*****Content warning: This chapter involves domestic abuse, attempted suicide, and descriptions of the 1888 "Jack the Ripper" murders. As always, I avoid graphic detail, but please take care if these are sensitive sujects for you.*****

January, 1875. London.

Sam hacked and coughed into the frigid night air when she made it back onto solid ground. She didn't want to think about why the water tasted so horrendous. Now wasn't the moment to worry about health hazards. She was just glad to be alive. It was a miracle she'd managed to escape the pull of the tracer, which at first had her fully convinced she couldn't swim. There was no time to process the new memories, the fears, the lifetime of trauma that, in a single instant, became a core part of her being.

She simultaneously felt more alive and more frightened than ever before. It had to be the result of her two separate lives coming together under such extreme circumstances. Sam was alone in a stranger's body without any idea where to go from here, but Rosalie was relieved. Rosalie could hardly remember the last time she'd felt this free. Though she still carried the memories and the shame that went hand-in-hand with her lifestyle, the irrational guilt that had gnawed at her since childhood was suddenly gone.

That's because JB gave me the emergency OCD vaccine right after the fire, Sam realized. It was good to know that at least one thing he'd told her was true.

She twisted her hair in her hands and squeezed out the water. It splashed onto the dirt and the ground glowed in the spots where it landed. Tracers. This must be what they look like normally. If tracers were back, did that mean time had been fixed? Was it healing itself at that very moment? It hurt to have confirmation that her life in the twenty-first century was all a mistake, but she knew it was for the best. This means Tony can have a full life.

A gust of wind struck her with chilling ferocity and she hugged her knees against its force. It did nothing to ease her shivering. She had to get back to her apartment and into dry clothes. After bracing herself, she rose to her feet and hiked her way up to the road. But something stopped her as soon as she made it back onto the bridge. Was it even safe to return to her apartment, the place where Gérôme had assaulted her just hours ago? By the time she made it to the West End, he might already be there waiting. And even if he wasn't, he still knew where she lived. If he'd managed to track her all the way from Paris, he'd surely find her if she stayed in London.

Should she flee the continent then? Would he follow her to America if she somehow scraped up enough money to make it there? She could feel the panic rising in her chest as she realized that as long as she was alive, he'd continue to seek her out. Even during the most unpleasant moments she'd endured with him in the dressing rooms, he'd never struck her until tonight. He would grab and pull and pin her down, but never did anything that would leave a mark. Of course, she knew that was only because Suzette would have ended the agreement if Rosalie ever returned home with so much as a scratch. But now, with Suzette gone and nothing to lose, Sam was certain that Gérôme would sooner kill her than let her make a fool of him. How painfully ironic it was to know that the only way he would leave her alone was if she had drowned just now.

Then it occurred to her—what if she could make him believe she was dead? He'd have no reason to pursue her then. She wouldn't have to leave the continent, or even the country. She could find domestic work outside the city, perhaps, somewhere far from the stage and spotlight. The thought of forever leaving the opera behind broke her heart—despite all the baggage it entailed, she never felt more at home than when she was on stage—but she had no other choice.

She checked her surroundings, but it was so dark, she was sure no one would see her, save the rats she heard scurrying about in the shadows. Then she got to work, unbuttoning her soaked bodice and tossing her skirt and petticoat over her head until she stood in only her underlayers. She flung the three pieces over the bridge and heard a soft splash. After some thought, she removed the bustle too, realizing it would almost certainly float and alert passersby of a likely drowning. That would put them on the lookout for anything else, and when her dress washed up, they'd make the connection. She kept her chemise, drawers, corset, and stockings because she knew she would need them later. Surely no one would expect to recover every single one of her items in the rushing waters of the Thames.

When she arrived back in her apartment, she checked every corner of the place, but there was no sign of Gérôme, thank God. The fire had gone dark, but a single strand of smoke still remained, curling upward like a ghost. She had to act fast if she wanted to disappear by morning.

