Reassure her.”
Grant lowered his voice. “You're going to get her out of the city?”
“Yes. If I can.”
29
Maeve dragged her feet up the steps to the apothecary. She hadn't been back in two days, having found unexpected hospitality in the brothels at The Slip. Madam Lemaire had fed her, and given her a warm bed. But that place was full of men with too few morals, and too many hands. It was a constant stream of Uncle Lous. And despite Madam Lemaire's promise that Maeve would only ever be a waitress, never one of the girls upstairs, she knew she couldn't stay. And there was only one other place she could go.
Maeve looked up at the sign above the door. The wooden bottle swung gently back and forth, hanging from the bracket by its cork. She'd spent most of her life in the servitude of her uncle, and she had few memories from before it.
She pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
Uncle Lou was sat behind the counter, bent over a newspaper. He looked up, and his face paled.
“You're back,” he said quietly.
“You have your friend Madam Lemaire to thank for that,” Maeve said. She wanted him to know it wasn't her choice to return.
“So what now?” Lou asked.
Maeve somehow hated him even more for his meekness, his embarrassment at getting caught. She certainly wasn't about to name it guilt. At least when he was lashing out at her, she could hate him from a physical, instinctual place. But to see him so pathetic, asking her for decisions, she had to actively choose to hate him.
“Just stay out of my way,” Maeve said. She pulled the door to the hall open, and stepped through it. She backed up, and looked at his hunched stature.
“Actually, no, let's have this out.” She took a step towards him. This man she had feared for most of her life. “How could you do it? How could you hand over your own sister? My mother. You took her away from me.” She was shouting now. “How could you? Answer me!”
Maeve launched herself at Lou, punching his chest, tearing at his neck. He lifted his hand and swiftly hit her. His knuckles slammed into her cheek bone, and the impact threw her to the floor.
She rolled over and looked back at him. She recognised his expression; this was the Uncle Lou she knew.
He dropped his knees onto her arms, and she recognised the pain of her shoulder dislocating. Lou's long fingers wrapped around her neck. Maeve lay still, staring straight into his eyes.
“Do it,” she croaked. “Do it!”
“I will!” He tightened his fingers. “I'll bloody kill you, and no one will even miss you, Selene!”
He let go, rolling back onto his heels. He stared at Maeve, and then down at his hands.
“Look what you made me do,” he said. He rose to his feet, turned and walked into the hall. Maeve heard him stomp up the stairs.
She coughed, and swallowed down the taste of blood. She rubbed at her aching neck, and cradled her dislocated arm as she battled to sit up. She coughed again, and pain shot through her shoulder.
Bending her knees up to her chest, Maeve slowly lifted her arms to wrap around her legs, and laced her fingers together. She cried out as she leaned backwards, but her shoulder popped back into place. She gently shook it out, and struggled to her feet.
She wandered over to the counter and sat on the chair behind it. He had called her by her mother's name. Had he once had his hands around her neck?
She looked down at the newspaper.
'Death to Door Salesman: Merchant arrested for string of poison hemlock murders'.
Maeve quickly read through the first few paragraphs. They had linked a number of deaths to the merchant, even deaths from The Floor. They had the wrong man, and they wouldn't be looking for the right one. According to the families, justice had been done. There had been celebrations over his capture, protests calling for the death sentence. That's why she'd seen bunting strung up in the slums.
Roscoe Cross. How did this man get so tangled up in this?
Maeve looked
Grant lowered his voice. “You're going to get her out of the city?”
“Yes. If I can.”
29
Maeve dragged her feet up the steps to the apothecary. She hadn't been back in two days, having found unexpected hospitality in the brothels at The Slip. Madam Lemaire had fed her, and given her a warm bed. But that place was full of men with too few morals, and too many hands. It was a constant stream of Uncle Lous. And despite Madam Lemaire's promise that Maeve would only ever be a waitress, never one of the girls upstairs, she knew she couldn't stay. And there was only one other place she could go.
Maeve looked up at the sign above the door. The wooden bottle swung gently back and forth, hanging from the bracket by its cork. She'd spent most of her life in the servitude of her uncle, and she had few memories from before it.
She pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
Uncle Lou was sat behind the counter, bent over a newspaper. He looked up, and his face paled.
“You're back,” he said quietly.
“You have your friend Madam Lemaire to thank for that,” Maeve said. She wanted him to know it wasn't her choice to return.
“So what now?” Lou asked.
Maeve somehow hated him even more for his meekness, his embarrassment at getting caught. She certainly wasn't about to name it guilt. At least when he was lashing out at her, she could hate him from a physical, instinctual place. But to see him so pathetic, asking her for decisions, she had to actively choose to hate him.
“Just stay out of my way,” Maeve said. She pulled the door to the hall open, and stepped through it. She backed up, and looked at his hunched stature.
“Actually, no, let's have this out.” She took a step towards him. This man she had feared for most of her life. “How could you do it? How could you hand over your own sister? My mother. You took her away from me.” She was shouting now. “How could you? Answer me!”
Maeve launched herself at Lou, punching his chest, tearing at his neck. He lifted his hand and swiftly hit her. His knuckles slammed into her cheek bone, and the impact threw her to the floor.
She rolled over and looked back at him. She recognised his expression; this was the Uncle Lou she knew.
He dropped his knees onto her arms, and she recognised the pain of her shoulder dislocating. Lou's long fingers wrapped around her neck. Maeve lay still, staring straight into his eyes.
“Do it,” she croaked. “Do it!”
“I will!” He tightened his fingers. “I'll bloody kill you, and no one will even miss you, Selene!”
He let go, rolling back onto his heels. He stared at Maeve, and then down at his hands.
“Look what you made me do,” he said. He rose to his feet, turned and walked into the hall. Maeve heard him stomp up the stairs.
She coughed, and swallowed down the taste of blood. She rubbed at her aching neck, and cradled her dislocated arm as she battled to sit up. She coughed again, and pain shot through her shoulder.
Bending her knees up to her chest, Maeve slowly lifted her arms to wrap around her legs, and laced her fingers together. She cried out as she leaned backwards, but her shoulder popped back into place. She gently shook it out, and struggled to her feet.
She wandered over to the counter and sat on the chair behind it. He had called her by her mother's name. Had he once had his hands around her neck?
She looked down at the newspaper.
'Death to Door Salesman: Merchant arrested for string of poison hemlock murders'.
Maeve quickly read through the first few paragraphs. They had linked a number of deaths to the merchant, even deaths from The Floor. They had the wrong man, and they wouldn't be looking for the right one. According to the families, justice had been done. There had been celebrations over his capture, protests calling for the death sentence. That's why she'd seen bunting strung up in the slums.
Roscoe Cross. How did this man get so tangled up in this?
Maeve looked
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