The air was filled with excitement as the most anticipated day of the year arrived. Our future Queen had finally entered the world, bringing joy and hope to all.
The earth was cold and stubborn under my hands, as though the grave itself resented the disturbance. We were there for Abigale Eldridge, at Dr. Bennett’s request. The day’s rain had left the soil heavy and slick, and each shovelful slapped wetly against stones hidden in the dark. Cameron’s breath came in clouds beside me, his spade biting deeper, faster — he always had the enthusiasm of a man chasing treasure. “Keep your eyes open,” he muttered. “That watchman makes his rounds every twenty minutes.”
I didn’t need reminding. A lantern burned low between us, its weak light catching on the worn grain of the wooden shovel. Beyond its glow, Holloway’s vast cemetery lay in patient silence. It is an odd thing, how quickly a man grows used to this work. The first time, I had been sick in the grass. Now, I knew to keep my focus on the mechanics: lift, toss, repeat. Do not think too long on the fact that the person below had been someone’s father, wife, or child. Do not let their name, carved so tenderly in stone, take root in your mind.
I suppose I should tell you who I am, before you think me a complete villain. My name is Ezra Geldart. While my position in society isn't a major concern to me, I am reminded of it daily. Not tall enough, not fashionable enough, and don't make enough money on my own despite my family's standing in society. Which isn't high, but it isn't low. Somewhere in the middle, you would say. I live in a modest house on the outskirts of London —owned by my family— with my two servants, Lottie McCarthy and Simon Lancaster, as well as my dog.
The gentleman with me is my cousin—short, curly blond hair that refuses to be tamed, green eyes sharp as spring leaves, and silver spectacles forever slipping down his nose. Despite our contrasting upbringings and personalities, we shared an unshakable bond. My father earned a modest living tending his small plots of land, while his father carried the esteemed title of Duke, overseeing sprawling estates and a world of influence. Yet, the difference in our social standing never seemed to matter. Our mothers, being sisters, would often gather for afternoon teas, their lively gossip filling the air, while we were left to roam the gardens, invent games, or lose ourselves in tales of adventure.
Those carefree years were some of the best of my life, a golden time that extended into our school days. We spent hours passing notes in class, whispering secrets in hallways, and dreaming of all the places we’d someday visit together. That is until the adults decided to meddle. With no shortage of enthusiasm, our mothers turned their matchmaking efforts toward finding us the most “eligible” brides, a pursuit they took on with almost comical zeal. Tea parties became strategic planning sessions, where every girl’s family name, dowry, and manners were dissected and ranked. Invitations to dances and social gatherings suddenly carried unspoken agendas, with every introduction laced with unsubtle hints and knowing glances.
Sweat was dripping from my brow by the time Cameron struck wood with a dull thunk. The coffin. He grinned at me as though he’d just found a vein of gold. “Your turn,” he said.
I quickly got to work dusting off the dirt while Cameron went to tell the coach where to be in preparation for moving her. Stepping on the coffin to get out of the hole, I grabbed the rope from our bags and began securing it around the oak box. As if on cue, Cameron was back to assist me in getting it up and out of the hole. It took quite the amount of strength, though I gathered that it was more from the coffin than Abigale herself. When we finally got the coffin up, we had to do possibly one of the worst parts of this job. Making sure it was her in there. Cameron carefully pried the lid open and held the lantern over her.
With my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see all of her features. Her hair cascaded down her chest like a shimmering waterfall of obsidian, its length reaching just below her bosom. Her complexion was so fair that it seemed almost translucent, and her dark, luscious eyelashes nearly brushed against her cheeks. She was adorned in a white gown intricately embroidered with delicate bluebirds and vibrant flowers, creating a stunning and ethereal appearance. Cameron nodded, cradled her in his arms, and sat her down on a cloth before wrapping her up. I untied the ropes from her coffin and set it back down into her grave. I heard Cameron walk to the carriage as I hastily deposited the dirt back where it belonged and arranged the bouquets to the best of my memory.
The quiet pressed in again, broken only by the faint creak of the carriage harness. I started toward the edge of the cemetery, the fence finally coming into view. Hidden by a cluster of bushes and trees, I swung a leg over the knee-high fence and dropped down on the other side. So much for keeping your loved ones safe even in death. Approaching the carriage, I heard the familiar click of the lock on the trunk as she and our tools were ready for our trip back to London. Cameron ushered me into my seat and no sooner than the door closed did we ride off into the night with our stolen goods. The journey back to London would take forty minutes—long enough for the weight of what we carried to settle in. On one hand, we were furthering the pursuit of medical advancements. And on the other... We were just criminals robbing someone of their final resting place. There's a reason Mr. Bennett wanted Abigale's body; to further the study of, and possibly find the cure to, pneumonia. I knew that and thought a great deal of what Mr. Bennett was trying to do. And even so...