"Okay, Rosalie, let's do this," she murmured to herself. It helped to think of Rosalie as a different person, someone she needed to protect rather than a version of herself that still carried six years of abuse, plus the grooming that came before it. If she could see herself as just inhabiting Rosalie's body, then Sam could remain untouched. It was strange, though, being nineteen again. It had happened so gradually when she was growing up, she hadn't noticed how her body had changed over the years. She had of course noticed how some of her clothes from high school no longer fit by the time she'd turned twenty-five, but it wasn't something she felt physically. Apart from the frustration that came with having to resize all her historical costumes to fit a twenty-seven inch corseted waist, when before she could lace down to twenty-two inches, she hadn't felt much change.

Now, however, she did feel strangely light. In the bedroom mirror she could see that Rosalie was even skinnier than Sam had been at nineteen, probably due to all the ballet lessons. And the trauma, she thought. Trauma takes a toll on the body. She'd learned that from listening to the many podcasts that recounted survivor stories of women who'd escaped serial killers or abusers. Many had taken years to heal from the constant fear and self-blame that came with the territory. Sam had wanted to hug them, to tell them it wasn't their fault and that they deserved to be loved and protected. "So do you, Rosalie. So do you."

I am, you, stupid, said a small voice in Sam's mind. You can run from this city, but you can't run from our past. She shuddered and shook her head. No. Samantha Cretney had had her tough moments in foster care, but she'd gone to therapy and dealt with it. For her history camps, she'd even gone through training on how to spot child abuse and how to respond if someone ever reported to her for help. She would be fine.

Sam found a scrap of paper inside a desk drawer and began writing. She addressed the note to Gérôme and declared the intention to end her life: By the time you read this, I will already be in the river. She finished with a farewell and signed it "Lily," the nickname only he would know. This would prove its legitimacy.

She changed into a new dress, one she'd purchased in London that Gérôme would not recognize, and packed a few necessities, leaving the rest behind with the note. By sunrise, Rosalie would be no more and Sam would be free.

Sam made her way out of London without too much trouble thanks to the money Rosalie had saved up over the years. It wasn't a lot, but it got her one night at an inn outside the city and three small meals for the day. She'd briefly considered reaching out to Abby, but decided it was too dangerous. The mere thought of Gérôme tracking her to Abby's place filled her with dread.

From the inn, Sam browsed local newspapers for job advertisements. With Rosalie's privileged education, she knew her best bet was to work as a governess for an upper or middle class family. In the latter half of the nineteenth century, families with over five children were growing more rare, so with any luck, she'd only be in charge of two or three.

It wasn't long before she found her opportunity. The Wrights, a young middle class couple, were seeking a governess for their newborn baby girl. They were moving to the East Sussex region in the hopes of raising their child by the seaside, and they wanted a governess who was willing to move with them. To Sam, this was perfect—it would get her even further out of London and, with a newborn, she'd have a steady income for at least twelve years. Sam lunged at the opportunity and within a week, she was on her way to Eastbourne, East Sussex.

The trip there went by smoothly, and apart from accidentally introducing herself to the couple as Rosalie Dubois (an unfortunate force of habit), Sam felt optimistic about her new life. Well, almost. There was one other problem: the constant presence of an unknown woman's tracer—presumably the woman who would have taken the governess job if Rosalie had drowned. The woman was very pretty, with a high forehead and dark wavy hair. Her high cheekbones hinted at some Scandinavian heritage, perhaps. For this reason, Sam had privately nicknamed her "Elsa," but tried not to think about her too often. Still, she could not help but wonder if she'd stolen an opportunity from someone who desperately needed it.

The seaside town was beautiful. With charming stone houses and whitewashed cottages, sweeping green hills and breathtaking sea cliffs, East Sussex charmed her from the start.

Caring for baby Olivia wasn't always pleasant, but Sam didn't complain. If boiling soiled nappies and waking in the early morning hours to rock the baby back to sleep was what it took to escape Gérôme forever, it was worth it.

