I pointed at the clock on the wall. “There is more than one way to tell the time,” I said, “and a window would do me no service at all.”

“You must grow tired of the dark, then.”

Some days, I could not distinguish night from day, as I had lost the intuitive sense of wakefulness long ago. My body seemed always in a state of fatigue. “I am accustomed to it,” I said.

How strange it was, sitting across from this child. The last child to sit in this very room was me, decades ago, observing my own mother as she worked. But I was not this girl’s mother, and her presence began to pull at me in an uncomfortable way. Though her naivety was endearing, she was very young. No matter what she thought of my shop, she could not need anything else I dispensed—the fertility aids, the cramp barks. She was here only for poison, so I aimed to bring us back to the subject at hand. “You have not touched your hot brew.”

She looked at it skeptically. “I do not mean to be rude, but Mrs. Amwell told me to be very careful—”

I held up my hand to stop her. She was a smart girl. I took her mug into my own hands, drank deeply from it and set it back down in front of her.

At once, she grabbed the mug and lifted it to her own lips, emptying the entire thing. “I was parched,” she said. “Oh, thank you, how delicious! May I have more?”

I maneuvered myself out of the chair, taking two small steps to the hearth. I tried not to wince as I lifted the heavy pot to refill her mug.

“What is the matter with your hand?” she asked from behind me.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been holding it funny this whole time, as though it hurts. Did you injure it?”

“No,” I said, “and it is rude to pry.” But I regretted my tone with her instantly. She was merely inquisitive, just as I was once. “How old are you?” I asked her in a softer tone.

“Twelve.”

I nodded, having expected something thereabouts. “Quite young.”

She hesitated and, by the rhythmic movement of her skirts, I presumed she was tapping her foot on the floor. “I have never—” She paused. “I have never killed anyone.”

I nearly laughed. “You’re only a child. I wouldn’t expect you to have killed many people in your short life.” My eyes fell on a shelf behind her where there rested a small porcelain dish the color of milk. Inside the dish lay four brown hen’s eggs, poison disguised within. “And what is your name?”

“Eliza. Eliza Fanning.”

“Eliza Fanning,” I repeated, “aged twelve.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And your mistress sent you here today, is that right?” The arrangement told me that Eliza’s mistress must trust her greatly.

But the child paused and furrowed her brow, and what she said next surprised me. “It was her idea initially, yes, but I was the one to suggest the breakfast table. My master fancies the chophouses for supper with his friends, and sometimes is gone for a full night or two. I thought breakfast might be the best idea.”

I looked to Eliza’s letter on the table and ran my thumb across one edge. Given her youth, I felt it necessary to remind her of something. “And you understand that this will not just harm him? This will not just make him ill, but—” I slowed my words. “This will kill him, as surely as it would kill an animal? That is what you and your mistress intend?”

Little Eliza looked up at me, her eyes sharp. She folded her hands neatly in front of her. “Yes, miss.” As she said it, she did not so much as flinch.

4

Caroline

Present day, Monday

“Couldn’t resist the old call of the river, eh?” said a familiar voice. Just ahead, the guide split off from the tour group and stepped toward me, wearing oversize, knee-high galoshes and blue cleaning gloves.

“I guess not.” Truth be told, I still didn’t even know what we were doing in the riverbed, but that was part of the appeal of it. I couldn’t help but grin at him. “Do I need some of those?” I nodded at his boots.

He shook his head. “Your sneakers will be fine, but take a pair of these.” From a backpack, he withdrew a pair of used, mud-stained rubber gloves, not unlike his own. “Wouldn’t want to cut yourself. Come on, we’re down here.” He started off, then turned back to me. “Oh, I’m Alfred, by the way. But they all call me ‘Bachelor Alf.’ Funny, too, seeing as how I’ve been married going on forty years. Nah, the old nickname’s on account of the fact that I’ve found so many of them bent-up rings.”

Seeing the confused look on my face as I tugged on my gloves, he went on. “Hundreds of years ago, men would bend metal rings to display their strength before asking a lady for her hand. But if the lady didn’t want to marry the man, you see, she threw the ring off the bridge and told him off. I’ve found hundreds of the rings. Seems plenty of gentlemen walked away from this river as bachelors, if you gather what I’m saying. Strange tradition anyhow.”

I looked down at my hands. My own ring was now hidden beneath a filthy rubber glove. Tradition hadn’t done much good for me, either. A few weeks ago, before my life came to a shuddering halt, I bought James a vintage box for his new business cards. The box was made of tin, the traditional gift on a tenth anniversary, meant to signify durability in a marriage. I’d had it engraved with James’s initials, and it arrived in the mail the evening before our planned trip to London—right on time.