Seven Months Ago...
Eliza had done very well for herself.  Everyone thought so. Her mother praised her success in reeling in such an eligible husband, while her Father boasted that he surely had a helping hand in this successful marriage. And of course, nobody was more happier than Eliza's husband, Dorian.
Yes, the marriage was indeed the shining pinnacle of Eliza's success as a woman. She'd worked hard to become the very model of society's expectations. Eliza had studied all the rules, knew everything she was supposed to know, and was a goddess of witty conversation.
Dorian certainly knew how to provide for her. Once married, he'd swept her off to a large house set in the greenest space of London he could find. It sat so tall and majestic amongst the poorer homes that surrounded them.  Eliza had counted six bathrooms, ten bedrooms, an extra large kitchen, which doubled as sleeping quarters for the servants, a dining room, a sitting room, and even a sewing room upstairs, exclusively for her.
All of the bedrooms were upstairs, in one long hallway. Three of the bathrooms were located up here, while the other three were down below. One of the three downstairs bathrooms, was meant for the servants only, and looked not so near as fine as the bathrooms meant for Eliza, Dorian, and their guests.
Explicit attention had been paid to the decorating. Dorian had spent no expense on how the place would look. Artists had come in to speculate how they would fit the works of their hands into the large space provided for them. Carvers, painters, blacksmiths; they'd all been here.
The result: a home which stood, like Eliza, as the pinnacle of society. A home that paid homage to the arts, and praised modern invention. Surely, with a husband so generous, and a house so extravagant, Eliza must have been the happiest woman in the world.
There was simply no reason for her not to be. With Dorian's climbing success as a Money Lender, he could and would offer her anything she asked for. She had but to open her mouth and speak.
All her friends were jealous. She had the approval of all her family. Eliza had a doting husband.
So why would she feel so discontent? Why did she groan at night and weep? Why would she sit on the window seat, and stare listlessly out at the people walking to and fro across the cobbled streets? What was it that she ached for?
How could she stop these tears?
Eliza sat down upon the window seat inside her sewing room. She sighed and brushed a curl of brown hair away from her face. Her eyes, like usual, drifted down towards the passersby below. She wanted to join them.
Ever since she'd come to this house, she'd forgotten its beauty. It felt so unlike a home, and more like a prison. She was not trapped, though. She could walk out of this house if she wanted to.
Oh, but she was trapped, trapped within the binds of marriage.  These bars of confinement, held her to one man who she barely saw. A cold figure who offered love in the form of faceless gifts.
Her shoulders sagged slightly. She stood and crossed the sewing room, towards an embroidery that sat unfinished in a corner. Her lithe fingers scooped it up. She trailed her index finger down the heart-shaped patterns, feeling each individual stitch.
So many hours had gone into this piece. Eliza felt like she'd been giving birth to it. She pressed the embroidery close to her bosom. Her head fell forwards.
"Shut up," she told her thoughts, "Just shut up!"
"Darling?" Came the voice of her husband, Dorian.
He had a very high voice for a man. It was not squeaky, or annoying, but boyish. It were as if part of him had still remained that of a child, and showed itself through the way he spoke.  
Quickly, Eliza choked back all appearances of tears. Thankfully, her eyes hadn't watered too terribly and her maquillage had not smeared. She put on a surprised smile and raced towards the door of her sewing room. Dorian opened it before she could reach it. Eliza folded her hands in front of him.
Dorian was not a bad looking man. He had long, black curls that fell around his shoulders. It gave him somewhat of a feminine appearance though, but then again, compared to their French neighbors he was the epitome of masculinity. Dorian walked forwards and wrapped his pretty arms around Eliza's back.
"I heard you talking to someone, love," he said in that high-pitched, girlish voice, "You sounded distressed. Anything the matter?"
Eliza shook her head. She gave an embarrassed smile and showed him her embroidery piece, "just frustrated with it, that's all."
He took the piece from her fingers. "Why?" he asked, "It's beautiful."
"It could be terrible, and you'd still think so," Eliza said, "You, my love, are incredibly biased."
"It's only your beauty coming out through your artwork." Dorian insisted, leaning forwards to try and kiss her.
She pulled away from him, dodging his lips just in time. His lips were so incredibly full. She couldn't stand them. They were so much like a woman's to her. Whenever he touched her, she felt unclean, impure.
"Please, Dorian." She said.
"What's the matter?" He asked.
Eliza smiled. She blushed, "I'm just...tired. That's all."
"Do you need a doctor, darling?"
Eliza shook her head, "Nonsense. I'll be fine. Anyhow, what brings you home so early."
"The Grey's have given me a last minute invitation to tea," Dorian said, "They're incredibly prominent of society, and make incredible donations to the Government."
"I'm aware of who they are," Eliza said, "So why don't you go?"
"I am, but I wanted to bring you with me," he replied, "You make me look so much better. Without you, I'm just a scared little man."
And even then, not much of a man at all. Came the bitter thought. Eliza regretted it, the moment it entered her mind. Dorian loved her. That was all that mattered, right?
If only she could make herself love him back. She despised him, and despised herself for doing so.  Why couldn't he have waited for her to get to know him, before suddenly proposing in public? He'd put on such a dramatic display, she'd felt obligated to tell him yes.
"Well then, darling," she said, "Give me a chance to put on some proper clothes."
"You're beautiful just as you are." He whispered, and then leaned forwards to kiss her on the forehead.
Eliza was thankful he'd closed his eyes. The grimace on her face was near unmistakable.

