potholes, talons that tilted and lurched the carriage around. Robert held fast to his case. He had spent far too long on the work to have it be anything less than perfect.
The carriage came to a halt and without waiting for the footman, Robert grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.
That smell he’d never quite adjusted to assailed him, of sorrow, of death, and of desperation. This part of town wasn’t about lazy mornings and bright futures.
It was about survival.
It was a frank realization that he felt more comfortable within the grimness.
He dropped down to the street, landing in an inch of mud and feeling the ground turn to quicksand at his feet. The building before him barely earned the name. The flash house was ramshackle at best, with dirty windows smudged with God only knew what and walls held up by shadows that slithered. Robert waited for his manservant to take his place at his side, for Edwin provided more than just accompaniment.
He provided armed escort.
They skirted around the building into a dark alleyway, littered with trash and sounds of lives long since deadened by a world that had tossed them away. Robert ignored it all, knowing that his modest clothing was considered finery, and that without the tested-and-proven-deadly Edwin by his side, he would be easy pickings.
His blood surged forward as the doorway appeared, a dim light casting shadows on the worn, splinter-filled door. Outside in the muck, he was nobody.
But not inside.
Today, he would become more.
He tucked the box closer to his side and rapped on the door, once, twice, and a quick double knock to end. The door creaked open a small sliver.
“Seven hills of gold.”
The familiar, nonsensical words gained him entry into a world most would refuse to enter. The man at the door, a bulk of a man with no neck and a grin filled of missing teeth slammed the door behind them.
“’E’s waitin’ fer ye.”
Without a by your leave, he moved past the man and into the room, ignoring the prostitutes with bared breasts heaved over willing, but drunken guttersnipes and wove through the motley mix of tables toward the back room.
There, a man loomed sentry at the door. Upon sight of Robert, he gave a short nod and slid over to allow Robert to pass.
That quick pulse of pleasure ran through him. It was a weakness, one of many.
He liked being someone to whom mountains acquiesced.
The small room inside was familiar, matched in candlelight and shadows that turned the bare, stark room into something more sinister, more oppressive.
“Yer late.”
The words were low, like the hum of something unwelcome coming your way.
“I was detained,” Robert replied. He thrust the stricken look on Lily’s face from his mind. There was no place for her in this filth. Taking steps forward, he dropped the box he’d brought onto the table with a thud. “Here you are. The best yet.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” A scrape sounded along the floor, followed by the thud of boots landing on the wood. In moments, a man stepped out of the long cast of the shadows. He was known as Kane, nothing more. He was unimpressive by any standards, not large, or lean or much of anything.
And yet, the cold emptiness in his eyes, the way the air stirred around him and moved to get out of his way permeated Robert with the usual tension. It tightened along his shoulders, his neck.
Kane opened the box and pulled out a single copperplate from inside. With his free hand, he snapped his fingers.
A candle was brought to his side. Kane took it and held the plate up for inspection.
Robert could close his eyes and envision every swirl, every line, every angle he’d etched onto the malleable copper. Still, his hands clenched and his throat grew tight at the thought of some imperfection, some flaw he’d overlooked.
To demand what he intended, his work needed to be the best.
He was the best. No one could duplicate what he could do. No one.
Minutes passed in silence, until
The carriage came to a halt and without waiting for the footman, Robert grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.
That smell he’d never quite adjusted to assailed him, of sorrow, of death, and of desperation. This part of town wasn’t about lazy mornings and bright futures.
It was about survival.
It was a frank realization that he felt more comfortable within the grimness.
He dropped down to the street, landing in an inch of mud and feeling the ground turn to quicksand at his feet. The building before him barely earned the name. The flash house was ramshackle at best, with dirty windows smudged with God only knew what and walls held up by shadows that slithered. Robert waited for his manservant to take his place at his side, for Edwin provided more than just accompaniment.
He provided armed escort.
They skirted around the building into a dark alleyway, littered with trash and sounds of lives long since deadened by a world that had tossed them away. Robert ignored it all, knowing that his modest clothing was considered finery, and that without the tested-and-proven-deadly Edwin by his side, he would be easy pickings.
His blood surged forward as the doorway appeared, a dim light casting shadows on the worn, splinter-filled door. Outside in the muck, he was nobody.
But not inside.
Today, he would become more.
He tucked the box closer to his side and rapped on the door, once, twice, and a quick double knock to end. The door creaked open a small sliver.
“Seven hills of gold.”
The familiar, nonsensical words gained him entry into a world most would refuse to enter. The man at the door, a bulk of a man with no neck and a grin filled of missing teeth slammed the door behind them.
“’E’s waitin’ fer ye.”
Without a by your leave, he moved past the man and into the room, ignoring the prostitutes with bared breasts heaved over willing, but drunken guttersnipes and wove through the motley mix of tables toward the back room.
There, a man loomed sentry at the door. Upon sight of Robert, he gave a short nod and slid over to allow Robert to pass.
That quick pulse of pleasure ran through him. It was a weakness, one of many.
He liked being someone to whom mountains acquiesced.
The small room inside was familiar, matched in candlelight and shadows that turned the bare, stark room into something more sinister, more oppressive.
“Yer late.”
The words were low, like the hum of something unwelcome coming your way.
“I was detained,” Robert replied. He thrust the stricken look on Lily’s face from his mind. There was no place for her in this filth. Taking steps forward, he dropped the box he’d brought onto the table with a thud. “Here you are. The best yet.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” A scrape sounded along the floor, followed by the thud of boots landing on the wood. In moments, a man stepped out of the long cast of the shadows. He was known as Kane, nothing more. He was unimpressive by any standards, not large, or lean or much of anything.
And yet, the cold emptiness in his eyes, the way the air stirred around him and moved to get out of his way permeated Robert with the usual tension. It tightened along his shoulders, his neck.
Kane opened the box and pulled out a single copperplate from inside. With his free hand, he snapped his fingers.
A candle was brought to his side. Kane took it and held the plate up for inspection.
Robert could close his eyes and envision every swirl, every line, every angle he’d etched onto the malleable copper. Still, his hands clenched and his throat grew tight at the thought of some imperfection, some flaw he’d overlooked.
To demand what he intended, his work needed to be the best.
He was the best. No one could duplicate what he could do. No one.
Minutes passed in silence, until
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