wander through the stews making contacts from the residents and working girls there.
I felt rather calm, which surprised me—though I quickly came to believe this a remnant of the opium I had been given. That it came from Hawke’s own fingers was an undeniable fact I was trying very hard not to dwell on.
Delivering medicinal tar was not as intimate a task as my imagination was determined to paint it.
It did allow me, however, a measure of peace that I struggled to maintain without. I walked fearlessly through the fog-stifled streets until I arrived at my destination and did not allow myself to wander across mental landscapes I swore I’d have no truck with.
Hawke’s efforts, Zylphia’s punishments, these were among those thoughts I stifled.
These concerns, these aimless worries, would only detract from the greater goal. I entered the abandoned train station that had become the collectors’ base of operations, strode through the fog leaking through the long- since shattered windows to pool across the empty floor. The lanterns affixed on either end of the open space offered just enough light to indicate that I was alone in the vacant station. It was a rare enough thing to cross the paths of other collectors, but not unheard of.
I did not even know how many of us there were, though I was assuredly the only woman among them. My presence continued to be the fodder of gossip and rumor; a fact I had long grown to enjoy, as my identity remained a thing of mystery.
The faintest current of air pushed the fog along, curling it into wisps and fingers of lamplit gray as it clung to my knees. It did not reach high enough to dampen the papers on the old brick facing at the far end, but some nearer the bottom did tend to show a bit of rot around the edges.
I pushed my fog-prevention goggles atop my head, the better to read the often cramped handwriting scrawled across the various bits of paper affixed to the wall. The yellow lens of one half of the eye protection allowed me to see clearer through the fog than most, though it tinted the world in the same shade. The other lens had long since cracked—in a scuffle with the very same murderer I hunted now.
All things come around full circle, it seemed. I would take the coin I’d need to repair the glass out of his arrogance, as well.
I glossed over many of the notices. It took some recalibrating of my own awareness, but for the first time in my years of collecting, I ignored the ones that called for living delivery, debts collected or items found and looked instead for those demanding assassination.
It was not an act that settled comfortably upon me. I had always maintained two rules: I did not collect children, and I did not murder, for coin or otherwise.
The former because I had seen firsthand the terrible price children paid for such machinations. My first collection had culminated in the rescue of young girls taken by them what should know better.
The latter because I was no murderer.
To kill a man, to lose one’s soul by taking another’s, had never been worth the coin offered. Beyond that, purses so heavy as to warrant the death of the mark were also usually challenged by other collectors. I sought for one, in specific, and knew just how to find him.
There were two demands for death upon the wall that night, and the coin was enough to make even my eyes go round.
Yet it was the third call for the retrieval of a man, a notice that suggested capture alive for justice was preferable but deceased with proof of identity tolerable, that garnered my interest.
It was not the first time I had ever seen a collection notice for the man, though ’twas the first I’d seen with his newly claimed moniker upon it. He was quite a sight more infamous now.
A man worth the time to claim. I could not be the only collector to think so, though only one would leave the notice upon the wall. That the paper was not yet marked meant it was fresh.
There was no purse attached, which surprised me, only an indication that one should request audience with the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee for reward.
The Committee had formed only last September, bolstered by businesses concerned that the murders committed by the one they’d formerly called Leather Apron were affecting trade. A cold-hearted motive, but one that spurred men into action. If I recalled the articles correctly, one George Lusk had been nominated the chairman of the committee.
His would be the first avenue by which I would gain information.
I reached into my coat and plucked the knife from its sheath at the front of my corset. So cleverly made was the whole that the blade acted as one more slatted support, with its twin acting the same at my back. I drew the first from the top, and the latter from the bottom, which made for fluid arming when necessary.
This time, I only required one. Very carefully, I set the point of the blade at the top of the notice and carved a line down the middle.
I’d perceived a pattern, in my years collecting. The standard mode of operation demanded that the notices were to be pulled from the wall once a collector accepted one. This kept collectors from, well, getting in each other’s way—either terminally or otherwise. However, over the years, there had been some calls for assassination that were not pulled so much as marked.
A single slash down the middle, as if the perpetrator dared the rest of us to challenge him for the winnings.
I believed my rival to be the man who taunted with the display. Not only was it exactly the sort of game he would enjoy, but deliveries of flowers upon my stoop or window sill had coincided with these marked notices. As if I were personally invited to the game.
The deliveries had stopped for a while, and I’d considered myself rid of the man for good. How wrong was I. When next I saw him, it had been over my husband’s bleeding body.
As I sheathed my blade and looked upon my handiwork, I felt no satisfaction at the act. No job well done. Only a pit in the depths of my belly, cold and aching.
I intended to collect the Ripper alive, but if I knew my rival, he would not be so kind. The test, regardless of method, was clear.
“May the best collector win,” I said to the wintry, damp air.
There was nobody else in the station to hear me. Only myself, and the fog that swallowed the bitterness of the challenge.
I would need help for this particular game.
I made my way through the East End, through Poplar and a titch south, where Blackwall played home to the bulk of the Brick Street Bakers. I had formulated no plan, and I did not think myself worried for it. All had moved rather quickly of late, and where that should have made me concerned, I found only determination in its wake.
The Veil had gone too far, and now I found myself without a safe sanctuary from which to work. This in itself did not bother me overmuch, for I had not considered that far ahead. What I found reprehensible was the manner in which the Veil made known his displeasure.
Had I dreamed that exchange between Zylphia and Hawke? I knew that my once-companion was very likely fulfilling the role that had been deemed mine in the lion-prince’s taming ring, and the terror that caused me was as infuriating as it was a warning of my own weakness.
What could the Veil possibly do to Hawke? He was as part of the Midnight Menagerie as the Veil itself; the gardens would not bloom without its serpent to tend it.
Yet what if the Veil did not consider this?
What if I overestimated the man’s worth?
These worries plagued me only until I forced them from my thoughts.
My goal was to find the sweet tooth. And in order to do this, I would locate Jack the Ripper.
Two impossible demands.
One plan to solve them.
For this to succeed, I needed more eyes and ears than I possessed. The Karakash Veil was certain that neither man had attended the Menagerie’s events, yet evidence suggested the sweet tooth could get in and out of the grounds without raising suspicion. Even I, who could easily make my way inside, could not avoid detection for
