“He buys things and then has Fletcher present them to me like it’s a great mystery whom they’re from,” Genevieve murmured, picking up her reticule. “I believe he bought it because it wouldn’t require a hatpin like some styles, though in the note for this one, he said that the milliner assured him the style would be all the rage soon.”
Elspeth smiled. “It looks very well on you.”
“How is Evangeline?” Genevieve asked as they descended the stairs and made their way to the Ossuary’s entrance in the cellar. “And how are you doing?”
“Evangeline is doing well. She worries about her control around the children, but it also motivates her to learn control. Mr. Penrose helps as well.”
“And you?” Genevieve asked again, touching her arm.
Elspeth sighed. “I feel like the worst sort of jailer.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Penrose insisted we learn to locate and understand what the blood bond is like between us—what if there is some sort of pressure in these early days that causes Evangeline to lash out, and I must order her to desist? And she must also understand what it feels like to be commanded in order to divine the difference between her own will and mine. Which I understand. A weapon we don’t know how to wield will end up cutting us both. And Evangeline gave her consent before we began. I justhateit,” Elspeth said in a low, fervent voice. “I feel like the monster we always thought our makers were.”
“You are nothing like them,” Genevieve told her.
“I hope not. But I don’t believe it is the natural order of things for one being to hold such sway over another.”
“I don’t believe we could describe vampirism as ‘natural,’” Genevieve said dryly.
“Exactly. I’ve had several conversations with Sparrow about this. None of us really know how vampires came to be, but she thinks that it’s a twisting, a corruption of humanity. I’m inclined to believe her.”
“Some sort of attempt to preserve life gone horribly wrong?”
“Or a rejection of what lies after death. I don’t know. But do we bear the burden of that rejection? Do we carry that sin?”
Genevieve’s throat closed.
“I’m going to introduce Sparrow to Evangeline,” Elspeth continued. “I think they’d have some interesting conversations.”
“Good idea,” Genevieve managed.
When they made their way to the area that they had converted into a distribution point for the goods and services they were trying to disperse about the underground, they found Sparrow already there behind a long, wooden table used to set out goods, in a heated discussion with a man Genevieve recognized but whose name she didn’t know. He wore a patched coat and a belligerent expression as he used his height to loom over Sparrow. Five similarly dressed toughs backed him up as waiting vampires watched warily from the sidelines.
He was one of many underground. Every few months, an enterprising soul would chafe against their maker’s and the Ossuary’s restrictions and, in an effort to kick against the pricks, would form a gang to provide protection and exert influence on all the other vampires penned up by their makers. It would inevitably decline as their behavior devolved into bullying and the underlings rebelled or a rival gang formed. Eventually, two opposing forces would confront each other and leave each other bloody or dead. Or their makers would step in and lay commands on all involved.
Genevieve had always made it a priority to stay out of the way of those types. Often she had used her talent to advise those in harm’s way to relocate out of a particular area of “turf” or to be wary of a particular vampire. She felt a moment’s urge to go unseen, instinct in the face of danger. But she squared her shoulders instead and approached with Elspeth at her side.
“What is all this?”
The man spun around to face her, hands on his hips. A scuffed bowler covered his head, pulled low over his eyes. Based on the scowl on his craggy face, he looked like what Fletcher would have described as a “hard man.”
That, or “bent as a nine-bob note.”
“This gentleman believes he should have a larger share of goods than anyone else,” Sparrow said, mouth pursed.
“And why is that, Mister…?”
“Name’s Barrett,” the man said, scowling in Genevieve’s direction. “This here’s my patch. I’m collecting for those what live on my patch. And what’s with holding the rest of the goods in reserve, missy? That’s a load of bollocks. Ain’t we good enough to warrant it?” He puffed himself up like a bantam.
A hiss from the onlookers. “That’s thelady, that is,” someone said.
Genevieve held up a hand. “I do understand the trouble, Mr. Barrett. We have not precisely nailed down the new titles for the rulers of the Ossuary. However.” Her voice dropped into frigid territory. “I have never been, nor will I ever be, a ‘missy.’”
His lip curled. “Missus, then. I still need the shares for those on my patch. A hundred of ’em.” He stabbed a thick finger into the top of the table.
“And their names?” Genevieve said.