Unfortunately, while she could escape him physically, he was ever-present in Rosalie's memory. Sam tried everything to banish him, but it was like sharing a house with a roommate that never locked the door. Each time Sam fell asleep, Rosalie's nightmares let themselves in and ravaged her till morning. She only hoped Olivia's cries were loud enough to drown out Sam's screams.

Sam tried talking to Rosalie, telling her she was safe now, that she had nothing to fear, but the more Sam tried to push her away, the stronger her presence felt. One Sunday, at the market, Sam passed by a florist just as the wind picked up and carried a light satiny fragrance to her nose. Lilies. She couldn't breathe, her hands went completely numb, and she thought she might faint. Visions of dark dressing rooms streamed in, and suddenly she was back in Paris, pinned to a bed or sofa, sinking down, down, down under the weight of her assailant.

She counted to ten and blinked several times. The wind died down and she stood there, shaking like a madwoman while onlookers eyed her quizzically. She dashed as far from the florist as she could and only stopped when another booth caught her eye. A bearded man in a clean white suit grinned down at her from behind a sign that read Seaside Sweets. "Anything for you today, Miss?" he asked.

Sam scanned the glass candy jars lined up on the table for something potent enough to erase any remnant of that nauseous flower from her lungs. Then something lit up in her chest when she saw a jar filled with black coin-shaped candies labeled Pontefract Cakes. She pointed at the candies and said, "Licorice?"

The man nodded. "Best in town, if I do say so myself. How many for you?"

Sam purchased three bags.

Olivia turned one, and then two. By now she was crawling all over the nursery and Sam had her hands full, but she always made time on Sundays to purchase more licorice. It grounded her in the present whenever the past tried to break through.

Mrs. Wright gave birth to a baby boy in 1878, then another girl in 1884. Sam's workload increased, but she loved the children. Olivia had grown into a sweet blue-eyed nine year-old with her mother's butterscotch curls. Six year-old Peter was rambunctious but kind. He cared deeply for his baby sister Martha and took his role as big brother very seriously. In the evenings, Sam sang lullabies to Peter and Olivia as she rocked Martha in her arms. It might have been a peaceful life if not for Rosalie.

The longer Sam spent in Rosalie's body, the more she seemed to lose herself. She'd tried to show compassion in the hopes of dispelling Rosalie's demons, but they only grew stronger every year. After one particularly brutal nightmare, Sam had lost her patience and said to her empty bedroom, "I'm done trying to help you, Rosalie. Leave me be."

I cannot, Rosalie seemed to reply. We are one and the same.

"No. I am Samantha Cretney."

You are Rosalie Dubois.

"Rosalie is dead!" Sam cried. "She drowned nine years ago in the Thames."

Samantha is the one drowning.

Sam screamed into her pillow. It was true, as much as she wanted to deny it. She was losing herself. Each day the tracers became easier to ignore, and the memories from her old life started to feel more like distant dreams than realities. Only her time travel adventures remained prominent reminders of who she was before. After all, she could never forget JB no matter how hard she tried—he was simultaneously the best and worst thing that ever happened to her. She thought about him daily, wondered if he ever checked in on the 1800s to see how she was doing or if he'd moved on to other missions without a second thought. Some nights, when she lay awake because she couldn't endure another nightmare, she liked to imagine a world where he would barge through the door and take her far away from the Wrights', far from England and the 1800s and far, far, far from Rosalie.

The late Summer and Autumn of 1888 brought with it news of the Ripper murders, and Sam wondered about the hooded man and whether the agency ever managed to track him down. If they had, would the murders never had occurred, or was it too late to stop those from happening at this point? Was she stuck in just one version of 1888? Was it just that the ripples hadn't yet reached the nineteenth century? She probably wasn't even asking the right questions, knowing how unpredictable and complex time travel could be. It wasn't like she ever fully understood how it worked.

On the night of October second, just days after the news of the double homicide of Kate Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride reached Eastbourne, Sam overheard a conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Wright. She was folding the children's laundry when Mr. Wright's gruff voice drifted in from the drawing room.

"Do not worry yourself, Dear," he told his wife. "The Ripper doesn't come for respectable women. Your sister will be safe."

