The Dreadful Demise of Miss Emma Collins

Chapter One (In Which A Stolen Necklace Reawakens)

Had I known that wearing Grandmother's necklace on that balmy London evening would prompt my death, I might have opted for my lace choker instead. Of course, I had no idea at the time; I'd smuggled it out of her jewelry box only hours before, while Grandmother was downstairs gossiping with an acquaintance. She'd have given me a sound lashing if she'd known I was wearing it, so I'd hid it in my wrist purse until I was safely in the carriage. Now it glimmered off my collarbone in a silent protest of its newest lot in life.

I did have a warning upon entering the dance hall that night. It came in the form of a fragmented flash that lasted only seconds: A girl, with tiny pale fingers, grabbing at my arms. Her nails dug into my wet skin as a salty wave hurled itself above our heads. We began spinning together underneath; an endless struggle between two children dancing against death.

I wouldn't allow such inconvenient thoughts to spoil my evening, so I fixed a smile to my masked face. The hall's gold-gilded moldings swept across the walls and ceilings, framing deep crimson wallpaper. Lavish silk dresses swayed across the floor in time to the melodies of the violins and piano playing at the far end of the hall.

Men and women smiled underneath gilded masks. A tall red-headed girl laughed behind her lace fan as her dance partner twirled her over the marble floor. The luminous crystal chandeliers above their heads seemed to join in on the laughter, winking and sparkling along with the fast-paced dance.

The grandeur of these events never failed to thrill me, and I must admit to letting out a gasp of delight at the scene. I'd attended dozens of these masquerades in the two seasons since my debut into London society, but each still held its own unique majesty. Perhaps, just like everyone in the hall, I simply loved letting the frivolity and joy of these nights sweep me into a splendid stupor. They served as a delightful distraction from my nightmarish visions.

"Miss Collins, you've outdone yourself again." Mrs. Edwards bustled through the crowd to greet me. The woman was vigorously rotund; a fact nobody could ignore when her wide gown knocked a poor girl into her dance partner's shoulder. This, of course, sent Mrs. Edwards into a frenzy of blushing apologies. Once the young redhead was deemed alive and well, Mrs. Edwards continued toward me as she shook her head in self-chastisement. "Your dress is absolutely gorgeous." She reached her thick, satin-gloved fingers out to admire the tufts of golden lace cascading from my shoulders. "Queen Victoria herself would be envious."

I smiled my gratitude and lowered my eyes just enough to convey the correct amount of modesty. My dress's green Italian cotton perfectly matched my eyes, which I'd framed with a gold mask. The lace Mrs. Edwards admired fell in just the right spot to reveal my collarbone. I'd spent hours arguing with the seamstress over this detail.

In all honesty, I adored the dozens of admiring gazes resting on me. The countless hours of work to perfect my dress, my skin, my hair, had all been worth it. That flush of warmth on the back of my neck signaling all attention was on me served as the most invigorating elixir anyone could imagine.

I realize now that I was never naturally all that lovely. Really, my beauty only arose from my sheer determination for it. I was a spoiled girl who expected the world and then received it with ease. It began after the wreck, when everyone around me began cooing, "Poor Emma, all her family is gone and she witnessed it," and then began giving me anything I wanted. I was spoilt so terribly that one could probably smell the stench from the other side of London.

But in that moment — the last moment for an unacceptably long time — I felt I was the most splendid creature ever to breathe air. I walked through a crowd of dancers swaying together in a dizzying wave and breathed the mix of floral perfumes. Through the gliding arms and swishing satins I caught a glimpse of Violet Welch's cobalt dress spreading itself out over what seemed a horse-length plot of space. She'd always been proud of her momentous crinolines, and this was one to remember. Beside her stood Florence Winston, a brown-haired girl of average height with a plain face and half a dozen royal titles. Two men were already clamoring for her undivided attention.