In 1875, Amy Blackwell lived by the tides of her own ambition. By day she toiled in the workshop behind her aunt's tidy Boston brownstone, her fingers stained with pulp, her mind abuzz with ideas for the most elegant stationary and lithographs the East Coast elite could buy. Her papers?heavy, creamy, and veined with delicate threads of gold or indigo?had earned her the rarefied attention of governors' wives and heiresses. She knew the worth of her work, yet never liked how she was made to feel small in the grand parlors of her clients, who pursed their lips at her unpolished manner and sniffed when she spoke too boldly.

From her shop's storefront window, Amy watched the city's endless procession of carriages, the rain-slicked cobbles, the soot-blackened snows of February. Between orders, she scribbled wild stories on scraps: Fairy tales, penny dreadfuls, and?her secret delight?little adventures for children, starring clever, daring girls. At night, when the house was quiet and the world's expectations loosened their grip, she dreamed of a life where the business she'd built was something more than a curiosity, and she was more than just a clever hands-for-hire.