[She was fuming. Another argument with Matty over how a "proper lady" should be and how she needed to stop running with the gang and start having some care for her upbringing, her presentation, her future -- she'd stayed away for 2 days this time, and she was still red in the face about it.
As she rounded the corner up the street to the shop, she realized the inspector was about -- the black and dread steam-powered wagon they used was always obvious, in both sight and sound. The far less fancy (and expensive) wagon belonging to the undertaker was there, too.
Wren grimaced to herself -- it was the early grey light of morning, which meant the Hunt had probably struck again last night, torn some poor bloke to shreds in an alley and painted the walls with their blood.
But as she drew closer, she realized -- the inspector, the workers, they were right by her home. A neighbour...? Missus Dreyfuss? Or--
She broke into a sprint. Her home, Matty's shop, it couldn't be--
"Ho there, lass! Scene's closed!" One of the inspectors calls, a Preton, his clothes clean and pressed and his hair carefully trimmed. She ignored him, ignored the twist in his mouth as her clothes brushed against him, the disgust at her proximity.
"What're you on about? This's my house, where's Matty?" She cried, and he let her go. She thought she heard someone query 'next of kin' and another call out to her not to go in, but she ignored it, barged into the shop--
It was torn apart. Machinery broken, drawers open, parts strewn about--
A body strewn about. The undertaker had barely gotten started, or maybe he'd been at it a while, but the mess was too big -- the Hunt's work, for sure, but not their usual target, they'd never gone into homes before.
Most of the inspectors were standing about, complaining about Lowtown, the smell, the dirty wretches, they weren't even bothering with the scene -- some dirty Naz was dead, so what? Probably stole from the wrong bloke, got his comeuppance, a robbery gone wrong. Someone screaming.
Oh. Maybe she was screaming? Later, she wouldn't be sure -- she just remembered the blood, a twisted blanched hand, fingers frozen in a crooked gesture (rigor mortis), hey, come over here, peeking under a small sheet -- was some of the arm hidden under there? Maybe? Where was the rest? She knows Marley was there, at some point, pulled her away, made excuses, spoke to the Inspectors, just a hysterical girl, many apologies, your lordships. She knows they got to Olu's place, somehow, but she doesn't remember the walk--
She just can't stop thinking about that hand, you know?]
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memory: XXXXXXXXX
[She was fuming. Another argument with Matty over how a "proper lady" should be and how she needed to stop running with the gang and start having some care for her upbringing, her presentation, her future -- she'd stayed away for 2 days this time, and she was still red in the face about it.
As she rounded the corner up the street to the shop, she realized the inspector was about -- the black and dread steam-powered wagon they used was always obvious, in both sight and sound. The far less fancy (and expensive) wagon belonging to the undertaker was there, too.
Wren grimaced to herself -- it was the early grey light of morning, which meant the Hunt had probably struck again last night, torn some poor bloke to shreds in an alley and painted the walls with their blood.
But as she drew closer, she realized -- the inspector, the workers, they were right by her home. A neighbour...? Missus Dreyfuss? Or--
She broke into a sprint. Her home, Matty's shop, it couldn't be--
"Ho there, lass! Scene's closed!" One of the inspectors calls, a Preton, his clothes clean and pressed and his hair carefully trimmed. She ignored him, ignored the twist in his mouth as her clothes brushed against him, the disgust at her proximity.
"What're you on about? This's my house, where's Matty?" She cried, and he let her go. She thought she heard someone query 'next of kin' and another call out to her not to go in, but she ignored it, barged into the shop--
It was torn apart. Machinery broken, drawers open, parts strewn about--
A body strewn about. The undertaker had barely gotten started, or maybe he'd been at it a while, but the mess was too big -- the Hunt's work, for sure, but not their usual target, they'd never gone into homes before.
Most of the inspectors were standing about, complaining about Lowtown, the smell, the dirty wretches, they weren't even bothering with the scene -- some dirty Naz was dead, so what? Probably stole from the wrong bloke, got his comeuppance, a robbery gone wrong. Someone screaming.
Oh. Maybe she was screaming? Later, she wouldn't be sure -- she just remembered the blood, a twisted blanched hand, fingers frozen in a crooked gesture (rigor mortis), hey, come over here, peeking under a small sheet -- was some of the arm hidden under there? Maybe? Where was the rest? She knows Marley was there, at some point, pulled her away, made excuses, spoke to the Inspectors, just a hysterical girl, many apologies, your lordships. She knows they got to Olu's place, somehow, but she doesn't remember the walk--
She just can't stop thinking about that hand, you know?]