"This is going to be another long carriage ride. We might as well talk about something interesting." Cameron said, breaking the silence as he tapped his thumbs together, "How's Catherine?"
I glanced at him, surprised. “Catherine? She’s doing well. Still lively for her age. It looks like she's not going to be slowing down anytime soon." Catherine is my 15-year-old Golden Retriever. Honestly, I'm surprised Cameron remembered she existed given his busy life. Makes me smile knowing that he remembers even the little bits about my life.
He smirked. “Your golden retriever is livelier than most people I know. And how’s the Irish girl? Lila? Lucy?”
I frowned. “Lottie. Her name is Lottie.”
“Right, Lottie,” he said with a knowing grin. “You talk about her more than you think, cousin.”
“I do not.”
He chuckled, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, but you do. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way your eyes linger when she’s around.”
"She’s my housekeeper, Cameron," I began, my voice wavering slightly. "A diligent one, at that. I mean, the house wouldn’t run half as smoothly without her. She’s just... very good at what she does. And of course, I respect her for it. That’s all. Nothing more." I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and I quickly glanced out the window, hoping he wouldn’t notice. "It would be entirely improper to think of her in any... other way. She’s a housekeeper, for heaven’s sake. And—and besides, she probably doesn’t even... I mean, why are we even talking about this?" My words tumbled out awkwardly, and I knew I wasn’t helping my case. Cameron’s amused expression didn’t make it any easier.
“Respect her? Oh, Ezra, you’re practically poetic when you talk about her cooking. Admit it—you’re smitten.”
I shot him a glare, but his smug grin only widened. “Enough. We’re on a serious job. This isn’t the time for your ridiculous theories.”
“And when would be the right time? At your house, where she might overhear? Or at mine, where my mother would undoubtedly pounce on the gossip?” He tapped his chin theatrically. “No, this is the perfect time.”
I clenched my jaw, then forced a calm tone. “Drop it, Cameron. Or I’ll be forced to mention a certain soprano and your late-night visits to her apartment you pay for.” Now I was the one with the smug face.
"Fine, I concede. We shall change the subject. What do you wish to talk about, dear cousin?"
I leaned back against the worn leather seat, the rattle of the carriage wheels filling the pause between us. “Tell me,” I said at last, “how is everything at home? Your father, the estate—have things improved?”
“As it always has been. Father lecturing me, wanting me to court a lady he just met, or complaining about the weather. It's like a broken record! He's always trying to set me up with some 'bright, young lady' but we both know I'm not ready to settle down. Can you picture me married? I'd never get a moment's peace!" He gave a slight chuckle.
"You know he won't remain content for too much longer. He and my father share so many similarities. That's precisely why I decided to move out on my own and secure a job. While this situation currently satisfies him, I anticipate that his yearning for grandchildren will eventually lead him to pressure me to start a family." I retorted.
"Why would we want to get married now anyway? We've got our whole lives ahead of us. We still have an empire to build, make something of ourselves, and attract the right lady.." He looked out the window.
The rest of the ride passed in comfortable quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the occasional creak of the carriage frame. The darkness pressed close around us, the smell of damp earth still clinging to my coat. It was only when the first faint glow of the London skyline crept up over the horizon that my shoulders eased. Gas lamps bled their light into the mist, and the black outline of rooftops and chimneys took shape like a slowly awakening beast.
But the driver didn’t take us straight in. Instead, we went through a series of turns—right, then left, then another left—looping through narrow, deserted streets. Every so often Cameron would lean out, scanning behind us for the faint shadow of a tail. Only when he seemed satisfied did we finally approach our destination. We came to a stop in the shadowed alley behind Dr. Bennett’s practice. Cameron hopped down first, the wood of the step slick with evening dew. He moved to the back door and rapped three times, slow and deliberate.
A few moments later, the door cracked open, spilling a thin wedge of yellow light into the alley. Dr. Bennett’s refined, clean-shaven face—save for the neat sweep of mutton chops along his jaw—emerged, framed by dark, slightly tousled graying hair. His gaze, steady and discerning, shifted from Cameron to me before settling with quiet intent on the carriage. “You took your time,” he said.
“Careful work takes time,” Cameron replied smoothly.
I had already moved to the trunk, my fingers finding the lock by habit. It clicked open with a sound that seemed much louder in the stillness. I lifted the lid and stood aside, letting the lantern light catch the pale outline within. Bennett stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “It’s her?”
