Forsaken

5. The Bargain

It was Michaelmas, the last day of September and the third Quarter Day of the year. The day when the feast of Saint Michael, the Archangel, was observed, when men and women attended church, and the end of the harvest season. Already the smell of cooking goose was drifting through the house, filling every room with the promise of the plentiful feast that would come at night-fall.

Meg opened her eyes, and for a long moment simply lay in her bed, trying to push away the images that plagued her mind. For weeks now, her dreams had been haunted by nightmares, by dark pictures which were like flashbacks of her life; her mother lying on her deathbed; her sister's body, bloated in the Thames; her father standing over her bed. And yet whenever she closed her eyes in her dreams or looked away from those scenes, the small, stone church was waiting for her, sitting in judgement over her, its windows filled with beautiful light but its doors now closed to her forever.

The dreams came most nights, now, regardless of whether she was alone in bed, curled up with Clara, or in the company of Thomas or one of her other clients. In an effort to avoid them she tried desperately to stay awake, but they inevitably found her, and once they had her within their lifeless grasp they did not let her go until well past dawn. Now, glancing at the sun shining in through the curtains, she could tell she had overslept again, that it was not far from noon.

Her bad dreams were not the only reason she'd had difficulty sleeping last night. At some point during the early hours of the morning, a terrible heat had settled over the city. Meg, who was lying next to the soundly-sleeping Clara, had broken out in a sweat, and thrown the blankets off herself to try and cool her body down. When that hadn't worked she'd opened the window to the street below, ignoring the smells which now had access to the room, and lain in bed feeling tired, hot, and thoroughly miserable. Sleep had finally taken her, but it had not been a restful experience.

Now, the laughter of children on the street below her window broke her out of her reverie, and she sat up in bed, trying to ignore the way her nightgown clung damply to her sweat-soaked body. Craving fresh air – or at least, air as fresh as you could possibly find in central London, right beside a tanner's yard and only a few streets away from the Thames – she went to the window and stuck her head out. It did little to cool her, however. There was no breeze in the air today, and the smell of waste in the gutter below was as foul as it was in high-summer.

At least she would not have to work tonight. George might be a cold-hearted, money-pinching slave-driver, but at least he was a religious cold-hearted, money-pinching slave-driver. None of his girls had to work on Quarter Days or festival days, unless they wanted to. Usually they looked forward to the time off together, to the good food and cask of ale provided by their 'generous' employer. George, meanwhile, would be rubbing elbows at the table of the most wealthy person whose company he could weasel his way into.

It was, Meg decided, time to dress and help the other girls with the feast for tonight. Eight women in one house meant there was no shortage of hands to help out, but it did mean more mouths to feed. And unbeknownst to everybody but Clara and Meg, there was an extra mouth to feed, this time. Clara had not started showing her pregnancy yet, and she had thankfully stopped sicking up, but she was starting to get cravings for certain foods. At the moment it was mint, which at least meant their bedroom smelt nice, but Meg was concerned that very soon, people would start to notice that Clara was putting on a little weight around her tummy.

She walked back to the bed, to shake out and air the blankets, and stubbed her toe on something underneath the wooden bed frame. She cursed quietly, hopping on one foot as she clutched her aching big toe. And when the pain subsided enough for her to put her foot back down, she reached under the bed for the offending item, fully expecting to find the pail. Instead, her fingers touched something heavy and wooden, and she used both hands to grasp it and pull it out.

It was a small trunk, the likes of which were used for carrying around personal effects. She felt her brows lower into a frown. Why was there a trunk beneath her bed? As far as she knew, none of the girls possessed one. So how had it got here? Deciding there was only one way to find out, she lifted the trunk onto the bed and unfastened the clasps. The lid opened to reveal dresses and petticoats, a pair of brown shoes and, on top of it all, the looking-glass she and Clara had bought. It was glass-side down, and the mother of pearl angel seemed to glitter at her maliciously.

