Boston, 4 March 1865
“The evening Claire turned eighteen, her life changed forever.”
She wrote the words in her diary, the only place she allowed herself to express such silly notions. What were the chances her life would go in a completely unexpected direction? She closed the book, tucked it under her mattress, and checked her reflection in the mirror for the hundredth time. She looked normal, perhaps even pretty, but she couldn’t ignore an odd tingling sensation in her scalp that subsided when she attended to it but returned when she turned her attention elsewhere.
“They’re ready for you, Miss,” her maid told her, and Claire stood and smoothed her skirts even though she’d been sitting unusually still for her so they wouldn’t wrinkle. When she walked into the hall, the sounds of people
