“Cordelia Dalton?” I asked. Ivy nodded. Cordelia was a quiet, thoughtful girl who’d made her debut the previous season. She’d not made much of a splash amongst the fashionable set, but that was likely due to a failing on their part rather than hers. We’d discussed novels when our paths crossed at parties, and she always seemed more interested in reading and sketching than in dancing. I was quite fond of her.

“I’m more than sorry, Ivy,” Colin said. “Your friend will need your comfort now.”

I did not listen to the rest of the conversation; the words no longer made sense to me. I could not stop imagining the hideous scene, the terror the poor man must have felt when he realized what was happening, the pain he must have endured before succumbing to death.

I shuddered. And remembered that only a few hours earlier, I’d had the audacity to complain about the heat in a ballroom.

6 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

How quickly things change! I was pleased when Colin asked Robert and me to bring Emily home from the Londonderrys’ ball. Not because Colin had been called away for work, but because I was looking forward to quiet time with my dearest friend and discussing all the gossip of the night. Polly Sanders has all my sympathy, and I do wish there was something I could do to secure her happiness. But the moment Colin arrived with his dreadful news, Polly’s plight seemed utterly insignificant.

I felt almost paralyzed when he told us Mr. Dillman had been murdered. Emily was equally affected, though she retained her composure better than I. She’s more experienced in such matters. But I know she gets little crinkles that creep around her eyes when she’s upset, and I saw enough of them tonight to tell me I was not alone in my reaction. I hope I never see enough of this sort of brutality to control my emotional response. To acquire such strength would swallow who I am.