A cold spot grew in the pit of Meg's stomach as the implication of the trunk hit her with force. There could be only one reason why Clara had packed a trunk; she was leaving. But... why?! She wasn't even showing, yet! How could she do this and not speak to Meg about it first? She'd thought they were friends. Family. Sisters. And sisters did not keep secrets from each other. Not like this.

The sound of somebody coming up the stairs reached her ears, and she hastily shut the trunk, throwing one of the bed blankets over it because she knew she wouldn't have time to lift it back down to the floor. Barely a heartbeat later, Clara came into the room, a smile lighting up her face when she saw Meg sitting on the far side of the bed.

"Good morning, Meg, I thought you'd never wake up!"

"I guess I just had a fitful night's sleep," Meg said weakly. The coldness in her stomach would not go away; it made her feel tight inside, all knotty and a little queasy.

"Well, now that you're up, would you like to come with me to the market? We need more turnips than we have in the pantry."

Meg looked at her friend's open, happy face, and realised she couldn't do this. She couldn't pretend that everything was okay, that it was just life as normal. She threw back the blanket revealing the chest. Clara's eyes went straight to it, the smile fading from her face, her skin turning a shade paler.

"What is this, Clara?" she asked. She opened the trunk and took out the mirror, holding it up for Clara to see before placing it on the bed. She did the same with the pair of shoes and one of the dresses. "It looks like you're planning on going somewhere."

"I was going to tell you." Clara's words came out as little more than a whisper.

"Tell me what?"

The younger woman picked up the looking-glass and ran her hands over the cool lacquer and shell back. She was silent for a moment as she walked towards the window, her eyes turned inward as she ran through everything in her mind. Meg waited with as much patience as she could bear; it wouldn't do to get angry at Clara. The woman was suffering mood swings brought on by the pregnancy. She could go from happy to weeping at the drop of a hat.

When at last Clara turned around, leaning back against the window and gripping the mirror with a tightness that belied her nerves, she spoke softly, in a tone that begged for understanding.

"Lord Ballentyne has offered to take me in," she said. "He says he'll provide for me and for my baby. He'll take it as his own. He's always wanted a son or a daughter, to inherit his estate."

"But Clara, the man hit you! He can't be trusted. None of them can!"

"That was long ago," Clara objected. "He hasn't lain a finger on me since. And now that I'm with child, he treats me like a precious jewel." A smile ghosted across her face, lighting up her brown eyes from within. "He says I'm his muse, Meg. That I inspire him to write great things."

"But I am your family."

"And you always will be. Nothing will change that. But I can't just think about myself anymore, Meg. If it was just me, I would stay here with you forever, you know that. Everything changes, when you have a child to think about. I have to do what is best for my baby, and though Lord Ballentyne is by no means a rich man, his modest wealth is more than enough to provide for myself and my child. Besides, it's very possible the baby is his. He is my most frequent customer."

Meg couldn't fault her friend's logic, no matter how much she hated it. "At least promise me we'll still spend time together. Promise me you won't start turning your nose up when you see me, just because you're being kept by some Lord."

The hesitation in Clara's eyes and her posture spoke volumes, and immediately deepened the feeling of cold in the pit of Meg's stomach.

"I wish that was possible, Meg," Clara said. "But we shan't be staying in London."

"You—you'll be travelling to one of his country estates, to raise your child in privacy?" she asked, feeling sickeningly light-headed.

"No, we'll be travelling a little further afield." Clara, too, looked ill, sickened by how the conversation was going.

"France? But there's such upheaval there at the moment, or so I've heard people say. Besides, a diet of frogs legs and snails will do you no good in your condition."

"We're not going to France." Clara lifted her chin a little, and Meg knew her friend's mind was now set on this course of action no matter how rushed and foolish it was. "One of Lord Ballentyne's friends, John White, has recently been appointed Governor of an English colony in the Americas. Mr White wants Lord Ballentyne to accompany him in his next Atlantic crossing to deliver a group of colonists to the settlement a week hence, so that he can keep a written account of all that happens for their benefactor, Sir Walter Raleigh. Lord Ballentyne intends to make a home for himself at the colony... and he has asked me to go with him."

