It would take a special breakfast to wash that night away.

Had it been a church, Aylesmere’s would have been the finest cathedral on the East Coast, but it was management’s stated opinion that such glorious architecture was too expensive to waste on God. Gothic arches, classical columns, and Byzantine gold mingled in a head-spinning collision of styles, combining to remind the little people who passed through the department store’s gold gates that no matter how much money they had in their wallets, Mr. Aylesmere had more.

My wallet was empty, but I had not come to shop. I had come to eat. A colossal atrium ran up the middle of the store, from the first floor to the seventh, and Aylesmere’s Café was perched at the very top. A breeze drifted up from the departments, weighted with perfume, leather, spices, housewares, and fresh, laundered cotton. Far below me, the marble was inlaid with granite, creating the illusion that the floor was covered with spikes. I stared at them, palms sweating, the breeze parting my hair, and felt an overwhelming urge to jump.

“The illusion is meant to dissuade unfortunates from taking their own life,” said Mrs. Copeland, buttering a paper-thin slice of toast.

“Does it work?”

“How can we say? A few jump every year. Without the spikes, it could be more.”

“They could raise the railing and stop the suicides entirely.”

“But that would spoil Mr. Aylesmere’s view.”

Breakfast had been my idea. I didn’t realize we’d be dining on a cliff face. I turned away from the drop and tried to focus on the platter of fried eggs, smoked bacon, corned beef hash, and brown gravy that I had ordered on Mrs. Copeland’s dime. I could not shake the image of my body twisting through the cool department store air and landing on marble or on spikes or in the icy Hudson. I picked at a piece of toast and tried to ask some questions.

I have an eye for black dresses, and Edith’s was as fine as they come. It was old-fashioned, almost Victorian, with sleeves that ran nearly to her wrists and a neckline that tickled her throat. It was the perfect costume for the happy widow, but beneath the intricate lace veil, Edith was skeletal. Her hands shook, clattering the knife against the butter dish, and when she finished caking her toast in fat, she took the smallest possible bite before setting it aside. I had no good tidings for her, and she had nothing for me.