I do believe that Gabe and Lizzie have the most charming home I have ever seen. It is small, but grand, with a spacious garden out in back and a lavish library with more books that I could ever read. The name, which is Lily House, is derived from the name of one of Lizzie's childhood cats. Although I have only been here a matter of days, I can already attest to the homeliness of it. Gabe did well in choosing Lizzie for she is absolutely everything I will probably never be. She is refined, highbred, beautiful, smart, and altogether charming. She is truly what Mr. Patmore meant when he spoke of an angel in the house. From what I have perceived, Lizzie is the picture of domesticity.

She is currently taking tea in the sitting room with the preacher's wife—a Mrs. Jillings. I was invited but declined as I am still exhausted from traveling and I am not suitably dressed for company, or at least not by Lizzie's unspoken but easily understood standards. She wears the newest fashions, the prettiest and most decorated dresses and the most elegant hairpieces, all of which she offered to me. The gesture was all too kind, but I felt it wasn't right. Gabe assures me that he will withdraw enough funds for me to purchase a new wardrobe. I am set to go shopping with Lizzie just as soon as Hanny arrives from St. Agatha's. Until then, I remain in my black dress from yesterday and as such do not feel up to company where I might be judged for first impressions.

To be frank, I look ghastly. I am naturally pale with dull blue eyes and blond hair that is more white than golden. I do not glow like other fair ladies; instead I just look like an apparition. I haunt and am haunted. Sister Alberta once told me that I looked like I'd been washed and left out in the sun far too many times. There are scars as well, though I healed well enough from my burns. Add a dress that was most certainly meant for a widow in mourning, and I look casket ready. And so I sit and write. This has slowly become my constant, the one things that is mine. I have no friends, not really, no one with which I trust to share my burdens—my world. And I am so very burdened. I digress.

While I have time, I should recount the dinner from my first night here, as it was nearly as odd as my travels with Rosie and Desmott had been. When Gabe arrived home last night he was overjoyed to see me. I'd met him at the front step and fell into his embrace without any qualms. After a tight squeeze and more warmth than I'd been privy to in a very long time, he pulled away, holding me at arms length. "I will not lie to you, my dear girl, you look like death warmed over. Was there nothing else for you to wear?"

I grinned and spun in a circle so he could receive the full effect of my dress. "There was more crinoline for it, to make the skirt wider, but I refused to wear it. Made quite a fuss about it, Sister Alberta yelled at me no less than twice."

"Splendid choice. I suppose it would not be a proper farewell without a few good yells." He offered me his arm, "Have you been behaving yourself?"

I took his arm. "Why of course I have. Don't I always?"

He laughed and the smile never faltered from his handsome face as the two of us walked arm in arm down the hall and into the elaborate dining room. It was then that, upon entering the room and seeing the other two guests, his facial expression tightened. Lizzie, always the attentive wife, stood up from where she'd been seated at the table and went to meet her husband. "This is Mr. Desmott and Miss Gressil. They accompanied Merritt from Manchester. It was late when they arrived so I offered them dinner."

"How very good of you." He spoke genuinely, but his eyes did not match his light tone. He was looking at Desmott with a distaste I could not comprehend. I opened my mouth to say something, to ask why he was suddenly so unnerved, but his reaction melted away before I could muster the words. Within seconds he was smiling again. He separated from me and I was left standing by the door as Gabe moved to greet Desmott and Rosie. Lizzie looped her thin arm in mine and pulled me to my spot at the table.

"Dinner will be served soon. It's roast, I hope you don't mind."

I smiled. "Sounds lovely."

My place was opposite Rosie, with an empty chair to my left and Desmott placed to her right. Gabe and Lizzie each took an end of the table. Lizzie directed conversation, thanking Desmott for going out of his way to retrieve me and asking what it is he does here in London.

"I manage a theater."

Lizzie thrilled at this information. "Which one?"

"It's a small one, but new. It's called Ballantyne."

"How is it that you have come to own a theater?" Gabe asked.

