February 4, 1814
London, England

PROLOGUE

Miss Susan Stanton muttered a most unladylike curse as yet more black snow slid down her ankle and into her already ruined boots. No matter. Faster. If Mother’s watchdogs discovered her absence before she had gotten the merest glimpse of Freezeland Street, Susan’s great escape would be for nothing.

It was unfair enough to be confined to one’s quarters for months on end while living in the greatest city on earth, and quite another to be forced to do so during the most celebrated fête of the Season: the once-in-a-lifetime Frost Fair. (Technically twice in a lifetime, in her case, but as Susan was two years old the last time the Thames froze over, that event hardly signified.)

Dirty snowflakes streaked her spectacles, but Susan didn’t bother to clean the lenses. Her gloves were too wet to do much good, and her muff would only leave bits of fur in its wake.

Susan glanced over her shoulder to make sure the driver waited for her as promised before she dashed across Blackfriars Bridge to what was left of the carnival below.

Dashing across snow-covered ice, however, involved a fair bit of sloshing and sliding, and Susan was forced to slow her pace or risk breaking her neck. Devil take it. How much time did she have left before someone realized the caged bird had escaped? Thirty minutes? Twenty? Barely enough time to regain the townhouse before Mother arrived home, even if Susan gave up now and left posthaste.

But she was so close. Off-key music trilled from the gaudy tents. The elephants she’d read about were long gone, as well as the donkey rides and skittles, but the sharp wind still carried the garish laughter of the common folk and the pungent scent of fresh-brewed ale.

Five minutes. She could spare five quick minutes, just to see.

She paused at the foot of Blackfriars Bridge and gazed at the tattered tents still dotting the frozen river. Rot. There was no possibility of walking all the way to the designated Freezeland Street entrance under half an hour, so she’d have to cut diagonally across the ice toward the tents.

No more dallying. Go. Now.

The moment Susan’s boot touched the frozen river, her foot sank through the melting snow, touched the ice and shot forward as if propelled by magnets, sending Susan lurching. After a few moments of windmilling her arms, she managed to transition from sliding on accident to sliding on purpose—that is, until the entire cacophony of color and sound tilted drunkenly before her.

Cold wet air scraped down Susan’s throat as she gasped to see the ice breaking apart in jagged chunks before her. A terrible thunder filled the air. The river unfurled, rippling beneath the fragmented fair like a washwoman shaking crumbs from an old carpet. Far ahead, pie-men and toymakers alike abandoned their wagons in their mad scramble for the shores. The stench of the river’s fetid breath blasted from its frozen cage. Susan whirled around to dash back to the safety of solid land.

And the ice disintegrated beneath her feet.

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