“One carriage ride away and the streets are quiet and spotless. It’s a different world in the West End.”
A drunken man approached them and made an overture. Since they had to play the part, Cecily and Tessa smiled and led him to an alley, where they inserted him into an empty oyster barrel and left him.
“A month of this and no sign,” Tessa said as they walked away from the flailing, upturned legs of the man. “Either we’re keeping it away, or . . .”
“Or this simply isn’t working.”
“Magnus Bane would be useful at a time like this.”
“Magnus Bane is enjoying New York,” Cecily replied. “You’re a warlock.”
“I don’t have Magnus’s experience. Anyway, it’s nearly dawn. Another hour and we can go home.”
Will and Gabriel had taken to posting themselves in the Ten Bells pub, which seemed to be the central place for news of the killer. Indeed, many locals said they had seen him there with the victims before the murders. Sometimes Jem would come by with news from the Silent City. It wasn’t unusual for Cecily and Tessa to return exhausted to the pub at the crack of dawn, and find Gabriel gone and Will asleep, wrapped up in Brother Zachariah’s parchment robes, head on the table.
Jem would be reading a book, or quietly looking out the window. He could see, in his own fashion, despite his closed eyes. He was glamoured, so that his appearance would not shock the tavern’s denizens. Tessa could always feel Cecily tense when she first saw Jem: black runes scored his cheeks, and there was a single white streak in his dark hair.
Sometimes, after Cecily and Gabriel left, Tessa would sit with her hand in Jem’s and Will sleeping against her shoulder, listening to the rain on the windows. It never did last for long, though, since she did not like leaving the children alone so much, though Bridget was an excellent nurse.
It was hard on both families. The children would wake to find four exhausted parents who drew endless runes for wakefulness and yet still could barely keep up with Anna, running about in her uncle’s waistcoat, or James, waving his spoon and trying to find the dagger he had seen and loved. Lucie woke at all hours needing milk and embraces.
And here it was, another dawn walking the streets of the East End, and for what? And the dawn was coming later and later. The nights were so very long. As the sun rose over Christ Church in Spitalfields, Cecily turned to Tessa again.
“Home,” she said.
“Home,” Tessa replied wearily.
They had arranged for a carriage to come for them that morning on Gun Street. They met Will and Gabriel there. They looked a bit worse for wear, as they often had to drink gin all night in order to blend in with the locals. There had been no Jem that night, and Will seemed restless.
“Did you find out anything?” Tessa asked.
“The same as usual,” Gabriel said, slurring a little. “All the victims were seen with a man. He varies in stature and all manner of appearance.”
“So likely an Eidolon,” Will said. “It’s so generic that it might even be a Du’sien, but I don’t think a Du’sien could get that close and convince a woman he was an actual human male, no matter how drunk she was.”
“But that tells us nothing,” Cecily said. “If it’s an Eidolon, it could be anyone.”
“It’s being remarkably consistent, though,” Will said. “It always comes as a man and it always takes women. We’re getting nowhere with this.”
“Or we’re getting everywhere,” Gabriel replied. “It hasn’t come back.”
“We can’t do this forever.”
They’d been having this same conversation every night for the past week. This one ended as it usually did, with the two couples leaning against each other in the back of the carriage and falling asleep until they reached the Institute. They greeted their children, who were having their breakfast with Bridget, and they listened with half-closed eyes as Anna rambled on about her many plans for the day and James banged his spoon.
Tessa and Will started the climb up the steps to their bedroom. Cecily waited for Gabriel, who was lingering in the front parlor.
“I’ll be up shortly,” he said, his eyes bloodshot. “I just want to read the morning papers.”
Gabriel always did this—always checked, every morning. So Tessa, Will, and Cecily returned to bed. Once in their bedroom, Tessa cleaned her face in the basin with the hot water Bridget had left. Their fire was burning, and the bed was turned back, waiting for them. They fell into it gratefully.
They had barely fallen asleep when Tessa heard a fevered banging at the door and Gabriel admitted himself.
“It’s happened again,” he said, breathless. “By the Angel, this is the worst one yet.”
The carriage was recalled, and within the hour, they were on their way back to the East End, this time dressed in gear.
“It happened in a place called Miller’s Court, off Dorset Street,” Gabriel said.
Of all the terrible streets in East London, Dorset Street was the worst. It was a short road, just off Commercial Street. Tessa had learned much of the goings-on of Dorset Street in the last few weeks. A pair of abusive slum landlords controlled much of the street. There was so much screaming, so much poverty and stench crowded into a small space that it felt like it could push the air out of the lungs. The houses there were subdivided into tiny rooms, each little space rented away. This was a street where everyone had an empty stare, where the prevailing feeling was of desperation.
On the way, Gabriel told them what he’d managed to find out from the morning papers—the address (number thirteen), the victim’s name (Mary Kelly). There was a parade moving through the city for Lord Mayor’s Day. News of the crime had spread, though, and was making its way along the parade route. Newspaper boys were chanting about the murder and selling papers like mad. Cecily peered out from the curtain of the carriage.