Sam should have ignored him and kept to her duties, but the words made her stomach churn. As politely as possible, she peeked into the drawing room and said, "Forgive me, Mr. Wright, but I could not help but overhear. You speak of the London slayings, no?"

Mr. Wright sat on an armchair with a cigar in his hand while Mrs. Wright reclined on the settee with a copy of The Illustrated Police News.

"Not you too, Miss Rosalie," Mr. Wright complained. "Why do nice ladies like yourselves engage in the most macabre of subjects?"

"Because it seems to be ladies that the Ripper is targeting, no?" Sam said. She hoped her tone didn't come off as disrespectful, but she herself felt utterly disrespected.

Mr. Wright seemed only amused. He reached for Mrs. Wright's magazine with one hand, and with the other, fished a monocle from under his shirt and perched it over his eye. He pointed at the salacious illustrations of Elizabeth Stride and Kate Eddowes' brutalized bodies on the cover. "As I told my wife, you have nothing to fear, Miss. Look at these prints and tell me you don't see a difference between yourselves and these women."

"I do," said Sam, and this time she couldn't hide the bitterness in her voice. "Mrs. Wright and I are alive and well, while Kate and Elizabeth were murdered in their sleep."

Mr. Wright snorted. "In their sleep? Ha."

Sam didn't find the statement funny at all.

Mrs. Wright leaned toward Sam and said in a low voice, "What he means is that they were most likely out soliciting when it happened. I mean, look at them. They certainly don't appear respectable."

"These are drawings," said Sam. "Imagined by an artist."

"But based on the facts of the crimes," Mrs. Wright pointed out.

I wouldn't be reading The Illustrated Police News if I wanted factual information, Sam thought. The magazine was an infamous tabloid, full of speculation and outright lies. Instead she said, "I simply do not believe anyone deserves such a fate, no matter what their occupation." She wanted so badly to mention that in fact, there was no evidence that Kate Eddowes was a sex worker at all. The only confirmed sex workers were Elizabeth Stride and Mary Jane Kelly. Of course, Mary Jane Kelly's murder was still over a month away, and it was hard enough persuading twenty-first century audiences that three of the Ripper Victims may not have fit the preconceived mold. There was no way she could convince the Wrights that researchers would one day begin to counter the old narrative.

"I must disagree," said Mr. Wright. "I think the Ripper's doing London a favor, clearing the streets of prostitutes and the like."

Any restraint Sam was once able to muster vanished. "How could you say something so disgusting?" she blurted. Her shoulders shook and she could already feel the perspiration forming at her hairline.

The Wrights, who evidently believed this was merely a friendly debate until now, stared at each other, speechless. Sam had never spoken to them with such impudence, and it appeared they couldn't quite believe their ears.

"Miss Rosalie," Mrs. Wright said finally. "With all due respect, we will not tolerate such talk in our household."

"Well, I cannot tolerate such ignorance from my employers!" Sam shouted before she could stop herself. She could hear her own rapid breathing, but the air didn't seem to reach her lungs.

Mr. Wright stood, removed his monocle, and strode into the doorway so he towered over her. "We have sheltered you, fed you, and provided for you for thirteen years now, Miss, but do not believe that you're immune from dismissal." He clamped his hand around Sam's wrist and she instinctively yanked it away.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed. As she did so, she stumbled backward into the hallway and crashed into the floor. She closed her eyes and suddenly she was nineteen again, back in her London apartment the night she lost everything. She rolled herself into a ball on the ground and braced herself for a blow to the face. But it never came. Instead, she heard distant voices.

"What's gotten into her?"

"I've no idea. I merely took her by the wrist, and then she went batty."

"Should we call for a doctor?"

"No, no. That would frighten the children."

Sam blinked five times and felt the cold marble of the Wrights' floor. You're in Eastbourne, not London, she reminded herself. Stand up and apologize. Sam pushed herself to her knees, then balanced herself against the wall until she was standing again. Both Mr. and Mrs. Wright stood in front of her now, faces creased with worry.

