“If she don’t watch it, she’ll be on the streets or maybe the workhouse, and then how will she get them back?” Sally clicked her tongue. “You know, if you were willing to watch the little ones during the day, Miss Dryden, I know other women what could use you.”
“I’d like to, Sally, but I have other obligations during the day,” she murmured. “But if your friend brings her children by tomorrow night, I’d be happy to have them.” Genevieve tied the threadbare ribbons of her bonnet below her chin. “You take care, Sally.”
“Bless you, Miss Dryden,” Sally said.
Outside the tenement building that hovered at the edge of neighborhoods in truly desperate poverty, Genevieve walked past night soil men and their carts as well as a few weaving figures coming back from the pubs. She ignored them. She had already fed tonight; it was her practice upon leaving the Ossuary to feed immediately. She had never been tempted when caring for any of the children, but she thought it best not to leave anything to chance. Harm to a child at anyone’s hand was not to be borne. Especially not her own.
“Miss!”
She stopped as the figure of Fletcher appeared from the corner by a much-frequented doss house.
“Early tonight,” Fletcher said as a greeting.
“Sally came home early,” she said. “If you ever desire to learn a few letters, Fletcher, you are always welcome.”
“Naw,” he said in tones of deep scorn.
“You ought to be asleep,” Genevieve chided.
“I got to see you home, don’t I? That’s what you said a toff does.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Genevieve smiled faintly. She had never realized the boy had latched so strongly on to what she had said as a passing comment months ago. “Have you got a place to stay tonight?”
“I got lots of places to go,” Fletcher said, glaring. “Why don’t you buy some dress that don’t stink to high heaven?”
Ah, the bluntness of children. “You know very well that the dye smell has faded,” Genevieve said, smiling in spite of herself. “Besides, mourning requires one to wear black.”
“Buy a new black one, then. Who died?”
“My father,” Genevieve whispered. “I suppose I’m an orphan too, now.”
“Where’d you say you was from?”
“Oxford.”
Fletcher thought about this. “Cor blimey,” he muttered. “I ain’t never been farther than Tyburn.”
“Go to bed, Fletcher,” Genevieve said as the gas streetlights grew more plentiful. “I will make my way from here.”
The boy was stubborn and followed her for two more blocks, but Genevieve ducked around a corner ahead of him and held her breath, stilling everything about her. He darted past and looked around in confusion, his eyes skating over her without seeing. It was unfair to trick the boy so, but he would follow her directly to the door of the Ossuary if he could. He was that persistent.
On silent feet, Genevieve kept walking towards her destination.Be safe, Fletcher.
There were many entrances to the Ossuary all around London, though some were harder to get to and a few areas had been rerouted due to the construction of the London Underground. But they were all secret, and under a rotating cycle of guards.
Genevieve’s lip curled. That hadn’t changed much since the Drau—sinceRupert’s reign. So much for the change that they had hoped for.
Sparrow had told her once that centuries ago, no vampire had truly lived in the tunnels—they had just been handy byways between houses, and the vampire residents had kept to their cellars and storerooms in the homes where their people had resided. Some smaller vampires with less prestigious families and resources would take a house together, and those with no monies had frequented the graveyards. But the Great Fire had occurred, and it had become prudent to have a safe refuge to which to retreat. And later the population had soared, and graverobbing had become more common, and then Rupert had come to power and set the restrictions upon the doors. No one could leave without their maker’s by-your-leave. It was a leash, a choke chain yanked whenever their creations fell out of line.
If told to stay, they had to stay. And there were guards at the entranceway to make certain of it. Safety, security, secrecy were the bywords.
More like strangulation, Genevieve thought.
Wrapping her talent around her like a cloak, she stepped silently up to the vampires on guard at the entrance closest to St. Paul’s. The door was not propped open, so she would have to wait. She stood for a good, long time, but she was used to that. Finally, the doors that barred the way to a long, rickety basement stair opened and someone exited. Moving rapidly, she slipped through the doors just as they swung shut.
She relaxed. They had not seen her.
But then, no one ever did when she used her talent. “Passing unseen,” Elspeth called it.
