Emil scowled. He hated happy families.
He looked away from the window, took a gulp of tea, and winced. He’d always thought Earl Grey was some disguised form of dishwater, but every adult he knew drank it, and his mother said it was an acquired taste. He forced himself to take another sip, and looked down at the table in front of him.
One, two, three newspapers lay strewn across the mahogany table. The first newspaper, dated December 16th, 1882, was flipped to the obituaries, where a small paragraph about a girl named Daphne Bell could be found. It was only a few lines, something about her family and “may He bless her immortal soul,” or some such rubbish.
She had been the first to die.
Three days after going missing, she’d apparently fallen from the twentieth building on a wealthy street around Kensington Gardens. Her bashed up, bloody body lay spread-eagled on the ground, with glass protruding from it at the oddest angles.
The funny thing was, all the windows on that street were perfectly intact.