"Miss, are you well?" said Mrs. Wright.

Sam shook her head.

"Why are you crying?"

Sam hadn't even noticed. She reached in her pocket for a handkerchief and quickly dried her eyes. "I am so sorry," she said. "I just…" A realization came over her suddenly, and before she knew it, she was saying it out loud: "I feel like it should have been me." It easily could have been her. Had she stayed in London, would she have gone into hiding in a dingy Whitechapel room like Mary Jane? Would she have wound up sleeping on the streets like the other four women, vulnerable to any attacker lurking in the dark? Not to mention, she was partially to blame for the women's deaths, considering what Cira had told her all those years ago in the time hollow. If IR hadn't snatched Rosalie from the river, IR wouldn't have sought out the hooded man. And thus, the hooded man never would have become Jack the Ripper.

Of course, she could never explain any of this to the Wrights, so she settled for, "I was in a difficult place before you took me in. Someone hurt me very badly."

"Is that why you cry out in the night?" Mrs. Wright whispered.

Sam choked on another flood of tears. So the Wrights had known of the nightmares this whole time? Sam raised the handkerchief to her eyes again and nodded. "I have bad dreams of the things that were done to me."

Mrs. Wright squeezed Sam's hand and asked, "What was done to you?"

Sam shook her head. "It doesn't matter. It is over and I don't think he will find me."

Mrs. Wright's face turned white and Sam immediately regretted her statement. "You don't think who will find you?"

"N-no one," she stuttered. "I mean, it was years ago. Surely it no longer matters."

Mr. Wright cleared his throat and his expression went grim. "Miss Rosalie, when we took you in, we asked you if there was anything about your past that might interfere with your ability to care for our children. You told us there was nothing."

"Yes," Sam said. "Not once have I allowed my past to affect my work here, Sir."

Mr. Wright pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "How can that be true if you were on the run from someone who harmed you in the past? Did it not occur to you that it could endanger our family? Endanger the children?"

Mrs. Wright shuddered.

Sam's throat started to close up again, but she pushed the words out: "The person who hurt me believes I am dead. There is nothing to fear."

The Wrights exchanged glances, both looking equally unconvinced. Finally, they excused themselves to discuss the matter in private, leaving Sam alone to process everything that just happened.

Sam was back to folding the laundry when Mrs. Wright returned, a solemn expression on her face. "Hello, Dear," she said.

Sam set the laundry aside and stood up as tall as she could. "Hello, Mrs. Wright."

"You know how much we care for you, yes? How for the past thirteen years, you've come to feel like part of our family?"

Oh no. Sam knew what was coming. She nodded and felt a single tear trickle down her face.

"Well…" Mrs. Wright suddenly looked very interested in a piece of dust that landed on her blue satin skirt, and she took a moment to flick it away. She brushed the fabric with her gloved hands and even spent some time adjusting the gold brooch that was pinned to the lace of her high-necked bodice. When she seemed to run out of things to adjust, she sighed and continued: "Mr. Wright has asked me to speak with you."

The coward won't even fire me himself? Sam thought bitterly.

"We both—" she emphasized the word "—believe it will be in the children's best interest if we terminate your position as governess."

Even though it was no surprise, the words still hit Sam like a hundred shards of glass. She tried to speak, but could only let out a whimper.

"Oh, please do not fret, Miss," said Mrs. Wright. She slid her hand into her skirt pocket and pulled out an envelope, which she handed to Sam. "This should keep you fed and housed for the time being. There's also enough to get you to London, where there will be plenty more opportunities for work. As I said, we care for you and want you to do well for yourself."

Sam shoved the envelope in her own dress pocket and whispered, "Thank you." Of course, she was far from grateful. How could they possibly expect her to return to London when they knew very well that women were being murdered there? Because they thought she was more "respectable" than the ones being slaughtered? Or because they actually didn't care at all? "Shall I pack my things, then?" she sighed.

Mrs. Wright shook her head. "I will arrange all that. The children will be expecting their nightly lullaby soon. Why don't you sing to them one last time while my husband and I gather your things and arrange for your lodgings tonight?"

