She had positively beamed when she had seen it on the shelf at Whizzard's: D'Eath's Compendium of the Dead, with introductions by both a coroner (fascinating!) and a well-reputed (as much as such silly thing could be) spiritual medium. For most young ladies who were, at least ostensibly, supposed to be debutantes, this was highly irregular reading.

For Persephone Broadmoor, it was par for the course.

The volume (one of only two of its kind on the shelf; no doubt Mr. Binns did not have an abundance of faith in its popularity) was swiftly charged to the family's account and tucked beneath the witch's arm as she departed the store alone. Of course, her mother would have been... less than pleased about the last, but Persy had long ago struck up a bargain with the maid intended to keep her out of trouble. She would meet the woman outside of the Broomsticks when she was ready to return home.

That meeting never happened.

Events transpired quickly, Persy's mind only making sense of snapshots:

• A man, the sort you might see frequenting the Hog's Head, looking entirely shifty as he moved into an ally off the main road.
  
• Persy, curious, following.
  
• The sound and feeling of her book dropping to the cobblestones.
  
• Hands upon her.
  

And then everything went black.