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“Don’t,” Jo cuts in. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“She said he made her pose and smile and even laugh. He wanted her to look like she was enjoying it.”

“Grace, please, stop,” Jo says and puts her hand on Grace’s shaking fingers, which are wrapped tightly around the cup. But Grace is already caught adrift in her thoughts; it’s too late to reach her. Jo cannot prevent the flood of her own memories from rushing through her mind—and all she wants is for the earth to open up and swallow her whole so she doesn’t have to hear another word about August.

“Sally was my best friend.” Grace’s voice breaks, and she pauses, her throat moving up and down as if struggling with a heavy stone stuck in it. “When her parents died, she came to live with us. We shared a room.” A crimson blush blooms on Grace’s pale cheeks. “There were not enough bedrooms for all of us, and she slept in my room. We . . . we became close.” Grace pauses. Shivers. “Mother found out about us and told Ira. He took Sally away and put her with Ada.” There’s so much sadness in her, it snaps Jo’s heart into two pieces. She wishes she could give one half to Grace to restore her broken heart.

“Grace—” Jo says, but Grace puts her hand up, silencing her.

“Listen, please.” When Jo nods, Grace pushes forward. “Sally used to collect little trinkets from her customers. A silver watch here and there. A gold snuff box. We used to go to the South Water Street market and sell them. That’s how we saved up some money. To run away. Sally kept the money in a small wooden box in her room.”

A shadow clouds the blue of Grace’s eyes, turning them into a stormy gray. There’s a definite similarity between Grace and Millie. And it’s not just the set of their mouths when they get upset, but the way their eyes change colors in the hurricane of emotions. “We agreed on a day to leave this wretched town. But then Sally wrote me a note, saying she couldn’t go with me. That she reconsidered, and I should never see her again.” The teacup trembles in Grace’s hand, and she sets it down carefully. Her eyes water, and she closes them, disappearing into her grief. “I went to see her, but Ada wouldn’t let me. Ira’s orders. I tried to sneak in through the back door but got caught. Mother was furious.” Grace opens her eyes. The sorrow is gone, replaced by hatred and something else, something that burns like fire. “The day after Millie died, Sally sent me another note, asking to come and meet her in the alley behind the brothel, but she never came. I stood in the rain and waited and waited and waited.”

“Do you think Sally found out something about Millie’s death?”

Grace stills, her lips pinched in a thin line. Her fingers trace the wooden cracks on the kitchen table; her gaze slides over the cups with tea, the walls behind Jo, and to the left until they find a small window. Grace stares at the darkening sky, the last of the day shining through the window. Her eyes are aflame, burning the world, leaving it charred. “I think so. And that’s why Ira killed her. He and his men . . . they’re hungry for violence. Sally would never kill herself. Not without talking to me.”

“She tried to see you,” Jo notes slowly. Something isn’t adding up, and yet there’s a random piece of the puzzle about to slide into its place. There’s something else to Sally’s note. Something that connects it all to Millie.

“Why didn’t she come, then?”

Grace’s story reminds Jo of her own. The all-consuming love that makes you so acutely alive, it feels like you’re living in a different world. In the world that’s full of colors and emotions, the world that gives you a new purpose and a new direction. And when it’s ripped away from you, you’re left alone. Shattered and lost.

Jo shuffles through her thoughts, scattered chaotically in her mind. First, the most pressing one is about Grace, her safety, her fury, and her upcoming wedding to Finn. Next in her thoughts is Millie, who’s waiting for Jo to solve her murder. Then, of course, there’s the question of Ira and his promise of violence if Jo doesn’t step aside. What is she going to do with all of it?

“Grace, you cannot marry Finn.”

The girl’s fingers wrap tighter around the cup, squeezing it so hard her knuckles go white. “Then help me.”

Her plea cuts through Jo and burrows under her skin, floating through her blood into her heart. “I don’t know how,” she caws.

Grace stares. Wordlessly.

And Jo wants to tell her that this is what life is. Painful and disappointing and full of sorrow. But she doesn’t say any of it. Instead, she reaches out to Grace and brushes an errant lock away from the girl’s face, feeling the warmth of her cheek. “I’ll try and help you, Grace. I don’t know yet how, but if I do, you have to promise to help me too.” She drops her hand into her lap. “You can think of me as a madwoman. Or a drug addict. Or someone whose life’s fraying into pieces. All of it might be true. But there’s one thing I know with every vibration of my soul. We must help Millie move on.”

Visible goose bumps form and scatter like ants down Grace’s arms. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know what happened to Millie.”

Grace’s whole body slumps when she leans back in her chair. As if the joints and muscles suddenly stop supporting her frame. As if her bones cannot hold her up anymore. “I don’t think you’re a madwoman,” Grace says and suddenly grins. “Maybe a little. To leave, I need money. Sally hid the money we saved by selling trinkets in her room. It’s in a small box. I need to go back and find that box. Will you help me?”

“To do what, exactly?”

“I need to get to Sally’s room without Ada knowing.”

Jo narrows her eyes at the girl. “I guess you want me to be a distraction.”

Grace nods.

Jo is silent for a long time. Finally, “Tell me everything you know about the day Millie died, and I’ll help you.”

With a deep exhale, Grace nods. “First, we get the money. Then, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Lamb Stew

The smell hits her first. Then the realization that someone else is in her studio. In the kitchen, to be precise. There’s a hint of a spicy cologne in the air mixed with a strong smell of meat—lamb?—and vegetables. A low whistle floats through the steamy space, a tune she recognizes but cannot place. The sound of glass breaking upon the floor. The whistling stops, and a swear word escapes instead.

What in bloody hell is he doing?