Sam did as she was told. She cleaned up her face, then made her way to the nursery where she sang one final lullaby to the children who had depended on her their entire lives. She did her best to ease their concerns about her leaving and told them to be excited for all the extra time they would get to spend with their parents. Fortunately, they seemed too tired to fully process the news and fell asleep before Sam even finished the song.

The Wrights put her up in a local inn, and she spent the first of her severance money on a glass of absinthe. She'd never been much of a drinker, especially after she'd seen what alcohol had done to Suzette, but right now she had nothing to lose. She was out of licorice, and the absinthe was the closest thing she could find at the moment. She sat on her bed in the small square room, and took a sip of the sweet greenish liquid. The alcohol burned her throat, but the notes of anise and fennel provided the taste she craved.

She set the glass on top of her trunk and lay down on her side. Through the open window, she observed distant waves and the outlines of sea cliffs. She could even smell the beach from here. "Oh, Rosalie, look what you've done," she murmured. It was unfair, she knew, but she was desperate to keep her two halves apart. In moments of loneliness, Sam seemed far away and Rosalie would almost take over completely. After all, Sam wasn't even supposed to exist. She was no more than a ghost, a spirit that drifted in and out of time; never fully real.

She sat up and as she reached again for the absinthe, a sinister purr rose from behind. She dropped the glass and swerved around, only to come face to face with a figure in a black hood. For the first time, the figure drew back the hood to reveal a face that she recognized all too well. "Hello, Lily," it said.

Sam froze, absolutely helpless in the face of her worst nightmare come to life. The hooded man was Gérôme. Or, rather, Gérôme was the hooded man.

"You look surprised," he said. "Though I suppose it has been thirteen years since you've seen one of these." He held up his elucidator.

"Just kill me and get it over with," Sam said when she finally managed to speak. "That's why you're here, isn't it? For revenge?"

"Oh, that certainly was my intention when I learned that you'd faked your own death," he said. "I lost everything after you left me. I came back from London to an empty house, abandoned by my wife and daughter. You have no idea how badly I wanted to bring you back from the dead so I could kill you myself. Instead I had to settle for another young singer. Her blood is on your hands now."

Sam covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. No more. Cira had told her that the hooded man had already committed one murder before IR gave him the power to travel through time, but she hadn't realized it was a direct result of her actions.

Gérôme yanked Sam's hands away from her ears and growled, "No, you are going to listen." His gray eyes seemed to see deep into her soul; they feasted on her terror.

"Do you know how many I've killed?"

Sam shook her head.

Gérôme snickered. "Me neither. Too many to count at this point. The folks from the future said to do as much damage as possible, so that's what I did."

"Mary, Lucie, Poe, all those women in Whitechapel…"

He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, I was just an amateur in my Whitehcapel days. Really, I made such a mess that the journals came up with that 'Jack the Ripper' name simply because I liked to cut them open." Sam's vision started to cloud; she held on to the bedpost to keep from fainting. "Of course, I think 'Reaper' sounds more appropriate than 'Ripper,' don't you? I may like to experiment with my craft, but I've had plenty of clean kills."

He was taunting her, she knew. It was obvious from the smug grin on his face that he loved watching her squirm. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, she said, "If you're going to kill me, just stop talking and do it."

He shook his head. "Oh, Lily, why would I want to kill you now? You're my motivation, my drive to perfect future killings. What is an artist without his muse?"

Sam wanted to sink beneath the bed and disappear into the floor. Her pulse thundered, her tongue turned to sandpaper. It was too much. "Then why are you here?" she somehow managed to ask.

Gérôme smiled wider and pressed his forehead to Sam's. His tobacco breath nearly suffocated her. She scooted as far back as she could, which only seemed to amuse him more. He gave another mocking chuckle and said, "I thought you might want to know about all your other lives."

She gaped at him. This was not at all what she'd expected. What should she even say? Of course she wanted to know, but she also couldn't stand to be near him. "I want you to leave," she said finally.