"I don't own it." Desmott explained, "I only rent the building and organize things. I choose the plays and the actors; make sure everything in the box office runs smoothly. But I don't actually own the theater itself. I cannot claim to be nearly wealthy enough for that."

She clapped her hands together. "We must go and see something there."

"Yes, of course. You must." Desmott agreed. "Allow me to plan an evening, I shall secure tickets and arrange the whole thing."

Lizzie nodded and glanced sidelong at her husband, awaiting his response. After a long moment, Gabe answered. "That would be wonderful, thank you."

"My pleasure." Desmott answered. "And you'll come as well, Miss Holbrook?" His eyes met mine and I hesitated. I have never been to a play before and the whole prospect seemed too wonderful to be real. He raised an eyebrow, awaiting my response.

I nodded. "Yes, I would love that."

"Maybe Saturday evening."

"I'll be in a show that night." Rosie spoke up, obviously irked at having been included in the conversation. Slowly, she reached a gloved hand over and rested it on Desmott's arm, the action uncomfortably possessive. Her fingers crept up until it was resting gently against his shoulder. "It's opening night, you'll be preoccupied." They held each other's gaze and Rosie shifted in her seat so that he, and effectively Gabe, had a direct view of her cleavage.

Lizzie cleared her throat loudly and grabbed a small silver bell sitting at the middle of the table. She rang it. Within seconds the housekeeper and the maid from earlier were standing at the door. "Mrs. Zanderfield," Lizzie said, her voice tight, "we are quite ready for dinner." The housekeeper, Mrs. Zanderfield, bowed and scurried from the room, herding the younger girl along with her. Once they were gone, Lizzie leveled her gaze on the opposite end of the table. Gabe met her eyes; he was clearly very vexed by Rosie's display.

I wondered why he did not cast them out into the night. They had served their purpose, accompanied me to my new home and were no longer needed. It was clear that Rosalie Gressil, although a self-proclaimed actress, was little more that a tart. As for Mr. Desmott, I doubt his intentions are any less dubious, what with the way he consistently ogles her. Lizzie seemed to be thinking the same thing, her eyebrows quirking up in a silent question for her husband. He shook his head ever so slightly and opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted when the food arrived.

Plate after plate of food was placed on the table, a roast, broiled potatoes, candied carrots, rice, breads, and cheeses. Ribbons of white steam trailed their way towards the vaulted ceiling. My mouth watered, my stomach growled and it took everything in me not start eating right away. I waited, forced patience, as everyone filled their plates. I did not move or reach for any of the food. Impatience as a child had taught me the price of being too hasty with freshly served food. I'd scorched my fingers too many times to count, never feeling the burn but seeing the results of it. Just because I cannot feel pain does not mean I should not heed the signs of it.

The only person who noticed I was not eating was Desmott, "Are you not hungry, Miss Holbrook?"

With his words, everyone paused and turned to look at me.

Shame filled me like water in a glass, rising in me until I felt I might burst into embarrassed tears. I had wanted to avoid this. When he had asked me on the train about my needing a doctor, I had dodged his question. But it appeared this man was destined to know of me. I sighed and forced my fingers to relax in my lap, lest I draw blood with my own fingernails. "I have to wait."

"For what?" Desmott asked.

"The food is hot. I could burn myself if I touch it too soon."

Lizzie pressed a hand to her chest. "I had not even considered that. How very rude of me. What can I do? Should I have had them prepare your plate ahead of time, allow it to cool before the meal?"

"No." I assured her. "Please don't feel badly about it. I need only be patient for a few moments. Wait until it isn't steaming quite as much." I donned a practiced smile and gestured to the food. "Do not stop eating on my account." Slowly, everyone went back to adding food to plates—Everyone but Desmott.

"So," he asked me, "You cannot tell that your food is too hot? What I mean is, do you not feel it?"

