Vivian’s shoes clacked forlornly on the cobblestones; her path was illuminated somewhat by the moon, but even the celestial orb’s bright face was buried in silken clouds from time to time, drenching everything in velvety darkness.

As she stepped carefully into the gloomy innards of the hansom, Vivian couldn’t help but think about Sir Isaac’s house.

It had been a large, brooding mansion; every stone seemed to be steeped in melancholy, turning the atmosphere inside almost intolerable.

Vivian faintly heard the driver coaxing the horses into moving, and felt the hansom jerking beneath her feet.

Absentmindedly, she lifted a gloved hand to draw back the curtains as to see what was drifting past the window.

Something deep within her conscience told her, fervently thanked her, congratulated her on taking leave of that mournful place.

She felt sharper, more alert, now – back in the mansion, Vivian had felt like her auditory and sense of smell had been inundated.

By what, the lady did not know.