Sunday, December 25th, 1833
Christmas Day
I WAS SPENDING the holiday alone with a dust-covered bottle of cheap gin. My feet rested upon my desk, my offices were cold and dark. Since Sikes robbed my offices, I could no longer afford coal for the fireplace, let alone oil for my lanterns. It would be a long time before I earned the money back, and in the meantime, I would certainly mind each penny with more frugality than even before.
I might have parted my curtains, it was early enough, sunlight still played about the laughing, singing children as they breezed down the street. I would have none of it. I was aching from my many wounds, only a handful of them visible upon my flesh. Adelaide and I had barely spoken a word since the nightmarish events at Rutledge’s country home. Even now, she
