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The girl bobbed a grateful curtsy, already turning for home, her basket light at last. Abigail continued on, the fading bouquet tucked carefully against her. Its subtle fragrance mingled with the dusk.

As she walked, she absently stroked the wilting petals, feeling their velvety softness giving way beneath her fingertips. A violet petal detached and fluttered to the cobblestones. She watched it fall, then deliberately plucked another, letting it drift from her fingers as she passed a group of apprentices heading toward a public house, their laughter and boisterous energy a reminder of youth’s careless joy.

Another petal came loose in her hand. She considered her increasingly strained accommodations at Reedley Manor. Perhaps it was time to consider alternatives. She had enough funds to rent modest rooms of her own, or to accept Marjory’s offer of the caretaker’s cottage behind Beacon House. Either option would provide blessed peace, but both felt like surrendering to invisibility—the final admission that she would forever be ‘poor Abigail,’ the object of pitying glances and hushed conversations that ceased when she entered a room.

The realization brought a hollow ache to her chest, an emptiness that expanded with each passing year. She rolled a petal between her thumb and forefinger, crushing it slightly, releasing its sweet scent before letting it go. The battered rose drooped further as another of its crimson petals fell.

The light faded as she walked, the golden warmth of early evening giving way to the blue-gray hush of approaching dusk. The sounds around her shifted too—fewer respectable businesses closing their doors, more questionable establishments opening theirs. She looked down at the bouquet, now half-bare, stems exposed where flowers had fallen away.

Pausing she looked around her. She should be reaching Balmoral Square.

A trio of rough-looking men lounged at a corner ahead, passing a bottle between them. Abigail adjusted her path to give them a wide berth, trying to see the name on the grimy street sign in the distance.

A sharp gust stirred the hem of her skirts, carrying with it the acrid tang of the river. From somewhere down a side alley, a drunken shout broke the evening hush. Abigail quickened her pace past sagging buildings with dirty windows. Washing lines strung between them like the web of some enormous spider. A woman leaned from an upstairs window, her painted face and low-cut bodice announcing her profession as clearly as any sign.

This was not Mayfair. Not even close.

Her mouth went dry. She must have taken a wrong turning, perhaps at Blackfriars Lane where Thompson had warned her about the obscured street sign. She should retrace her steps, find her way back to the main thoroughfare. But as she paused, uncertain, footsteps closed in behind her—quick and purposeful.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat sending a rush of blood through her ears. She clutched the wilting bouquet like a life line and quickened her pace, searching desperately for a familiar landmark, a safer street, or even a respectable-looking passerby who might help her. Ahead, near a corner, she spotted a well-dressed gentleman walking with a purposeful stride.

“Sir,” she called, but the man disappeared around the corner without breaking stride.

As Abigail hurried forward. The man must not have heard her. Perhaps she could still catch him. Her skirts swished around her legs as she walked as quickly as she dared, keeping her eyes fixed on her destination.

A figure lunged from a recessed doorway as she passed. Rough hands seized her arm, spinning her around violently. Her ankle twisted beneath her. White-hot pain shot up her leg. A man loomed over her, his scarred face twisted into a leer. The stench of gin and filth enveloped her.

“Well now, what’s a fine lady doing in these parts?” His free hand reached for her reticule.

“Release me!” Abigail tried to wrench away, but her injured ankle collapsed beneath her weight.

She gasped as fresh pain lanced through her leg. The remnants of the bouquet scattered around them. The last petals scattered across the filthy ground—little splashes of color dying in the muck.

The mugger’s grip tightened painfully, his fingernails digging half-moons into her flesh. “Give us your purse and any trinkets, and maybe I’ll let you walk away.” His breath washed over her—sour and hot—as he yanked her closer. She cried out as fresh pain lanced up her leg. “Though seems you won’t be walking far, will you, my lady?”

The mocking emphasis he placed on her title sent ice through her veins. Her ankle throbbed mercilessly, useless for escape.

“I said, release me! Help!” The scream tore from her throat, raw and primal. She twisted away and drove her elbow upward, aiming for his throat as the women at Beacon House had taught her. She missed, catching the hard edge of his jaw instead.

His face darkened and the leering smile hardened into something cold and dangerous. “Shouldn’t have done that, my lady.”

He shoved her hard against the brick wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her head struck the stones with a dull thud that sent sparks dancing across her vision. Her injured ankle gave way and she slipped down the wall.

His hand closed around her throat, hauling her brutally back up. The callused fingers pressed into the soft flesh beneath her jaw. He tightened his hold. The world narrowed to pinpricks of light as he stared into her eyes.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his face inches from hers, eyes gleaming with a terrible fascination. “Watch ‘em all fade away—your fine house, your fancy friends. They can’t help you here.” His thumb pressed deeper. “Feel that? That’s life slipping away, my lady. Worth more than gold, ain’t it?”

“Please,” she gasped, clawing at his fingers.

Each heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her lungs burned for air that would not come. She thought of Timothy waiting for her tomorrow. Of her mother’s quiet face. Of all the words she’d never said and never would.

A single rose petal clung to her attacker’s dirty coat—absurdly bright against the dingy fabric, like the last spark of hope guttering out.

“Maybe I’ll keep something pretty to remember you by,” he murmured, his free hand moving to the brooch at her collar. “Something to show the other fine ladies what happens when they wander where they don’t belong.”

The pressure increased. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. Time stretched and warped. Each second stretched impossibly long. The cobblestones beneath her seemed to tilt and sway. Her fingernails scraped uselessly against his wrist.

A blur of movement erupted behind her attacker. The vise around her throat vanished as the man was wrenched backward with such force that his feet momentarily left the ground. Abigail collapsed against the wall, her legs giving way as she slid to the cobblestones. Her lungs burned as she dragged in a desperate, shuddering breath.