Chapter 4 #2
“Responsibility.” She snorted. “The way you talk, I would’ve thought your father had been a vicar and not some fusty old professor!”
Genevieve’s lips twisted in a snarl. “Don’t talk about my father.”
The women all froze.
“You keep his name out of your mouth. Do you hear me?”
Winnie quailed under the force of Genevieve’s red-eyed glare.
“Winnie, cut line,” Elspeth said briskly, wrapping her lace in a cloth and handing it over. “You’ve already said that you have no interest in sharing our space or pooling resources. Therefore, you have no say on how we earn money or what we do with it.”
Winnie sniffed and flounced out of their crowded bolt hole, which eased the space considerably.
Genevieve’s shoulders relaxed, her sudden fury draining away, leaving her empty.
“Why does she act like that?” Elspeth asked lightly, snipping a thread with her teeth. “Does it make her happier to spread her vitriol to others?”
Genevieve said, “We all wear thin down here in the dark. Does anyone need anything?”
Both Sparrow and Elspeth shook their heads.
“Don’t forget to go and feed by the north gate,” she reminded them. “I heard that Rafe will be on duty tonight. He won’t give you any trouble.”
Sparrow stared at her hands, but Elspeth nodded. “We’ll go.” She would make sure Sparrow got sustenance.
Genevieve checked her bonnet ribbons again and took up the bundle. “I’ll be back before daylight.”
Genevieve slipped the coin from the sale of Elspeth’s lace into the inner pocket of her skirt as the shop’s door jingled shut behind her.
She stood on the stoop and marveled at the spark of joy that flared within her.
Stockings and thread, she reminded herself, setting off down the street. Before the shops close.
She bought a pair of sturdy but soft stockings for Sparrow and two more spools of thread for Elspeth at the milliners.
The shop windows had begun to decorate for Christmas, though December had just begun.
In a few weeks, carolers would crowd the streets, and they would all hope for snow to cover the dirty thoroughfares.
At a nearby bookseller’s, she paused to stare at the stacks in the window.
They did not have her favorite, but The Wife of Weland was in stock, next to a stack of copies of the popular Dickens novel.
Part of her imagined walking into the shop and laying down the price of the volume, to be able to say she owned it.
To hug it to her chest as something rather than nothing.
Foolish. They needed the coin for far more important things. But if there was one tome she’d do so for, it would be Wynnflaed’s Knight. And she knew it practically by heart.
“Oh! A Christmas Carol! Louis, that is my very favorite book! Do say you will purchase a copy,” a woman passerby said, tugging on the arm of her escort. They entered the shop, the bell jingling. A more appropriate purchase for the season, to be sure.
Genevieve chuckled suddenly. “‘Genevieve Dryden was dead, to begin with.’”
Her smile faded as the scent of humanity suddenly swelled, her senses heightened. The hungry urge made its presence known, raking at her insides, wanting to be unleashed.
She turned away from the shop window and headed east.
What would you think of me, Father? Genevieve wondered as a carter followed her down an alley, away from the street’s light. The carter walked a little too close to her, but she had implied that she would give him a favor in return for shifting a fictitious trunk.
“It’s just there.” Genevieve pointed.
The carter, a man with a square face and a square body under his warm layers, frowned and moved past her. “Where?”
Genevieve didn’t bother to answer. She seized him from behind and bit his neck, hand over his mouth to stop any cry. The man tried to fight her at first, but his strength was no match for hers. Then the bite’s effect took over and he slumped against the wall.
She drank her fill; he would not miss it. And the horse that pulled his cart would appreciate a lighter hand at the reins and whip.
She let him slide to the ground, groaning, and set his cap over his eyes. He wouldn’t remember this. Wiping her mouth, she walked to the end of the alley, emerging onto the street. Genevieve adjusted her bonnet, waiting for a horse-drawn omnibus to go by.
A boy appeared at her elbow. “Miss Dryden!”
“Fletcher!” Had she managed to wipe all the blood away? Had he seen her? “What are you doing here?”
“Walkin’ you to your job,” he said, squinting up at her.
“How thoughtful,” she said. There was a smear of blood on her glove. She balled that hand into a fist. “How are you this evening?”
“Bloomin’ marvelous, mum,” he said. A bold claim for a street urchin, but he was Cockney.
“Have you eaten?”
It was a fair question. Fletcher was, as far as she could ascertain, an orphan of perhaps ten who did a variety of things to feed himself—street sweeping, begging, pickpocketing.
Possibly even housebreaking. She did not ask.
She did not know if he was under control of a gang and thus had access to shelter or if he slept rough.
But he had attached himself to her a year or so ago, and she saw him most nights.
“Ain’t takin’ your money, mum,” he said firmly.
She had been too blunt. For a street orphan, Fletcher had a lot of pride and was extremely canny.
Inspiration struck. “I only ask because I thought I would stop for a twist of roasted chestnuts, and I know you know the best vendors. In return, you could have a few, as a finder’s fee. ” Thank you, Sparrow.
His suspicious eyes peered at her from under a thatch of hair of an undetermined color and a grimy cap that had once been a sort of brown. “Long Tom’s got the ones with the most flavor,” he allowed grudgingly.
“Wonderful, but I’m not familiar with Long Tom,” Genevieve said briskly. “Which is why I need your assistance. Is he on the way to Sally’s?”
Fletcher nodded. “This way.”
“Lead on, then, good sir.”
What would you think of me, Father? Genevieve followed the boy through the throng of people still out in the early winter dark.
She would give Fletcher a portion of the roasted chestnuts, but not so much he would think she was being overly charitable, and the rest to the children at Sally’s—a small Christmas gift.
She lifted her face to the black sky above, most stars obscured from the smog and smoke. How could it be a Christmas without the hope to which she had clung for so long? How could it be Christmas when nothing was changing in the Ossuary?
As much as she hated to admit it, Winnie was correct—their new master hadn’t changed anything yet. And what good was a new ruler without change?