Excerpt from A Death of No Importance by Mariah Fredericks, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Taking the skirt carefully with the tips of my fingers, I eased it over Miss Benchley's legs. A matching jacket was added. Miss Benchley surveyed herself in the mirror as I adjusted her hair and placed the hat. In some ways, she would be a pleasure to dress. She was not above seventeen years old, blessed with a natural hourglass figure, a slender waist, and graceful arms. Her fair hair was fine, but her smile, when she bestowed it, was beguiling. She had a look favored in that day, a childish prettiness, round in the cheek and bosom, with wide, admiring eyes. A girl not quite out of the schoolroom. If she knew how to give a man a look that hinted she might know a little of what happened outside of schoolrooms, then blush straightaway when he answered her look, so much the better. Charlotte Benchley, as I discovered, knew very well how to give that look.

She had a sharp eye for her own appearance and watched everything I did. She wanted the hat just so. The ruffles of the blouse should be out, not in. At one point, I wondered if her white gloves were too bright for the suit; did Miss Benchley perhaps have a gray pair? Miss Benchley did and was satisfied with the result.

Smiling, Mrs. Benchley said to her daughter, "I think she'll do very well for you, don't you?"

She put an arm around Charlotte's shoulders, but the young woman disengaged herself, saying, "And I suppose she'll be doing very well for Louise as well."

Mrs. Benchley said, "Your father feels…"

Charlotte tugged angrily on her gloves. "It's absurd. He brings us here, expects us to manage, then doesn't provide the most basic…" She waved a hand, dismissing any answer her mother could make. Then, taking up her bag, she said, "If you don't mind, I'm late. Very nice to meet you, Miss … whatever your name is. Who knows if you shall be here when I return."

As she said this last, our eyes met and I got my first clear look at the young lady of whom so much would be written in the months to come. I decided that Mrs. Gibbes had been very wrong to dismiss Charlotte Benchley as a pretty little thing.

As we made our way down the hall, Mrs. Benchley sighed. "It's too hard, having two daughters. I don't worry about Charlotte. She may be a tiny bit stubborn about getting her own way, but very often she's right. But Louise, my eldest! If you could help me with Louise, well, you would be I can't say what, but something like an angel. She's a good girl. Most modern girls don't listen to their mothers, and Louise does, you know. But poor thing, she can't seem to…"

We were at the third door. Mrs. Benchley whispered, "Well, you'll see what I mean. Louise!" She rapped on the door.

A small voice said, "Yes?" and we went in.

My first impression of Louise Benchley was of a turtle without its shell. As we entered her room, she was sitting at her dressing table, her shoulders hunched and her long back stooped. She was too thin. Her hair was a dull blond; it hung lank on her head, as if despairing of its lack of shape. Her gray eyes were large and protruding. Her arms were long, so long she often seemed to forget she had hands at the end of them. Clearly—and unfortunately—she did listen to her mother; her dress was much in her mother's style. The shade of cherry bordered on cruel.

She leapt up as we came in, extending an uncertain hand as her mother introduced us. Her anxiety was catching, and I found myself at a loss until I noticed an array of dolls upon her bed and remarked what a lovely collection she had.

"Oh." Louise glanced around the room. Truthfully, the dolls made me uneasy. Rows and rows of little female forms with porcelain faces and stiff, tiny hands. They sat suffocated in ruffles and ribbons. Mouths too perfect and small to permit breath, let alone utterance. Their hair was beautifully set—all human hair. I could not help thinking these creatures had cannibalized real women to make themselves even more perfect.

Excerpted from A Death of No Importance by Mariah Fredericks. Copyright © 2018 by Mariah Fredericks. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.