He ignored her request and instead started listing names. "Hannah Mitchell, 1789 to 1795. Buried alive in Edinburgh at age six. You were a sickly child, and in those days people mistook comas for death. You practically clawed your little nails off trying to escape your coffin before time travelers came to your rescue."

"And then?" Sam asked despite herself. There was no turning back now. She had to know.

"Then they turned you back into a baby and dropped you in 1893, where you were adopted and named May Cunningham. You grew up in a wealthy family and boarded the Titanic in 1912. One of the few first class passengers that went down with the ship."

"Why didn't I get on a lifeboat?"

"You didn't want to leave your Great Dane behind. You were spotted floating on some wreckage with your arms around the dog and presumed dead by witnesses. You had maybe a few seconds left before Interchronological Rescue found you."

At least I wasn't a coward that time, Sam thought sadly.

"Then you were Camille Bruneau, daughter of nobles in Versailles. You almost died when peasants stormed the palace in 1789, but instead, time travelers lured you away. Then you became Burnadette Abbott from Chicago. You went to the World's Fair in 1893 at fifteen and would have been one of H.H. Holmes's murder victims—Oh, if only I could be as accomplished as that man…" he stared off for a minute, as if being a serial killer was something to be admired. Sam listened as he listed more names: Élodie Poirier, daughter of a lighthouse keeper on Île de Ré from 1745 to 1757; Clara Taylor from Bath, England, 1845 to1856; Abigail Earnest from Cambridge, 1795 to 1812. Nora Morrison from Geneva, 1875 to 1878; Jane Williams from Sleepy Hollow, 1757 to 1772; Helga Avery from Oslo, 1812 to 1828.

"You're missing one," said Sam. She'd been counting the names in her head, including Rosalie and herself, but that only amounted to twelve. "Weren't there thirteen?"

"Yes, thirteen does seem to be the magic number, doesn't it?" he said. "Don't worry, I've been saving the best for last."

Sam didn't like the sound of that at all, but she listened patiently.

"Your most recent identity—that is, the one before Samantha Cretney—was Melanie Steele, the daughter of a New Orleans shop owner. 'Born' in 1828. Disappeared in 1845."

New Orleans in the 1840s? Why did that sound familiar?

"You might recall a girl named Ginny," he continued. "From New Orleans, then sold to a family called the Harts."

"Yes!" Sam remembered the girl's large eyes that had stared at her with recognition and fear. "That's why she recognized me."

"Yes, she used to go into your mother's shop to see her brother when he was working."

Sam felt like fainting again. "Her brother…worked at the shop? You mean my family…" she couldn't finish, fearful she might vomit if she said the words out loud.

"Owned slaves?" Gérôme guessed.

Sam nodded.

"No. Ginny belonged to another family in town and her brother Daniel was a delivery boy who worked at the docks. He came to the shop to deliver imported textiles." Just as Sam was about to exhale a sigh of relief, Gérôme added, "But that didn't mean you didn't indirectly depend on slave labor. It was New Orleans in the 1840s, after all. In fact, you played a significant role in getting Ginny sold off to the Harts."

Sam was going to throw up any second. She leaned over the edge of the bed and clutched her stomach. Gérôme kept going: "A few days before you got lured away by IR, you noticed a jewel was missing from one of your Mardis Gras costumes. You'd seen Ginny staring at your work on several occasions, so you figured she'd stolen it. You reported your suspicions to Ginny's masters, and she was sold off just two days after you vanished. She probably didn't even know why."

The absinthe burned as it rose up her throat. She miraculously managed to swallow it back down, but not without tumbling off the bed.

"And there's more," he said. Shaking on the hardwood floor, Sam peered up at Gérôme, who looked absolutely thrilled with himself. "I have to tell you about Elizabeth Stride."

"I know you murdered her," said Sam. "The same night as Kate Eddowes."

"And I have you to thank for making her available."

Her head throbbed. Was she even hearing him correctly? "What do you mean?"