Meg put her hand down on the bed, using it to steady herself as the room spun around her. The words came tumbling out of her mouth, every excuse she could think of to stop her friend from making this terrible mistake. "But Clara, it could take months to reach the Americas, and being ship-bound will do you no good in your condition. And even if you survive the crossing, the place is a land of untamed wild and blood-thirsty savages. Think of how much danger you will be putting yourself in. How much danger you will be putting your child in! Lord Ballentyne's wealth will not serve him in a place like that; you will live in poverty, trying to eke out a meagre existence."

"I know it will be hard work, especially with a newborn baby, but I will be the equal of anybody else there. They need not know what I do for a living. I will learn new skills, and my child will have a home, and a father. It will be a new beginning for me." Clara offered a smile. "Besides, I will write to you. Resupply ships will come when they can, and perhaps in a couple of years you will want to join me at Roanoke. I would dearly love to have you there."

Meg closed her eyes, squeezing back the tears that wanted to flow like rivers. She was losing the only family she had. Not just for a few weeks, or even months, but forever. If Clara got on that ship, she knew she would never see her friend again. The thought of being alone, of having no sister to talk to, of having to wake up in the mornings that she wasn't working to a cold, empty bed, made her heart squeeze with a familiar pain. Why was Clara hurting her like this? Why was she letting Meg down? Why couldn't she understand that Meg needed her?

"That's never going to happen, Clara," she said. Her voice came out quiet and low, filled with a cold anger she hadn't intended but could not stop. "Unlike you, I have an ounce of common sense. The colonisation of the Americas should be left to soldiers, who can defend themselves against the savage natives, against the murderous Spanish, against all manner of wild beasts. You will reach the Americas, and you will hate it. You will hate the lack of cobbled streets, you'll hate the smells and the insects and constantly living in fear for your life. You'll be lumbered with a child and no friends to help you take care of it, and a husband too old to be useful for anything other than scribbling on his scraps of paper."

"Do you truly believe that?" Clara asked, standing up. She was angry, her body stiff, a scowl marring the beauty of her pretty face. "Or are you just jealous that I am getting out? That I won't have to degrade my body any more, just to survive?" She lifted up her hand, to chide her friend, and the mirror slipped from her grasp, falling prey to gravity, tumbling towards the floor. It hit the wooden floorboards and shattered, shards of glass flying everywhere. The lacquer back cracked, a long fissure opening up through the mother of pearl angel, little bits of shell flaking off from his mis-shapen wings.

Clara's face went white, her eyes wide. A whisper came out from her lips, "Seven years of bad luck. I need to find some salt to spill..."

"It's okay," said Meg. She was worried for her friend; she looked as if she might be sick. "Go and fetch me the sweeping brush from behind the front door, and the dustpan too. Then spill your salt and go to the market for those turnips. When you get back, all this will be gone."

Clara nodded mutely, edging around the broken glass and then leaving the room. Meg looked down at the broken mirror, and sighed. Rightfully she should be angry; that thing had cost a small fortune. But she couldn't be angry. Not when her insides were already filled with hurt and disappointment. There was simply no room for anything else.

She stepped off the bed and began picking up some of the larger pieces of glass, holding them carefully in her hand. Then she cursed as something prickled her foot. Sitting down on the bed, she turned the sole of her foot up and saw a pieces of glass piercing the skin. Wincing because it stung, she pulled the shard out and several drops of blood spattered onto the floor, leaving marks like holly berries after they had been stepped on.

When Clara returned with the brush and the dustpan, Meg took them from her and sent her friend off to the market despite her assurances that she could help. Cleaning up the mess was a one-woman job, and turnips were still needed for the Michaelmas feast. Clara left with a backwards glance of regret, and Meg started to sweep. This wasn't the first mess she had cleaned up, and she doubted it would be the last.

