far left corner for the secret she'd squeezed into place among the portraits the last time her sister, Rose, had dragged her across the street for one of Gertrude's insufferable afternoons at home.  

Was the secret still there, or had it been found and removed? 

 Ah!  Amelia spotted the curved button top of the secret exactly where she'd left it. The omnibus engine of her lungs slowed to a sighing halt and in her mind she saw a moving picture of Gertrude turning the small wooden object over and over in her hand, a crease of confusion furrowing her brow, her head shaking "no" ever so slightly...

Amelia's secrets were meant to stay in their hidey places for years, unnoticed, invisible, until one day the flick of a maid's duster or the tail of a careless cat dislodged it, leaving the mistress or master of the house scratching their heads. What was this now? How had it got there? 

Or at least that's what Amelia hoped. In reality, she'd probably never really know.

One thing she did know for certain and that was at least Rose hadn't insisted on her establishing an afternoon at home herself after the initial dust of her arrival at 12 Rustlespoon Street had settled. Attending Rose's own Tuesday afternoons of drivel with buns was torture enough. As if she had anything to say to the corseted, opera-glass spying ladies of Islington, or them to her. 

Amelia gave a snort that could have, in somewhat more impolite company, passed for a giggle as she pressed the lens lever down again. The binoculars whirred, slipping the sharpest lens she'd tested on the newspaper boy into place. 

Amelia admired her handiwork. No, not a mushroom, Gerdy. It's a toadstool, she murmured. Go on, deduce that one. Why is a strange little toadstool on my mantelpiece?  What could that possible say about me? 

A sudden clanking and rattling from the other side of the closed salon door threw Amelia out of her daydreaming. 

Rose.

Almost tripping over her skirts, Amelia hurled herself onto the green velvet divan, shoving the long, heavy binoculars through the shiny fringe along the base, only barely managed to bury her nose in the latest issue of The Modern Woman's Illustrated Corset News before the salon door swung open with a flourish.

Rose swanned into the room, heaving bosom first, followed by the mechanical tea trolly chuffing along on its four thin iron wheels. 

"Tea, Amelia!" Rose trilled merrily. "Time for tea!"

"Yes, Rose, I see that," Amelia whispered into the pages of the magazine through gritted teeth. "I may be half out of my mind, but I'm not daft."

Rose, who attention was taken up making sure the tea trolly encountered no obstacles, said distractedly, "What was that, dear? I didn't hear you, do speak up. Tea trolly! To the left side of the divan!" 

The trolly obeyed, circumscribing an arc around two stuffed chairs and coming to a halt with a discreet hiss of steam from one of its little silver pipes. Rose fanned out the massive bulk of her skirts and settled herself onto the cushion next to Amelia's slippers with a proprietary wiggle.

"Do sit up, Amelia. Cook's made cream buns. And I know how much you love cream buns."

"I'm not particularly keen, actually," Amelia answered from behind the magazine. "I prefer digestives with honey."

"Tosh. The entire world loves cream buns. Stop being so contrary."

Amelia dropped the magazine onto the floor and watched her sister busy herself with the complex ritual of pouring tea into two china cups while not bothering to ask Amelia how many lumps of sugar she wanted. 

The answer was three, but Amelia knew if she said, she'd be stuck listening to a lecture on the adverse affects of sugar upon the female nervous system and that one she'd heard more than enough times already. And considering your nerves, dear, we need to be extra watchful, don't we?  

"Have you seen today's papers?" Rose said excitedly, stirring half a lump of sugar into the tea and handing cup and saucer to Amelia, who peered at the brew in mild disgust. "There were some adverts for shows opening soon. There's to be an exhibit of ancient Roman folding chairs at the British Museum. I never knew the Romans had such things, imagine!  And then London Zoo is putting some sort of horrible sea monster on display. For former Navy men and maritime enthusiasts, no doubt.

But the most interesting one, I thought, was that there's to be a garden show at Crystal Palace with all manner of sub-Saharan succulents and exotic orchids. I do believe I shall ask Maynard to procure us tickets. I'm sure anyone who's anyone will be there. And I have the perfect dress for you! It'll have to be taken in a bit around the waist and bosom – you are far too thin, dear . And who knows? Perhaps there will be a tall, handsome gentleman there whose eye you'll catch!"

In lieu of a spoken response, Amelia lifted the cup to her mouth and blew under the surface of the tea causing it to bubble, which produced, in her estimation, a fairly good impression of a drowning rat.

"Oh, do stop being such a child!" Rose said in a breathy, impatient exhale. "You shall be in dire need of a husband at some point. The sooner you catch one the better. Really!" She took a sip of her own tea, and then, with a martyr's sniff, added, "It's enough of a blight on the good name of Tooting-Spur you were in... well, where you were...but that's no excuse--"

"Prison," Amelia said, grinning. "I think the word you're looking for is prison. I was three months in Swanington Prison for breaking and entering the personal residence of a member of the House of Lords with the expressed intent of nicking his underbritches." 

Rose closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 

Then another. 

Then another. 

The pearlised beads of her corset trembled with familial shame.

"Yes, well, be that as it may, Amelia, all is not lost," she finally squeaked out. "There are good Englishmen who might find themselves able to overlook such an ill-advised indiscretion. And my dear Maynard is prepared to contribute generously to your dowry."

"I do appreciate that loads, but, sorry, not interested."

"Yes, you are. All women are interested in a husband."

"Of course. But I could have my pick of the lads at the Mastermind Society, Rose. Good Englishmen all. And they've even put my portrait up on the main mantlepiece in the smoking salon for collective admiration," Amelia said, with more than a small amount of pride. "After all, I am last year's--"

Rose smacked down her teacup onto the top tray on the trolly, causing its bell to ding and it to spin its wheels back and forth over the carpet in alarm.

"How many times must I tell you, Amelia. I shall not...Trolly! Stop that this instance!,... have the name of that collection of crackpots mentioned in my home. It's entirely their fault you were thrown into prison, yes prison, and Maynard and I must suffer the ignominy of it all. My own sister, a one of the Masterminds! Where did Mother and Father go wrong!"

"Well, they aren't all that..." Amelia started, but was silenced by her sister's copious weeping. 

She finished her tea in silence.