“It’s her,” I confirmed. “You can check if you like.”
He did—briefly, efficiently—then straightened and offered Cameron his hand. “You’ve yet to disappoint me.”
“We don’t plan on starting now,” Cameron said, gripping his hand firmly.
Coins changed hands, their weight and clink quick but unmistakable. Bennett called over his shoulder, and his assistant appeared—thin, nervous, with sleeves rolled to the elbow. He took the bundled form from the trunk with a care that looked practiced, then vanished back inside without a word. For a moment, the three of us just stood there in the lamplight, the air damp and cool against my face. Another job done. And yet, I felt the familiar pull in my gut—a reminder that what we carried wasn’t just “goods.” It was someone’s daughter.
Cameron clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, cousin. Let’s get out of this alley before someone decides to ask questions.” We climbed back into the carriage, leaving Bennett and his shadows behind. “I’ll drop you off first,” he said as the driver set the horses moving. “Then I’ll head to my parents’ townhouse.”
I gave him a nod. “Thanks.”
But my voice was flatter than I intended, and the silence that followed made the space between us feel heavier. The city lights fell away behind us as we rattled down the quieter roads that led out toward my home. In the darkness, I let my gaze drift to the window, watching the faint glimmer of puddles sliding past. The weight of the evening settled into my chest like cold lead. I tried not to think about her—the pale stillness of her face, the embroidered gown—but the image refused to leave. We told ourselves it was for medicine, for progress. But the truth never stopped gnawing. Cameron didn’t speak, and for once I was grateful. The rhythmic thud of hooves and the swaying of the carriage became the only sound. I pressed a hand to my knee, tapping my fingers in an old nervous habit.
When the dim outline of my house finally came into view—dark roof pitched against the cloudy night—Cameron leaned forward, rapped the roof for the driver, and the carriage slowed to a halt. I turned to him. “Thank you,” I said again, quieter this time. He gave me a small, knowing nod, but didn’t press me for conversation.
The driver opened the door, and the cold air met me like a slap. I stepped down, my boots sinking slightly into the damp earth of the drive. Behind me, the carriage door shut, the wheels creaked, and they rolled away toward the city—leaving me alone with my thoughts and the hollow quiet of home. The front door swung open before I’d even reached the top step. Simon stood there, straight-backed as always, his white gloves faintly smudged from whatever work he’d been at before I arrived. “Welcome home, Sir,” he said, stepping aside to let me pass.
I gave a small nod in response and stepped into the warmth of the front hall. The scent of wood polish and the faint smoke from the Drawing room fire wrapped around me, but it did nothing to lift the lead in my chest. I could hear Simon closing the door behind me, then the quiet shuffle of his footsteps as he fell into step a pace behind. I climbed the stairs without a word, the banister smooth and cool beneath my hand. The house was silent save for our movements, and in that silence, I felt the weight of the night pressing harder. When I reached the far end of the hall, I pushed open my bedroom door and went straight to the chair by the window, letting my coat slide from my shoulders.
Simon was there in an instant, collecting it before it could crumple to the floor. I didn’t tell him I could manage. I didn’t say anything at all as he helped me out of my waistcoat, unbuttoned my shirt, and passed me the plain cotton nightshirt. My arms moved through the motions out of habit, my mind far away—still in that rain-soaked grave, still looking down at Abigale’s pale face. When he was finished, Simon gave a small bow and withdrew without comment. I lowered myself into bed, pulling the covers up tight against the cold. Sleep did not come easily.
When it finally did, it came like falling into a pit. I was back in the cemetery, the lantern light trembling over a coffin that wouldn’t open no matter how I pulled at it. And then it did—suddenly—and Abigale’s eyes snapped open. She sat up, her hair spilling forward like black water, lips moving but no sound coming out. I wanted to run, but my feet were sunk deep into the mud. The air seemed to crush in around me until I couldn’t breathe. I jerked awake in the dark, my heart pounding, the sheets twisted around my legs.I’d slept, but only barely.
The door opened quietly, and Simon stepped in with the same steady composure as always. “Good morning, Sir. Time to be up for work.”
The work people actually knew about. The respectable job. The one that didn’t leave dirt under my fingernails and ghosts in my dreams. I pushed myself upright, my limbs heavy, the day had begun whether I was ready for it or not. Simon handed me my banyan—dark blue with a faint pattern in the weave—and I slipped it on without a word. He gave a short bow, his posture immaculate as always, before leaving me to the quiet. The house was still as I made my way down the hall and stairs. The air outside the windows was a deep, unbroken black; the sun still far from its climb over the horizon. By the time I reached the dining room, the warm scent of coffee and bacon was already drifting through the air.