The dreadful heat lasted throughout the Michaelmas feast, and into the first day of October, making everybody miserable. Clara remained pale and withdrawn the day after she had broken the mirror, and Meg's concern for her friend began to grow. Clara had always been one of the most religious and superstitious of George's girls, and she seemed so sure she had earned herself seven years of bad luck for breaking the hand-mirror. But even though she was pale and jumpy, she still went to work the following night, donning the dress that Lord Ballentyne favoured, calling goodbye to the other girls as she set off at early evening.

Meg knew that her time with her friend was growing short. Clara had said that the ship with the colonists was sailing a week from the Michaelmas feast, which meant that she had only five days left in the company of the woman she had come to think of as a sister. The knowledge that Clara would be forever beyond her reach left a bitter taste in her mouth which no amount of mint tea could scour away.

Clara did not come home the following day, but that wasn't unusual. She often stayed longer with Lord Ballentyne than her other clients, and she had even more reason to do so now that he'd offered to take her in and raise her child as his own. That, too, left a bitter taste in Meg's mouth. Ballentyne was old, and often lecherous. How any woman could happily lie with him, much less tolerate sharing her life with him, was beyond her comprehension. Clara must be desperate indeed, to resort to this.

That evening, Meg was busy chopping vegetables in the kitchen for the stew she was cooking over the fire. She'd had a quiet week so far; just Thomas and one other customer, and none lined up for the rest of the week, which meant the cooking duties fell to her. It was something she didn't mind, because cooking was relaxing, and there was something rewarding about starting off with a basketful of plain, raw ingredients and turning them into something delicious and nourishing.

There came a knock from the door, but she ignored it. Her hands were covered in bread-flour, and she knew Sara was home to answer whoever was calling. For a few moments she concentrated on her dough, kneading it to the correct consistency, and at first she didn't clock the sound of a strange man's voice in the hallway. When she did, she frowned. Men were not supposed to come here. It was one of George's rules.

"Who is it, Sara?" she called.

There was no answer, so she kept hold of her wooden rolling pin and made her way to the door, stepping out into the hallway with the pin held ready for action. She found one of the men of the city Watch standing there, and Sara sobbing in front of him, her eyes pressed into her hands.

"What's this about?" Meg asked. She lowered the rolling pin, but did not loosen her grip.

"Like I was telling your friend, I am looking for George Moore."

"He's not here," Meg said. "He comes around twice a week with a delivery of food and customer lists, but otherwise leaves us to our business. Why are you looking for him? Is he in trouble?"

"No, he's not." There was a note of boredom in the man's voice which rankled Meg. "We've found a body down by the docks. One of the local shopkeepers says it's one of George's girls. I need George to come and identify the body so we can notify any kin and arrange a burial."

A familiar cold knot settled in Meg's stomach. Her hands worked automatically to remove the apron around her neck. The words came out without her having to think about them. "I don't know where George is, but I will come and identify the body for you."

"Meg, no, you shouldn't!" Sara said. Her grey eyes were puffy, her cheeks wet. She bit at one of her already badly-bitten nails. Meg understood how she felt. Six girls were gone from the house, and if none of the shop-keepers had been able to identify the body, that meant it must be in a poor condition. George's girls were hardly strangers to the area; most of them had lived here their whole lives.

"Somebody has to," she replied. She gave the apron and the rolling pin to Sara. "Stay here. Cook dinner. If any of the others return, tell them the news but do not let them leave. Not until we know who... and why... it might be dangerous for them, out there."

Sara nodded, and Meg stepped out of the door, following the watchman from the tanner's yard.

The journey was a surreal dream. She noticed little things. The flies on the horse dung were deafeningly loud as they buzzed, a cruel and mocking sound. Bread-flour, still caking her arms to her elbows, began to fall, leaving a trail of white behind her on the cobbles. The watchman's sword rattled in its sheathe as he walked, making him jingle melodically with every step. The eyes of the women who watched her from the shadows were particularly cold tonight, the glassy eyes of the dead fish which had once mocked her.

