Once she finished explaining about the blank card, Miss Audrey showed signs of wanting to end their eting. It wasn't even nine o'clock, however, and their lessons usually lasted late into the night.
"Very well. Thank you for your help."
Nodding, Jenkins stood and scooped up the sleeping cat. Chocolate cracked open one eye to look at the man, then closed it again with a slight squirm.
"I'll see you next week, then."
His gaze, however, remained inquisitively on the card clutched tightly in her hand.
"See you next week,"
Miss Audrey responded.
She stood in the foyer, watching as the maid opened the door for Jenkins and saw him to the gate at the edge of the yard. Then, she paced over to the window and watched his figure walk toward the waiting carriage, its kerosene lamp glowing at the street corner.
"Oh, the Hermit..."
She breathed, clutching the card to her chest with both hands, her eyes glistening with tears.
"Finally, a glimr of hope... To write destiny itself."
She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold glass, remaining silent for a long, long ti.
Although Miss Audrey's final actions had been baffling, the outco of the divination had greatly lifted Jenkins's spirits.
He spent all of Sunday moving. With the lockdown on St. George Street finally lifted, the residents began to return. Jenkins's neighbors, the Goodmans, were among them. During a casual chat, Jenkins discovered that everyone knew he had bought Mrs. Margaret's house, and they all considered it a generous and kind act.
"After all, that poor woman was murdered, and she had no savings or family to speak of. If you hadn't bought her house, she likely wouldn't have even afforded a decent burial plot."
Returning to his own ho filled him with an indescribable excitent. The Church had helped repair the window that had been shattered that night, so the house looked just as clean and welcoming as it always had.
Even Chocolate was excited, ceaselessly leaping back and forth between two tal blocks while Jenkins fretted over what to do with the waterlon on the fruit platter.
The kitten's playful antics amused his visitors, Miss Mikhail and Hathaway, who couldn't help but chuckle. No one could have possibly guessed the cat's true intentions.
On Sunday evening, after seeing his friends out, Jenkins stood by his living room window, pocket watch in hand, and gazed outside. Though patches of snow still lingered on the ground, the sky above had completely cleared. And yet, for so reason, the fog that had blanketed the city for a week refused to dissipate. He found himself genuinely worried about the health of its residents.
The distant chis of a clock tower rang out, and at the sa mont, he heard a faint sound from behind him. He didn't turn, simply letting the glow of the gaslight stretch his shadow across the opposite wall.
"I trust everything will go smoothly."
Alexia whispered in his ear.
"I hope so."
A na like Hamrhead Street told you everything you needed to know about the people who frequented it. By day, the street was a bustling artery, with a constant stream of pedestrians and patrons of all stripes. But by night, it was devoid of any light, save for the occasional sliver that escaped through an apartnt curtain.
Hamrhead Street wasn't a main city thoroughfare, so it didn't yet qualify for streetlamps. The road was paved with loose gravel; difficult to walk on, but still an improvent over a muddy dirt track.
The moon was still unable to pierce the thick fog tonight, making the tiny figure that appeared at the mouth of the street nearly impossible to spot. It was a man with the face of an adult but the body of a child—frail and exceptionally small. From a distance, one might mistake him for a boy, but he was what people commonly called a dwarf.
Only a few sparse brown hairs clung to the top of his head, and when he opened his mouth, two enormous front teeth were revealed. He crept along the wall, furtively scanning his surroundings. It was the kind of behavior that would earn him a thorough questioning if a police officer were to spot him.
He clutched a rope in his hand, which was attached to a small sled behind him. The sled slid almost silently over the snow, its runners only making a sound when they scraped against a jutting stone, abruptly altering its course. Each ti this happened, the dwarf pulling it would curse foully under his breath.
A small mountain of parcels was piled on the sled, secured tightly with rope. The dwarf knew exactly what these deadly packages contained. If he were caught, the Orthodox Church would likely execute him on the spot. Fortunately, this neighborhood was safe—for now.
Number 13 Hamrhead Street was just ahead. The building's spire was easy to spot among the surrounding flat-topped houses. He felt a surge of pleasure at how smoothly the delivery was going and began to plan which pub he would visit for a drink afterward.
"Ahem."
The sudden sound from the side of the street made him jump. It was only then, his mind having been elsewhere, that he noticed a tall man standing in the shadows.
An oil lamp at the man's feet flared to life, illuminating a perfectly unremarkable face. In his right hand, the man held a blood-red rose that carried the faint, tallic scent of blood.
"Good evening."
The man addressed the dwarf.
The dwarf snorted, his eyes flicking down to notice the man cast no shadow. Then his gaze, now tinged with greed, settled on the flower in the man's hand. He didn't know what it was, exactly, but he was certain it could only have been made from the highest quality blood.
"Another infected."
The dwarf concluded silently. He'd never seen the man's face before, but since they both drew their power from the sa source, he couldn't possibly be with the Church.
"What do you want? I have a delivery to make."
he asked, his voice a dry rasp, as if his throat had been scoured with sandpaper.
"I have my orders. No one is to approach Number 13 tonight. The masters are conducting an important ritual."
the man by the roadside replied, the ornate oil lamp at his feet flickering in the night breeze.
"No one inford ."
the dwarf answered slowly, though he had already halted his steps.
"That's hardly surprising. If every little thing required a notice sent to everyone, the Church's hounds would have sniffed out the blood over here long ago."
The words dripped with sarcasm, as if mocking the dwarf for his low rank. Though angered, he accepted the explanation. After all, it was typical for so commoner who'd just co into their power to be this arrogant.
"But what am I supposed to do with all this?"
His short, stubby finger pointed toward the sled.
"Just leave it here,"
the man answered.
"And why should I trust you?"
the dwarf pressed.
"You only need to know one thing: I can take your life."
As he spoke, blood began to gush from the heart of the rose he held, flowing like water from a spring. The corner of the dwarf's eye twitched. Anyone who could control blood like that was undoubtedly one of them.
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