Myrtle thought for a moment, "He died near the start of the 1800s from hypothermia. He’d been tricked into going to the tower by a girl who promised him the evening of his life if he met her there at midnight." The girls growled in disgust at the fate of poor Preston. Myrtle shrugged, "It’s sad, but that’s death for you. There’s no such thing as a happy death."