It is dark and rainy in the streets of Buenavaire, and yet the young woman running can’t even give a damn.

    Her ankles have long been rubbed raw by the uncomfortable heels she’s wearing, her skirts wet and torn from snags and catches. 

    Her lungs scream for air, they are on fire, scorching her raw throat, restricted by the usually helpful corset that was tightened more than usual by Olivia. 

    But Sable Whittaker couldn’t care less. All she wants is to get as far away from home, from the party, from him, as possible. 

Despite the heat burning through her body, her teeth chatter from the cold of the night. A lock of dark brown hair, curled for the occasion, falls over her face, into her mouth, and she spits it out. 

A lantern flickers weakly in the dark, and that should be her first clue that she has run much more than she thought.

Her second clue is the loose cobblestone her heeled shoe catches on, sending her plummeting to the ground. 

Sable’s cheek smashes against the stones, and she tastes blood as her teeth sink into her tongue. The sharp, metallic flavor is enough for her mind to realize the weariness soaring through her, how air is hard to come by, the throbbing pains in her legs.

She forces herself up, despite the stinging on the palms of her hands. Her legs were spared any scrapes, protected by her thick skirts.

But as she moves to take a step, a sudden searing pain in her foot causes her to scream and nearly fall over again.

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She doesn’t want to even look at her ankle. She already knows at the very least, it’s swollen and red.

At worst, she’ll see her own bones sticking out of it.

The flickering gaslight catches her attention, and for the first time, she realizes exactly where she is.

She is at the very edge of Willow’s End, the area of town where high society and “proper people” live.

She’s not even one mile away from Grayman’s Chapel, the one area of town that her mother and father warned her to stay as far away from as possible, telling her since she was four years old how that is no place for a fine young lady.

Anything could happen to her, and no one would know, especially with her unable to even walk.

Her fingernails chip against the cobblestones as she screams in frustration.

Rain begins to fall faster and heavier, yet Sable makes no movement.

Her eyes dart up at the sound of footfalls.

Her breath catches with shock as her brown eyes meet a pair of piercing blue ones, blue eyes that practically glow in the near darkness. 

She remembers who Cornelia Bellowes and Agatha Beauregard were gossiping about at the party.

“He nearly lives amongst the poor people, the commonwealth, has he no idea of social etiquette?”

“He mustn’t, otherwise, why would such a wealthy bachelor want to live near the grime of society?”

“Maybe he’s the Tearer, seeking out vulnerable, poor, nameless ladies to rip and slice up!”

“No, that can’t be, not a nobleman! Maybe he isn’t human.”

“Aggie, hush!”

“Richard saw him a few nights ago, strolling around. He said he could see his eyes even several feet away! Nobody’s eyes glow like that, he may even be a demon!”

Sable had rolled her eyes at the accusations, continuing to sip on her favorite raspberry wine instead.

But now, she is making eye contact with the so-called demon of Willow’s End. Malcolm Leroux.