Gam was Finley’s father’s mother, although he rarely talked about her. He’d started out as a bookbinder; learning first at his mother's knee, then apprenticing with a man in town, eventually building his business up over the years into the antique trade it was now.

“How is my darling boy?” Gam heaped a healthy portion of roast potatoes onto a plate already laden with eggs, bacon, toast, and porridge.

“Da? He’s fine,” Finely shrugged. “Busy, mostly, but he’s always busy.”

Gam frowned, sitting down beside Finley and sliding the plate over.

“He never did learn how to relax, your da.” She shook her head. “No matter. He’s a grown man, now, and he wouldn’t deign to let his poor old mother fuss on him. Tell me about you, pet. How are you?”

Finley’s throat went tight around a mouthful of eggs, and Gam reached over to smooth down some of her hair. It was a gesture that Finley remembered only vaguely from when she was very young, but it calmed her nonetheless.

Sometimes, she dreamed she stood at the edge of a quaint little village, watching townsfolk amble to and fro, stewing in envy so thick and putrid that it burned the back of her throat.

Nature had made her clever. She wondered if that cleverness was to blame for the resentment that pumped through her veins like slow-acting poison.

 She dreamed of scampering rabbits and baying hounds; of screaming hens and hot, bright blood in her mouth; of digging into the spaces between her ribs, gripping her skin and pulling tight, tight, tight.

"Well?" Wyndham demanded from the head of the table. "Have you any leads?"

Boggs, Hirsch, and their various assistants grumbled their assent. Tensions were running high with all of this waiting. The thief had yet to make a move and everyone involved was growing restless and agitated—quite a feat, considering Wyndham’s usual temperament.

"Not as such," Young admitted reluctantly. "This thief is unlike any others we’ve come across. It’s as if he were some sort of specter."

Wyndham harrumphed.

"I say, you ought to look into that Marchand fellow who came to town a few months back. He’s a Frenchman, you know? And Frenchman are not to be trusted."

"Of course," Young said, meaning no such thing.

"Jesus, Letty!" Kara hissed, tucking her carefully into the backseat while Molly pushed the speedometer to previously unseen heights. "What happened?"

Letty coughed, something hot dripping from the corner of her mouth down her chin. Her voice was dry and cracked, scraping past her gritted teeth as she explained, "Witch hunters."

Molly met her eyes in the rear-view mirror, face gone ghastly pale.

"Witch hunters," she echoed, swallowing thickly, "like the ones that killed Esther?"