Lottie had been at work long before I rose. My breakfast—eggs, toast, and bacon—sat waiting, steam curling gently upward. A fresh cup of coffee sat beside the plate, rich and dark. There was no newspaper beside it, of course; that was my work, not my morning pastime. I was one of the hands that helped shape what London read, though not in delivery carts or ink-stained printing rooms. My place was at a desk, stringing words into columns.
I began to eat, letting the coffee cut through the remnants of my restless night. Halfway through the bacon, Simon reappeared, his tread soft as always, a silver tray balanced perfectly in his hands. “An urgent letter, sir,” he said, his tone even but edged with a faint gravity.
“Thank you,” I replied, setting down my fork and taking the envelope.
I broke the seal, took a sip of coffee, and scanned the neat script. Her Royal Highness, the Princess Alexandrina Victoria—future queen of the realm—had been born at Kensington Palace at precisely 4:15 a.m. I let out a slow breath, the reality of it sinking in. Well, there went my neatly planned day. A royal birth meant the entire paper would have to be torn apart and rebuilt before the presses ran. There was no preparing for this—no editor in London could predict the hour a future monarch might decide to arrive. Still, as much as a part of me dreaded the chaos ahead, another part felt the spark of it. This was history, fresh and breathing. And it was our job to capture it before the ink dried. I finished the last of my coffee, rearranging the morning edition in my head—shuffling columns, killing a piece on a shipping dispute, trimming the serialized novel—when a flash of red slid into the edge of my vision.
Lottie’s hand was wrapping around my empty coffee cup, lifting it from the table with her usual quiet efficiency. I hadn’t even heard her come in. Her cap was set just so, but a few strands of her red hair had escaped, curling against the pale skin at the nape of her neck. She turned without a word, the faint swish of her skirts marking her way toward the kitchen. My fingers found my toast almost absently, but my eyes lingered on that small patch of hair and skin—an entirely ordinary thing, yet somehow impossible not to notice. I bit into the toast, still watching the door she’d disappeared through, the taste little more than a background note to the thoughts I shouldn’t have been entertaining.
“Sir?”
I startled slightly, Simon’s voice snapping me back into the dining room. I looked up at him, caught halfway between my thoughts and the present moment. “Yes—ah—what is it?” I stammered, clearing my throat.
His expression didn’t change. “You’ll need to get dressed if you’re to make it into town on time.”
“Right,” I said, setting the toast down and brushing crumbs from my hands. “Of course.”
Simon inclined his head, stepping back with the kind of precision that suggested he’d been trained to make every movement purposeful. I rose from the table, pushing thoughts of Lottie—unwelcome and far too warm for this hour—into the quiet corner of my mind where they would stay, at least until I was alone again.
I nodded, said thank you, and got up from my chair. As I rounded the corner out of the dining room, I saw Lottie grabbing up my breakfast plate. Hurrying up the stairs and into my bedroom, my clothes were already laid out for me. While Simon was entirely capable, and it was part of his duties to help me get dressed, I opted to dress myself. Isn't it weird? The idea of someone else helping you dress? However, he did come in to make sure my black suit was spotless, and my cravat tied correctly and straight, and to do up my cufflinks for me. I gave myself a once-over while Simon left to gather up my coat, hat, and briefcase.
As I walked to the drive, the fresh spring air filled my lungs. It was still chilly out, but I adored this time of year before the heat of summer came. The carriage was waiting for me, the ebony horses trotting in place, ready to go. I hopped into the pitch-black carriage and the driver sped off.
The carriage always comes at 5:30 a.m. sharp and takes me straight to the office in London. The sounds of hooves against dirt belted through the countryside with the occasional crack of a whip. Trees blurred by, which turned into houses, and houses turned into buildings until we came to a stop outside of The Morning Herald's office. I stepped out and headed towards the front door. The heels of my shoes on the stone walkway echoed at the dark buildings, soon to be bustling with people.
Stepping into the office was an assault on one's senses. Quill pens flew across parchment flinging ink on several desks. The sound of the printing press being set up. People were having lively conversations, brainstorming new ideas, perfecting their writing skills, and deciding what would make the final cut. I calmly walked to my desk, which was located to the left of the door at the back wall, and tried to concentrate. Editors paced, messengers darted, and the clatter of the press bled in from the back.
