Contents
1. September 12, 1888
2. September 13, 1888
3. September 14, 1888
4. September 15, 1888
5. September 16, 1888
6. September 17, 1888
7. September 18, 1888
8. September 19, 1888
9. September 20, 1888
10. September 21, 1888
11. September 22, 1888
12. September 23, 1888
13. September 24, 1888
14. September 25, 1888
15. September 26, 1888
16. September 27, 1888
17. September 28, 1888
18. September 29, 1888
19. September 30, 1888
20. October 1, 1888: Morning
21. October 1, 1888: Afternoon
22. October 1, 1888: Evening
23. October 2, 1888
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Immortal
Immortal Works LLC
1505 Glenrose Drive
Salt Lake City, Utah 84104
Tel: (385) 202-0116
© 2021 Natalie Brianne
https://nataliebrianne.com/
Cover Art by bookcoverzone.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information email [email protected] or visit http://www.immortal-works.com/contact/.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-953491-13-8 (Paperback)
ASIN B08WS31F6L (Kindle Edition)
To my Mum, who is still with me.
And to my Dad, who I could never forget.
The sun rose in the sky over London, sunlight filtering through the leaves onto the pavement. Clouds and airships drifted about the blue, casting shadows. Mira Blayse stepped out of the shadows, the heels of her boots clicking along each cobblestone towards her destination, wherever that may be. She approached the corner, biting her lip as she considered the scenery.
Quite a bit of brick, some ivy, a few shops, but mostly residential buildings. Carriages passed her on the road, horse hooves clipping the road methodically. A paperboy stood on the corner opposite, yelling out one bit of news or another.
“Won’t want to miss this! More news in the Whitechapel murders! Just a farthing for a paper!” The boy called after her as she turned down the street. She shook her head and kept going. There would always be horses, and buildings, and boys selling newspapers. Another block passed beneath her feet before she stopped in front of a cafe. It had been a week or so since she had last ventured into one. Well-placed umbrellas offered amiable shade.
She took a breath to steel her courage and chose an empty table with an ample view of the street. Ignoring the chiding glances of the other customers, she retrieved her sketchbook from her bag and flipped through it to find a new page. She scanned the area for a subject and noticed the waiter approaching her table. She closed the book and looked up at him like an angel.
“Eating alone today, miss?”
“For the moment. I’m sure my aunt will be arriving soon, however I’m certain she wouldn’t want me to wait for her.” It was a blatant lie, and she knew it. Fortunately, the waiter didn’t. He nodded, and the patrons at the other tables visibly relaxed. She had a chaperone coming, after all. It wasn’t as if she was a young lady out in the city by herself. Oh no. Not at all. The waiter took her order and hurried inside.
As soon as he had turned away, Mira felt her cheeks flush. She just needed to breathe. The hardest part was over, at any rate. Now she only needed to ensure that no one else paid her any heed, and that was easy. One of her strengths was becoming invisible; she had only recently become more adept at drawing attention to herself.
She flipped open her sketchbook again and cast her gaze to a gentleman a few tables away. He sat in direct sunlight with deep shadows outlining his jawline, his nose was oddly shaped (like a turnip, bulbous at the base with a point on the end), and most fortunate of all, said nose was set deep into a newspaper. Really, he was the perfect subject. The news article must have been spellbinding, as he was oblivious to her gaze. Or more precisely, her sketching his facial features as if her life depended on it. She added subtle shading to the sketch as the waiter approached her table again. By the time he arrived, her sketchbook was closed, and she looked up at him with as nonchalant a smile as she could muster. He placed a plate of French toast in front of her.
“Thank you.” She nodded to the waiter and handed him a few coins.
“Let me know once your aunt gets here, or if you need anything else.” He pocketed the payment and nodded back before returning to the interior of the cafe. She hastily opened to the sketch again and sighed at the smudges. She’d have to fix those later. The man wouldn’t be at his table forever. In fact, she barely had time to etch in the final details before the man folded his newspaper and left. She looked at the finished product disparagingly and swapped her pencil for her fork.
Even if being without a chaperone breached the norms of propriety, and her insides flip-flopped every time she told a lie, she did have French toast as a consolation. Granted, the reason why she stopped at this café had nothing to do with breakfast. And it was the same for the other twenty cafes she visited in the past three months. It just happened to be that cafes were quickly becoming her favorite place to people-watch and sketch. And if she had to break the boundaries that society had so painstakingly put in place around her? Well, it couldn’t be helped, even if it was potentially embarrassing. Actually, no. It was always embarrassing.
Then again, society life was, as well. She never could remember all the rules and regulations, how to flirt with a fan, what colors matched, and when to wear what. This couldn’t be more humiliating than the time she had tripped over her own skirts and spilled the punch bowl all over herself at Maureen Harris’ last
