Isabella Windsor was not mad. She knew this with a certainty that bordered on obsession, even as the voices in her head grew louder, even as the mirror in her bedroom began to show her things that were not there.
London, 1893. The city was a place of contrasts—gaslit streets and electric lamps, grand mansions and slum tenements, scientific progress and superstitious fear. Isabella lived in a townhouse on Belgrave Square, the daughter of an aristocratic family that had fallen on hard times, forced to send her to finishing schools and society balls in the hope of securing a wealthy husband. But Isabella...
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