I pulled the knife from my husband's chest, my hand clamped tightly over his mouth. I was still as stone as he clawed at me, his eyes full of rage and terror and shock and then, empty. I had done it. Were you proud of yourself, Jane? Good job. You did it. You murdered a man. Oh, dear.

Well, it was done. There was nothing to be done about it now except leave. I wiped the blade on my nightdress and then stashed it inside my corset, quickly pulling on my traveling trousers, blouse, boots, and coat.

I plucked the letter off of the bedside table, the delicate crinkle of the paper in my ears, the neat, loopy letters of only a fashion designer forming Sarah's name near the bottom bringing a smile to my face, making me forget the pungent scent of death, whiskey, and smoke bringing the room down. I brought it to my chest, feeling it warm my heart, the light smell of lilac that was upon every letter she sent to me making my heart race once more with feelings I had never felt until she came into my life. I carried the single picture of her beautiful face with me everywhere, reminded that the world wasn't always as dark and grimy and depressing as it seems. Oh, how she made my mind feel like a cloud, my heart feel like candy floss, my body feel as light as air and as warm as a spring evening.

I realized that it was possible to be in love after all.

She saved me from the pain of unwanted, inexistent love, the emptiness of death. Sarah had made me question if I was allowed to have such a love for another woman, but I had determined that we were human. We were not doing anything wrong. If a man was allowed to harm and even kill his wife, why should two women not be allowed to love? I thought back to the words she had written in one of her recent letters.

"My dearest Jane, your kindness and care has enlightened me beyond what I had previously believed was possible. I so dearly long and so impatiently wait for your visit, for when I may at long last touch the hands that have so generously written to me. But I must confess that I have been withholding a secret. You may never wish to write to me again once you know, however, I simply cannot hold within me any longer what has been tearing my chest into shreds and burning my soul alive. I truly love you. Not in such a way a mother loves a daughter, and not in such a way a woman cares for a friend. I love you in the way a man adores a woman, but far more. As my closest friend, though I have never had the pleasure of seeing your face in person, I believed you deserved to know. I apologize, Jane. You have lightened my days for a year now, and I will miss your letters should you decide to rid me from your life. Perhaps I shall love you in a future life, where we may be happy. However, I will remain satisfied merely to have known you at all in this one.

Love,

Sarah"

That was the day my life changed. She made me so unbelievably happy, and I was determined to see her and show her that I loved her, too. I tucked the letters away in my purse and walked out of the room, a new brightness inside of me.

"Birdie, honey!" I called into the mostly dark house, a candle in hand, the weak light of the early England sun starting to show itself through the windows. The sound of guns in the distance echoed through the walls, but I did not pay them any mind. The sounds of battle had become a regular occurrence by now, given there was a world war.

My daughter appeared behind a doorway, already dressed and carrying her trunk. "Ready, Mum."

Her bright red hair shimmered in the rising morning light, pulled into a delicate yet sturdy braid resting on her shoulder. She was so young, not even 8 years old, and yet she was so intelligent and brave, and so beautiful. I was proud beyond words to call myself her mother.

I took her hand and we walked to the door, and as I picked up my trunk, I gazed at the house I had called home for so long. A feeling of disgust washed over me as I thought of all the pain me and my poor Ladybug had been through, as I thought of how he had called it love, as I thought of how glad we both were to be rid of him and all his horrid lies. Not even during the early days of our marriage had he ever loved me, never in her life had he shown any love for our child. I had been forced to marry him for money, and he had married me for nothing but an heir, a legacy. Perhaps if Birdie had been a son he would have loved her. Instead he hurt us both for what we could never control.

I shook my head of these thoughts. He was gone now. We never had to live under such cruel hands again. I stuffed the money, which I had taken from the safe in his bedroom, in my corset, but I had grown used to the uncomfortable feeling of such things, and it ceased to bother me.

Trunk and purse clutched in one hand, Birdie's hand held in the other, we walked out and closed the door, leaving much more than a house behind as we began our walk to the station.