I shed my coat, sat, and began writing at once. Facts first: hour, place, condition of mother and child. Every sentence had to be precise, polished, and ready to print before the streets filled. Around me, the newsroom moved at a fever pitch—proofs snatched from desks, headlines rewritten mid-stride, compositors waiting with impatient hands. The clock ran faster than my pen. I pressed harder, the page filling with clean, deliberate strokes, until the final line was done. Pages passed to the typesetters, I sat back, the ache in my fingers matched only by the press of urgency still humming in my chest. Another story captured before the city woke.
The hours passed in a blur of ink and ideas, and before I knew it, it was noon. Work was over for the day, and the transition from the office’s lively buzz to the bustling street outside was almost seamless. A yawn escaped as I stepped through the door, weary from the lack of sleep. Just then, I caught sight of a young lady, her blonde curls floating gently in the soft breeze, accompanied by her lady's maid as they strolled past. Wiping a tear from my eye—whether from exhaustion or the sting of ink-smudged hands, I wasn’t sure.
The carriage ride back home was a quiet one, the soft rattle of the wheels and the sway of the seat doing their best to lull me into half-consciousness. My head drifted against the cushion once or twice, but the day’s work had left me restless rather than peaceful. By the time the familiar outline of my house came into view, the afternoon light was fading into a pale gold.
Simon was there to meet me, his usual promptness never failing. “Welcome home, Sir,” he said, taking my coat and briefcase before I’d even fully stepped inside.
The warmth of the Hall was welcoming, but it was the faint aroma of tea and fresh bread that caught my attention. I followed it into the dining room and found Lottie setting the last of a small luncheon on the table—earl grey steaming gently in a porcelain pot, a plate of neat cucumber sandwiches waiting beside it.
“You’ve perfect timing, Sir,” she said, her voice carrying that soft lilt she couldn’t hide no matter how long she’d lived in England. “I thought you might want something light before you rest.”
“That’s exactly what I need,” I replied, taking my seat. She poured my tea without asking, the curve of her wrist as she tilted the pot catching my attention in a way I hadn’t meant it to. I caught the faintest trace of her perfume—a clean, delicate scent that made me think of early spring mornings.
“You’ve been busy today?” she asked, arranging the sandwiches so that the plate looked as though it belonged in a painting.
“Busier than I’d have liked. But seeing this waiting for me almost makes up for it.”
Her cheeks warmed at the compliment, though she tried to disguise it with a small laugh. “It’s only tea and sandwiches, Sir. Hardly a grand affair.”
“It’s more than that,” I said, meeting her gaze for a moment longer than I probably should have. “It’s you taking the time to make sure I’m looked after. That counts for more than you know.”
She faltered slightly, her hands pausing over the plate. “Well… it’s my job, after all,” she murmured, though her voice had softened.
“Maybe. But not everyone would do it with such care.”
Her eyes flicked to mine again, something shifted in the air—her breath caught just slightly, the moment stretching taut. And then, unbidden, Cameron’s smirk flashed through my mind, his voice in the dark carriage: Admit it—you’re smitten. I pushed the thought aside, but my eyes lingered—just as he’d accused—on the loose strand of her hair curling against the pale skin of her neck. As though suddenly aware of it herself, she straightened abruptly and smoothed her apron. “I should—ah—I’ve still got work to do,” she said, already moving toward the door.
“Of course,” I said quietly, watching her go. The faint sound of her footsteps on the stairs faded until the room felt emptier than it had a moment before.
I finished my tea slowly, letting the warmth settle in my chest before eating the last of the sandwiches. Once the plate was empty, I rose and made my way upstairs. My bedroom was dim in the afternoon light, the bed neatly made, the window open just enough to let in the faintest breeze.
Loosening my cravat, I sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders easing for the first time all day. The faint scent of tea still clung to my hands. I stretched out, the mattress dipping softly beneath me, the muted sounds of the house settling into the kind of quiet that could swallow thought if you let it. My eyes closed almost of their own accord, the pale light at the window painting the inside of my lids in a faint gold.
Somewhere downstairs, I imagined I could hear the faint clink of crockery, Lottie clearing away the remains of luncheon. I could picture her moving through the kitchen, her hair pulled back but never perfectly so, the stray wisps curling stubbornly free. The memory of her leaning close to pour my tea slipped in uninvited—the warmth of her hand near mine, the way her voice softened when she wasn’t thinking about it. Cameron’s words from the carriage resurfaced, that smug grin of his impossible to shake, though I told myself they were nonsense. Still… my eyes lingered on her longer than they should have, didn’t they? Even now, in the quiet of my own room, she was the last thought before the pull of sleep began to take hold.