He does not know. He is so blessedly oblivious and I adore every second of the freedom such things give me. To him, I am only a woman. It is liberating to have someone be so entirely ignorant of me. I thrilled at the very idea of it. All I want is to blend into a crowd, to disappear and be seen as a normal person. For a fraction of a second, a heartbeat, I am normal to him; then that innocence, as fragile and uncertain as it most certainly was, found itself broken apart once again by Rosie Gressil.

"Don't you know?" She said sharply, "Miss Holbrook can't feel pain."

"That isn't true. That's a monstrous thing to say, Rosie. Don't lie." He laughed and shook his head at her. That smile, handsome and apologetic, was still there when he turned back to me, I watched him take me in, watched the smile dissolve. He looked sidelong at the others. "Well, it couldn't be. Certainly, you can..." He trailed off as he took in my face.

"But it is." The words felt like sandpaper in my mouth, dry and coarse and unbearably nasty. "I can't feel pain. It's why I am here, why I have Dr. Abaddon as my physician."

"No." Desmott looked around the table, searching for someone else who might be equally as surprised as he was. As if Gabe might start laughing and reveal it was all a wicked joke. But no one was smiling. Everyone else at the table knew about me. Everyone else had seen the headlines and knew my story.

He was alone in his disbelief. "That's absurd. Utterly impossible."

I looked at the steaming food, watched the candles on the mantle flicker and cast long shadows across the wallpaper. I barely heard myself as I said, "I assure you, it's true."

He exhaled and his throat bobbed before he said, "But how?"

I met his eyes, searched them for any sign of judgment or disgust--there was none. "I suppose your friend will be the one to tell us." I answered. "Dr. Abaddon seems to believe he can create a cure. I would assume he must then know what the problem is."

"So you cannot eat your food now because you could potentially burn yourself—"

"And I would never know."

"So you must eat your food cold? Always?"

"More often than not, I suppose. But I don't really experience hot and cold, so it does not phase me. That is why it is dangerous for me to—"

"You can't feel temperatures either?" His words were breathless, his dark eyes boring into mine.

It was odd to have someone ask these questions without the tang of maliciousness. I had to force myself to smile, force myself not to excuse myself from the table. I wondered if this house had a linen closet, a crevice I could hide in like the monster I most certainly was.

Somehow my voice remained even as I answered, "Not intensely, no. I can feel pressure, hints of what I believe is hot and cold, my body may sometimes react..." I trailed off, suddenly recognizing the prescience of everyone else at the dinner table. For a matter of seconds, with his eyes focused on mine, I forgot we were not alone. We'd been caught up in our conversation, in each other. It was neither appropriate nor considerate, given our circumstances.

The spell broke for him as well and he cleared his throat. "Of course, dinner is not the time for such conversations. I'm sorry, Miss Holbrook."

Gabe tried to lessen the discomfort by redirecting our conversation. "How was your journey? I trust you were well looked after."

I nodded. "It was nice. I had not traveled by train since—"

"Since before you killed your family?" Rosie's mouth was spread into a wide, catlike smile as she awaited my response.

That wry smile faded as Desmott dug his fingernails into the flesh of her wrist. I cannot feel pain, but Rosie most certainly can. She cried and yanked her arm away from his tight grasp. Desmott's voice was soft, a growl, as he said, "That was incredibly rude. I demand you apologize."

Rosie met his glare full force, "It was a joke, I was only teasing."

He grabbed his napkin and tossed it onto his plate, the gesture threatening. "It was hurtful and you meant it to be."

Her chair slid backward with a screech, wood on wood as Rosie stood up. "I am not a child and I will not stand for being insulted—"

Desmott did not look at her as he spoke. He kept his eye on the crumpled white napkin he'd tossed on his plate. "You will apologize to Miss Holbrook and you will sit back down." It was not a request.

When she moved to walk away, Desmott stood too and grabbed her wrist, the skin twisted with his tight grip. She yelped like a kicked dog and tried to pull away but he held firm. Gabe stood up. Lizzie reached out, touching his wrist, a warning or an encouragement—even now I am unsure.