***

In An Orphanage Near London...
The Orphanage, nameless and cold as it was, had become Gregory's home. Three years had passed since his parents had been hung from the gallows. Three years since he'd been shipped off to this dismal pit. One year had passed since he'd given up on ever escaping the dreary atmosphere.
Many children had lost their parents to disease, or poor living conditions, and so the orphanage was becoming overcrowded. Fewer people were adopting these days, as a surplus of babies from better hospital treatments came. Gregory had watched the number of orphans double, and triple in size.
The air itself was claustrophobic. Smells of urine from small children around him, and the smells of sweat from the older children, mixed together to create on near-unbearable stench. He could barely walk around without bumping into someone.
Often times, merely touching someone was deadly. Here, there were rules, unwritten, and deadly if broken.  These rules were learnt, and not taught. The punishments for breaking these rules were experienced first,  and often repeated, before a rule was ingrained within his skull.
Gregory had already made a list in his head:

Rule number one. Never talk to the older kids, they will look for an excuse to clobber you, and you might make a ruckus. Troublemakers disappear.
Rule Number Two. Do not ask for anything. Complainers disappear.
Rule Number Three. Steal food if you must, but don't get caught. Thieves seem to disappear too.
Rule Number Four. Do not disappear.
The last one seemed to be the most  important, to him. It struck out in his mind as his top goal. To disappear, obviously meant to die, but nobody ever said the "D" word around here, and truthfully, there could be found no evidence of a death.
Yet someone would be missing. Their presence would be like the fleeting scent of a perfume in a fish market. Present for a short while, and then gone, replaced by a foul and loathsome stench. There was always a stench in Gregory's nostrils, he'd gotten used to it by this point in his short life, but the knowledge of death had a distinct scent to it.
Gregory had become so used to death being present in his life, that he could smell it's presence in the air. His ears could hear the sound of a person giving out their last breath. It was like a sixth sense to him, feeling someone's soul slip away from their earthly bodies.
He didn't consider the sensation at all supernatural. He just knew the signs of death. There were little signs so many people would not notice. Gregory noticed. He could see a bit of hair, and smell its owner. He could find a crumb that might have fallen off someone's shirt. People, messy creatures that they were, left bread trails of their existence all over the world.
When someone died...the bread trail ceased.
Gregory had noticed someone's bread trail had stopped appearing, before it was even evident that this person was missing. A small boy, younger than he, always left a little crease in his bed where he slept. When Gregory awoke that morning, the crease was absent.
He hadn't been in his bed all night.
Gregory didn't even have to look for him at breakfast that morning. He knew. Oh, he knew. The boy, Andrew Simmons, had died. This wasn't uncommon, but it was sad. Andrew had been a sweet, freckle-faced kid. He'd always collected shiny glass like they were little treasure.
A worser fate couldn't have befallen a better kid.
At the breakfast table, Gregory stirred his wooden spoon about the lukewarm  copper bowl of gruel. He wasn't even sure if it could be called gruel. It looked more like horse shit. He didn't say this out loud, it was bad enough to complain about the food, even worse to use profane language.
There were at least twenty tables, in one long stone room.  Each of the tables were meant to sit forty children, though there were at least sixty at each table. Once they'd finished eating,  they would each take their bowl outside to be washed, and put away. The tables would then be used for "chores".
Time in the orphanage was written down to the last minute. Breakfast passed from six, to six thirty. They had to eat quickly, and clear their dishes quickly. From six thirty to ten thirty, the orphans would mend clothes at the very same places they sat on the tables. Punishment for sitting in the wrong spot usually resulted in a lashing.
The only people who escaped such punishments, were the ones that disappeared.
Gregory found himself unable to eat that morning. He felt so sickened when he saw Andrew's bed, still perfectly made from the morning before, with no creases in it whatsoever. The image alone brought imaginings of Andrew's horrible demise. Gregory couldn't stomach anything, especially not the poor excuse for a meal before him.
"I'm still hungry." Someone said.
"That's nice," Gregory replied, "Ask for more, but I doubt they'll be inclined to grant favors this morning."
"That's funny," the person said, "Give me yours."
"What?"
"You heard me."
Gregory looked up from the swimming pile of brown and white goop, to see Smithers. Oh no, not greedy Smithers. Out of all the orphans, he was the only fat one, and he was terrifying. He would sneak from table to table, gobbling the other children's food. Even the beak-nosed, caretakers of the orphanage feared him. The whips with which they used to frighten the other children, had no effect upon Smither's blubber body.
"S-sure." Gregory stammered.
He felt like a coward, handing "Fat Smithers" his breakfast so quickly, and eagerly. Gregory forced his mind to attention. The goal was to not disappear.  To disappear meant the ultimate defeat, death.
He would not lose. Not over measly gruel, anyhow. Gregory watched Smither's fat jiggle around upon his cheeks, as he greedily gobbled the mush down. Gregory noticed a potato floating in the bottom of the bowl.
He hoped Smithers choked on it.

***