Thoughts licked at her mind, like a hungry fire licking at kindling. One of the girls was dead. It couldn't be Clara. She was safe at Lord Ballentyne's home. In five days she'd be setting sail for the Americas. Her child would be born on the shores of some foreign land, or perhaps at sea. Lord Ballentyne's estate isn't even anywhere near the docks. It's in the other direction, away from the foul-smelling Thames. One of the other girls must have been jumped on her way home from a job. Perhaps Rose, or Ester, or...

When she realised she was wishing death on women who didn't deserve it, she stopped that line of thought. Perhaps there had been a mistake. Perhaps it wasn't one of George's girls at all. Perhaps it was some unfortunate street-walker, or maybe even a noble who had fallen afoul of muggers.

When the smell of the docks filtered into her nose, she coughed and almost gagged. It had been years since she had smelt this place. The last time she had been here she had been seventeen, watching the fishermen pull her poor dead sister's body from the water. The skin all purple and bloated, the eyes removed by hungry fish, the hair all tangled with seaweed... it had been so easy to switch herself off. To look at the body and see not her sister but just another unfortunate victim of life in London. That body had not been Anne. Her sister was gone, to the fields of the Lord, where she could rest in eternal peace. It was the only place for her Anne to go. She had been a child, a pure soul despite the suffering inflicted onto her by their father.

"If you're going to throw up, try to do it in the Thames," the watchman said unsympathetically. "We got enough crap on the streets as it is."

Meg straightened up, and through sheer force of will, managed to halt her coughing. She had to breathe through her mouth to do it, but she managed it.

A crowd was waiting beside a ship called Freedom's Bounty. Two watchmen were already there, keeping the majority of the gawkers back. And as her guide approached the crowd parted before her, each pair of eyes looking at her, judging her. She ignored them as best they could, allowed their glances to feed the fire growing in her belly, and stepped forward. She didn't want to look, but she had to. She owed it to whoever this was to put a name to a body and give the poor woman a proper burial.

The first thing she saw was a tangle of raven locks. The face was all battered and bruised, the throat slit to reveal sinew and the pale cartilage of a broken windpipe. And around the neck was a silver chain, a small silver cross nestled in the bosom of the body.

Meg collapsed to the ground, ignoring the filth soaking into her clothes. It was Clara's hair. Clara's necklace. The body was wearing Clara's petticoat, but it couldn't be Clara, because Clara was safe, she was with Lord Ballentyne, far from the docks, far from this corpse which was wearing her hair and necklace and petticoat.

One of the watchmen crouched down beside her. She looked at his face and saw his lips move, but she could not hear his words. All she could hear was the gentle slap slap slap of waves against the ship at dock. Confused, she shook her head, and spoke the words she thought the watchman wanted to hear.

"Her name's Clara Fitzgerald," she said. "She was with child."

Somebody brought a hessian sack, which was thrown over the body pretending to be Clara. Maybe... maybe it was one of the actors, from that play at the Grey Mare's inn-yard. Maybe one of them was acting. Maybe this was just all a play. Any minute now the body would stand up, the mask and the wig would come off, and the audience would clap in appreciation for the realism. And the villain, too, would be unmasked. The villain...

She turned to the watchman, heard herself say, "It's Lord Ballentyne. He was her last customer. She spent the night with him. They were supposed to be leaving for the Americas next week."

One of the watchmen trotted off, and the other remained by the body of the actor, waiting for it to rise. The third watchman, the one beside her, asked a question, and for a wonder, she could hear his words.

"Can you get back home?"

She shook her head. "I can't go home. I have to stay here and wait for the actors to start bowing."

"Come on. I'll take you back home. Can't go letting you prostitutes get murdered, can we? Never hear the end of it if that happens."

