Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Genevieve took special care leaving the Ossuary, though she remained as unseen as ever.
Kendrick had given her a scare. She dropped off Sparrow’s piece work with the shopkeepers and received the meager wage in return.
After, even shrouded in her talent, she walked carefully up to a man sleeping rough in an alley.
He never realized she was there, even when she sank her teeth into his wrist, above the line of grime around his cuffs.
She only took a little blood from him because he tasted strongly of drink, and it was just early evening.
At Sally’s, there was no Justin or Mary to watch, but Peter and Hannah squabbled all night. A very fractious and contentious assemblage. Genevieve forwent most of the alphabet lessons and instead asked what sort of story they would like to hear.
“Exciting, with battles. And not a girly story, neither,” Peter said in a sullen voice.
“Not a girly story.” Genevieve sighed. He had not been as enthralled with Wynnflaed as she and Hannah, then. “Hmm. Shall I tell you of a monster called Grendel, who haunted a lord’s hall in years long past, and the hero who did battle with him?”
“Yes.”
Genevieve raised an eyebrow.
Peter ducked his head. “Yes, please, mum.”
“All right. Now, Grendel…” The words transformed the small room into a lord’s hall that smelled of peat smoke and ale, of a night full of monsters, but among the hall’s inhabitants: heroes.
Partway into describing the battle against Grendel, an insistent knock sounded on the door.
Peter and Hannah stilled.
Unforeseen knocks were never good. Genevieve stood, smoothing her skirts.
“I’ll see who it is,” she said, gliding to the door on silent feet.
The back of her neck tingled, and she flexed her hand.
She could deal with any human threat. When her hand rested on the knob, the scents on the other side of the door registered. Blood. Blood and—
She drew back the bolt. “Fletcher? What’s happened?”
The urchin swiped his hand under his running nose and gestured to the small boy beside him and the hiccupping baby he carried. “The baby’s bashed her head in, miss.”
Genevieve crouched to look at the baby, who was bleeding from a cut on her head.
“Oh, poor darling,” she murmured. The baby twisted away from her to hide against her brother’s neck.
They must have been siblings; they had the same green eyes and towheaded hair.
“What’s your name?” she asked the boy. He could not have been older than seven.
He shot her a look and swallowed.
“He’s the tyke what lives up the second floor,” Fletcher said. “Augie and June.”
“August,” the boy whispered.
Genevieve’s gaze widened. “I think Sally—Mrs. Blevins—spoke to your mother about me. My name is Miss Dryden. I look after Peter and Hannah at night. Would you like to come in, August? I can help you bandage up June’s head. She’s not too heavy for you?”
“See, I told you she was a good ’un. Go on,” Fletcher said, backing away from the door.
Genevieve straightened. “Fletcher, won’t you come in?”
“Naw,” he said, swiping his sleeve over his nose again and sniffing.
“Just to warm yourself by the fire? You can wait and escort me home,” Genevieve coaxed.
“Got something to do, miss. I’ll be back.” He disappeared down the stairs.
Genevieve sighed, her shoulders slumping.
“That boy.” She motioned August inside. “Would you like to give June to me? Let’s see what we can do about her head.
You banged it hard, didn’t you, dear?” she murmured, taking the girl’s weight and settling her on her hip.
She was big enough to crawl but perhaps not walking yet.
June howled at the transfer to a stranger, twisting towards her brother.
“Shh. It’s all right. Look, August is right here.
” Genevieve patted her small back, checking her over quickly.
She was small but clean, in a neat flannel gown, and the blood had slowed to a trickle, though the drying blood was all over her head and she’d certainly come out in florid bruise colors soon.
The children’s names were decidedly not Cockney.
Hadn’t Sally said something about their mother coming down in the world?
How far she must have fallen for her family to land in the East End.
“Hannah, there’s a bit of supper left. Bring me that bowl and let’s see if June is interested in a bite to eat. ”
The girl did as she’d asked. Peter looked on silently, arms crossed.
“Thank you, dear. August, do you know Peter and Hannah?” she asked over June’s howls.
“I think Hannah is your age. We’ve gone over our letters tonight—all the way to ‘p,’ and I had begun a story.
See if June—yes, there you go.” August had carefully scooped up a bit of food from the spoon and poked it into June’s crying mouth. The wailing stopped as she chewed.
Genevieve smiled and reached for the clean cloth beside the washbasin.
She wrung it out and carefully cleaned the cut before wiping away the blood.
