MANHATTAN - OCTOBER 1899

Colleen Tracey was dead.

That was just a fact, but Sophie couldn't reconcile with it. She had been the one to find her that evening, unmoving in her bed, still dressed in day clothes.

Doc said the amount of alcohol she'd drunk in addition to her low tolerance to the powder Muggs so loved was enough to do it. That was that.

Colleen couldn't see, but she could almost hear what was going on around her. She lay on her bed, feeling utterly frightened, with her heart beating too fast. Minutes later she was gone.

Sophie tried to keep her friend's body warm, draping a blanket around her cold arms and legs, as if that would make a difference. Her mind was clouded by all the memories of Colleen, unable to grasp the reality of her being dead. The very thought haunted her. The landlady held Bella tightly while she cried, but Sophie couldn't yet bring herself to shed a tear. Colleen's death didn't feel real. When Jack and a few others arrived at the boarding house once they heard the news, Colleen had been dead for nearly five hours.

Doc, tipped off by Colleen's awful appearance, had determined her cause of death almost right away. There wasn't any question if he was right.

Muggs and Alexei were among the first to arrive.

Looking somewhat bewildered, Muggs just sat on the side of Colleen's bed as he listened to all this, glaring at Colleen's corpse, her oddly serene face for what felt like hours. The landlady sent for a few of men from the city's mortuary to take her body. The others silently went on around him, chatting in hushed voices about what should be done next and realizing that it would be wise not to say a word to Muggs until he snapped out of the terrible haze he was in.

Jack arrived with Sarah and her mother. Mrs. Jacobs had brought Sophie and Bella some dinner, offering whatever comfort she could.

Muggs heard the carriage from the mortuary pulling up on the street. When the drivers entered the boarding house, Muggs started to understand that they were going to whisk Colleen away forever, and that the girl who lay dead before him would never come back. It was inevitable, Muggs figured. But in his prolonged daze, he realized he needed to say a good-bye. A good-bye that his own cocaine had robbed him of. Looking anxiously around the small bedroom, his eyes descended upon Colleen's threadbare satchel. He grabbed the bag up, hoping to find their dead father's pocketknife, their dead mother's locket, and her ragged old doll from Jesse – and feeling relieved when he discovered them inside.

Muggs told Alexei that they couldn't throw Colleen in some unmarked grave without her doll. In his state of clouded madness, Muggs was ranting to Alexei, saying Colleen would need her doll. That the doll's name is Maisie, Leeny is her mama, and they need to be with one another — all things Colleen had told Muggs when they were small.

But Mrs. Jacobs, overhearing the conversation in the doorway, told Muggs that she'd help pay for Colleen to have a respectable plot in a cemetery in Brooklyn.

Brooklyn, so she could be home.

At the word 'plot,' Muggs subconsciously grabbed Alexei's wrist for support, and his throat closed. Sprinting out to the mortuary carriage in the night, Muggs nudged past the drivers as they were hauling Colleen's corpse into the back, then yanked back the blanket that Sophie had covered her with. Stroking her cold cheek for the last time in his life, Muggs bent down to kiss her forehead softly, mumbling:

"Should've been me, sweet girl."

Then he lightly dragged the blanket up again and moved away to allow the drivers to finish their job. As the carriage moved down the street, icy, hard truth raced through Muggs' veins in a horrible surge. It was so debilitating that when he saw Mrs. Jacobs standing on the veranda, offering him a look that said she understood how much Muggs was grieving, he walked over without another thought, sank into her outstretched embrace, and allowed himself a torrent of silent tears.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," Mrs. Jacobs whispered, putting her arms around him. "I'm so sorry."

"It ain't fair," Muggs managed to mutter through his anguish.

"Death never is," Mrs. Jacobs answered. "It was an accident."

"It's my fault…"

"It's no one's fault," Mrs. Jacobs said, rubbing his back, and reaching up to smooth his hair back from his face. "You didn't kill her."

Muggs nodded, sniffling away as much sorrow as he could. He could not, would not cry. "I may as well have," he said.

"Oh, no, sweetheart," Mrs. Jacobs said quietly. She released him, placing a hand on the side of his face. "Don't be saying things like that now. You did all you knew how, moje dziecko."

Muggs swallowed, looking back at the grey-haired woman, tears burning in his eyes. There was nothing crocodile about those tears this time. He hated that sensation. He had to dry them before anyone else saw.

"I wish you'd been my mother," Muggs said to the ground, just above a whisper. "Things might've been a lot different."