He grinned even wider, showing his awful yellow teeth. Smoking had obviously done a number on his health, yet he seemed as invincible as ever. "If you've done your reading on the case, you might recall that Elizabeth was born in Sweden, then put on a public registry after folks found out she was having a pre-marital affair. She got pregnant, contracted syphilis, and lost the child."

Sam remembered. "Yes, and because nobody wanted to hire her after that, she turned to sex work."

"Ironic, isn't it? She ends up on a list of supposed whores, so she had to start whoring around to make her living!" He cackled at his own sick humor. Sam tried to keep a straight face. She knew he was trying to horrify her, so she tried not to give herself away. It must have worked, because he narrowed his eyes and continued. "Then she found an opportunity in London and moved there to start anew. It seems the two of you had that in common." He flashed Sam a steely glare. "She found some work, eventually married, and opened a coffeehouse with her new husband. But the business failed and times were hard again."

Sam nodded. "I know all of this. Elizabeth and her husband separated in 1877, though I remember reading that the relationship was on and off again for a while…"

"Yes, that was the case," said Gérôme, a sinister giddiness in his voice, "but only because of you."

Sam tried to appear unphased. "What are you talking about?"

"They would have separated earlier had Elizabeth gotten a job as a governess in Eastbourne. Unfortunately, a little sneak who faked her own death ended up taking the job instead." His eyes locked on hers again, and this time, she couldn't feign indifference. She bent down and screamed into her skirt, grasping the fabric so tightly in her hands that she heard it rip. It was unbearable. Elsa was Elizabeth Stride. Elizabeth Stride found herself in Whitechapel because Sam had taken her job.

When she finally looked up, she saw that Gérôme was laughing again. This was what he'd wanted all along, she realized—to torture her. That's what all this had been about. When he found that he could no longer torment her with the threat of death, he decided to let her own guilt finish her off. It was genius, actually.

Still staring down at her with that evil grin, he said, "I'll leave you to mull that over. I'm off to take more lives." Then he vanished.

Sam held her knees and tried to make herself as small as possible. She wished she'd never been born. If she'd just drowned in that river, IR wouldn't have given Gérôme an elucidator and he wouldn't have been able to murder so many people. If she hadn't been kidnapped and re-aged again and again, she never would have become Melanie. Ginny would still be with her brother, May Cunningham's Great Dane wouldn't have boarded the Titanic, Elizabeth would have lived a quiet life in Eastbourne, and Tony wouldn't have been abandoned in the woods. What other atrocities awaited if Sam continued to live?

Rosalie had been right all along. Her life should have ended thirteen years ago in the Thames, and Sam should have never existed. "You win, Rosalie," she breathed. "You can take it from here."

Rosalie stepped into the brisk sea air and confronted the night. Her face stung as the wind whipped her hair against her cheeks, just like it had back in 1876. It was almost poetic, really, how much this night resembled the other. Of course, there was no bridge or river this time, but the cliffs and sea would serve her needs.

She hiked her way by moonlight through the fog to the edge of the nearest cliff, then kicked her boots into the sea below. The waves and wind drowned any sound of a splash, but through the mist, she watched them drop, getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared entirely. Good. From this height, there was no coming back, no chance she would lose her nerve again and swim to shore. If the impact alone didn't finish her, it would at least knock her unconscious. The sea would take care of the rest.

Damp grass seeped through her stockings and chilled her ankles. She didn't want to die, but she couldn't bear to live as Gérôme's unwilling muse. The killing needed to stop.

She advanced until her toes grazed the ridge and hovered over the vast abyss. She inhaled through her nose and cherished the salty aroma of wind and sea one final time. At last, she closed her eyes and…

"Sam, stop!"

Even through the howling torrent, his voice was unmistakable. She hadn't heard it in years, but the sound tore into her chest and clamped itself around her heart, tighter and tighter until it bled. Hope, love, despair, rage, fear, bliss, passion—they all erupted from a place in her soul she believed to be long gone. They infiltrated her bones, made her want to scream out in pain and dance for joy. She felt a thousand years' worth of emotions in a single instant, all from the sound of JB's voice.