Quickly, I strip off Eliza’s stupid clothes. Her dress falls in a damp heap, and I kick it aside. My pulse thunders, pounding black helldrums I can’t ignore, and freedom is sweet but it don’t satisfy me tonight. My fingers tremble, my palms are clammy, a flea-bitten itch creeps under my skin that I can’t scratch away. Sweet lord, Miss Lizzie needs a drink. I grab a dress, any dress, a swish of wide skirts. Crimson velveteen gleams darkly in the mirror as I fumble the buttons tight over my corset. My eyes glint back at me, a greedy reflection of hunger, and I glitter, my skin glistens, it’s as if my hair’s aflame, a bright-stung fey halo that prickles with anticipation or warning. I twist the curls up under a little top hat, stuff some pins in, and jam my muttering stiletto into my garter. Peace, sweet sister. All in good time. A few seconds more, and I’m gone. By the time I reach Seven Dials—it really is a seven-way crossroads, an evil omen if ever I seen one—the city’s a corpse, shrouded in chilly darkness.