“It must’ve been frightening to see your sister get hurt.
But see, it’s only a little cut. Head wounds tend to bleed prodigiously because there is a lot of blood in the scalp. ”
“Pro… Prodid…” August repeated in a whispered.
“Prodigious—‘huge,’ ‘colossal,’ ‘immense.’ ‘Quite a lot,’” Genevieve defined. “There. Peter, do you know where your mother would keep bandages?”
Peter shook his head.
“Well, no matter.” Genevieve dug a handkerchief from her pocket and folded it into a bandage before tying it around June’s head. “There. Better, dear?”
June just opened her mouth for another spoonful.
“August, would you like to hear the rest of this story?”
He cast a glance at the door.
“I don’t know when your mother plans to return, but I will listen for her,” Genevieve promised. “I don’t want her to worry. Why don’t you finish up that pot?” She shifted June to rest against her shoulder and patted her. “Peter, where was I in the story?”
“They was fighting with the beast,” he said immediately.
“Ah, yes. So, Grendel, a great monster who had long harrowed the Hall of Heorot, was sought by Beowulf, a great hero of the Geats. Beowulf did battle with Grendel…”
When Beowulf had vanquished both Grendel and Grendel’s mother and gained great renown and Hannah and June had fallen asleep, Genevieve heard footfalls on the stair.
But it was Sally who bustled into the small room.
“Brr, wind’s picking up,” she said, unwinding her shawls.
She held her hands out to the fire. “Were you good for Miss Dryden, my duck?” she asked Peter, who was yawning.
“Yes, Mama.”
She pressed a kiss to his head and straightened to goggle at June and August. “Well, bless her! She finally brought the tykes around?”
“No, August brought his sister over. She had a bit of an accident, but all is well now.” She decided not to mention Fletcher.
Sally clucked over the both of them. “They can stay here until their mum gets home. I’ll watch them. You’d best be going before this wind turns to a storm, Miss Dryden.”
Genevieve was impervious to wind and storms, but Sally didn’t know that, and it was kind of her to think of it.
She transferred the sleepy weight of June to Sally and settled her cloak around her shoulders.
“August, tell your mother that I said you are both welcome anytime,” Genevieve told the boy, patting him on the shoulder.
He was too young to take care of a baby on his own, but needs must. “I am very glad I could help. Don’t be afraid to knock on Sally’s door if you need it. ”
“Thank you, Miss Dryden,” he said shyly.
“You’re very welcome, dear.” She re-tied her bonnet ribbons. “Take care, Sally.”
When she stepped out onto the street, Genevieve looked both ways for a small waif with a mulish expression on his face, but Fletcher did not appear.
Sometimes he didn’t, but she felt foolishly disappointed.
Perhaps whatever he had had to do had taken longer than he’d expected.
She hoped wherever he was, he was safe and warm on this cold night.
A deceptive chill hung in the air that boded either rain or snow if temperatures dropped low enough.
A strong gust of wind buffeted her, and one of her frayed ribbons snapped. Her unsecured bonnet flew off her head.
Genevieve lunged after it, but the wind carried it past her reach.
Then a hand snatched it out of the air.
“Beowulf, Miss Dryden?”
Kendrick stepped from the dark shadow of the house, looking for all the world like a human laborer walking home from the pub—if a laborer walked with a sword slung over his shoulder, that was. “I believe you’ve lost this.”
Genevieve swept her short hair out of her face, gaping at him.
His boot heels clicked against the cobblestones as he approached, and she knew it was only because he allowed it. This man could be silent as the grave when he wanted. Genevieve pressed her lips together. Pun intended.
Large hands gently brushed back the hair the wind had disarranged and settled the bonnet on her head. She clapped a hand on it to keep it in place.
Kendrick tilted his head to the side, staring down at her. “Conversations do require a second participant, in my experience, Miss Dryden.”
Miss Dryden’s hair was short, dark, and soft, ending just an inch or two below her chin.
Had she been ill before she’d died? Why had her hair been cropped?
Short hair had not been the thing for women since the beginning of the century.
Come to think of it, was that why she wore the outmoded bonnet all the time?
Kendrick noted the way she clapped it to her head.
The worn ribbon trailed down her shoulder.
Miss Dryden licked her lips. “What would you like me to say, sir?”
“Kendrick,” he corrected her, and added, on a whim, “Or, if you like, Cyneric. That’s what they called me when this land was young.” He wanted to hear her say his name.