"You will unhand the lady." Gabe did not yell. He did not even raise his voice. Instead, he braced his fists against the table and leaned forward, moving so that he was in Desmott's space.

The two men locked eyes and I felt a wave a sickening fear find solace in the pit of my stomach. There was static, a pressure of awkward intensity that seemed to linger in the very air I breathed. I felt compressed, as if I were being pulled from both sides, while the walls seemed to cave in as well. But I was not being touched. I was not involved at all.

While I did not like Rosie and I did not like her words, but I most certainly did not want this.

Rose had hurried from the room, grabbing her gloves and coat with haste, yelling at Desmott all the while. She was telling him that she would find a carriage to take home; she no longer needed Desmott's help. She was telling him that her father would hear of his mistreatment of her. Lizzie hurried after them, trying to salvage her impromptu dinner party and keep her neighbors from overhearing the arguments. She offered their carriage to Rosie and she flippantly accepted.

"My father will have much to say." Rosie told Desmott as she tugged her lacy white gloves into place. "I can't believe your nerve—that you would touch me, hurt me. Correct me." She shoved away a frenzied Mrs. Zanderfield who was only trying to help her into her coat. "I refuse to be treated like a child—like your pet. I have every right to think and say whatever I wish. Especially to her. She is nothing. No one." She said those last words quietly, like she didn't mean for me to overhear. But I did.

Desmott had followed her from the room, out into the hall, speaking to her in a low voice. Threatening her, I knew that was what it was even without hearing his words outright. I left Gabe standing, head bowed and fists still pressed to the tabletop, and walked to the dining room entrance. I gripped the doorway, trying to stay out of sight and still within earshot. I am nothing if not shamelessly curious. Desmott grabbed Rosie's shoulders and tried to turn her to face him.

She turned around and backed out of his grasp. "Do not try to sweet talk me. I will not have it. Not from you."

"If you don't want to be treated like a child," Desmott was saying, "I suggest you cease acting as one."

"You bring me all the way from Manchester, I was doing just fine at the Royal. You chose to move me, to bring me here. And now you insult me, choose some—some invalid over me. She's a monster. She is crazy, if you believe the papers. And you ask me to apologize to her as if she deserves it. Trust me, Levi. She isn't your type. She is mad." Rosie shook her head and took another step away from him, her voice low as she said, "If you'd seen the papers about her. What they say she did—"

"This is not about that. It is about your behavior. You have spent every spare second jabbing her. Being the first to mention a house fire, her family's death, this...illness she has. You forget your place. If you'll take a moment to recall why you were moved from the Royal you might see what the problem is."

Rose shook her head. "I refuse to listen to this. You are not my keeper."

He caught her wrist again and pulled her close to him. "Perhaps, but I know who is."

"You wouldn't dare—"

Lizzie walked around the two of them and pulled the front door open. "That is quite enough, Mr. Desmott. I would ask you kindly leave this residence. Rest assured, I will make sure Miss Gressil is deposited safely at her own residence." She turned to look at the two of them, her eyes digging into Desmott's.

They held each other's gaze as, ever so slowly; he released Rosie and took his coat from Mrs. Zanderfield's outstretched arms. He turned his back to both of them as he donned it, his eyes finding me standing a few yards away tucked inside the doorway of the dining room.

I wish I could go back and capture the exact likeness of the way he looked at me that night. Maybe then I would understand it better. Maybe then I might understand the oppressive anxiety that shook my very bones. But it was all there and gone too quickly. Before I could say a word, he nodded his head at me, a curt bow that in another circumstance, in a world that was far less terrible than my own, might have been the introduction to a dance and left, disappearing into the darkness of the street beyond.

I am entirely unsure what any of this means or why I feel so incredibly burdened by it all. I am a girl with too many problems of her own, busy with my own trials. Why must I then take upon me the tribulations of others, as if they were my own to carry? Perhaps I am merely a glutton for punishment. Or possibly it is because I have not been able to stop thinking of Mr. Desmott or the look on his face since that night.