The man hauled her to her feet, and somehow her legs managed to support her. But why wasn't the body moving? Why wasn't the actor casting off the sack and taking off the mask, and revealing his true identity? She looked around at the observers, trying to spot one of the actors amongst them.

There was somebody standing at the back of the crowd, watching her. She craned her neck to see him, and found herself looking into dark brown eyes set into a well-tanned face which was framed by a neatly-trimmed beard and moustache. She had seen that face before, she was sure of it. And when she caught a glimpse of his clothing – a blue cloak trimmed in red fox fur – the memory came flooding back, taking her away from the docks and to the green open fields of Kennington Park, where she had seen him in the reflection of her now-broken mirror.

"Come on now, no sense dawdling."

The watchman turned her away from the crowd and the stranger who watched her, and led her back along the dock and up onto the main street. She did not remember the journey back. All she remembered was being in her bed, and feeling devastatingly alone for the first time since Anne had died.

The image of Clara's body would not leave her mind. The thought of her friend lying there, cold and alone, praying for help that would never come, made her feel weak. The thought that somebody had done this to her, and left her there, made her feel angry. They fought each other for dominance, the weakness and the anger, duelling each other inside the pit of her stomach. To Meg it felt as if a ball of hot anger and cold horror had taken up residence inside her. They filled her stomach, feeling like a hard knot inside her, and spread throughout her body, flooding every part of her with anger and pain. She felt it rising up from within, seeping into her mind, poisoning her like a gangrene of the soul. Lying in her bed, she thought that nobody had ever felt such anger and despair as she.

And then she was sick. All the anger and despair was drained as she vomited out the poison that tried to drown her from within. Three or four times she was sick into the pail, despite the fact that she hadn't eaten in... well, she had no idea. The long minutes of misery seemed to blend into each other. She didn't know whether she had been alone in bed for hours or days. Nor did she care.

She felt a little better, after vomiting. The sickness clawing at her mind and her soul was almost gone, replaced instead by a more familiar emotion; hatred. And it was aimed at Lord Ballentyne. He had killed Clara, though she couldn't imagine why. Hadn't he claimed to love her? Hadn't he claimed he wanted a child? Hadn't she been his muse? Meg could not understand the reasoning behind his actions, but she didn't need to. He was a man, and thus was subject to his primitive yearnings. Perhaps Clara had spilt something again. Perhaps she'd sicked up in his bed. Perhaps she'd been brazen enough to ask for things for herself and her child. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. Ballentyne would swing from the gallows, and she would be there to see it.

Some time after the vomiting, Sara came up, her eyes still red and her cheeks tear-stained. She brought a bowl of broth and a crust of bread on a tray, but the smell of food made Meg feel sick again. There was only one thing Meg wanted; news.

"Have they arrested Lord Ballentyne?" she asked.

Sara hesitated, then put the tray down on top of the chest of drawers. "No. The Watch talked to him, but he said Clara left in the early hours of the morning, and when she went she was in good humour but eager to get back here and finish packing. He said they'd arranged to meet again two nights before the ship was due to leave for the voyage, but that was the last he saw of her. The Watch... they think she was mugged for her valuables. They took her coin purse, her dress... even her shoes."

Meg felt the anger flare again. Clara was not mugged for her valuables. Thieves did not take a pair of shoes, but leave behind a silver necklace. Thieves had no reason to beat a woman until her face was an unrecognisable mess. Thieves didn't cut throats, because once you'd killed a mark, you couldn't rob from them again. Thieves and murderers rarely ran in the same circles; she knew from experience.

Sara disappeared back down stairs, leaving Meg alone to carefully nurture her hatred. She could see it clearly in her mind; Lord Ballentyne, suffering again and again, swinging from the gallows, drawn and quartered, burnt on a pyre, head lopped off by the guillotine, weighted down in the Thames... she invented countless ways of watching him die, making him suffer, just as Clara had suffered. Her one regret was that she wouldn't be able to do all of them, that once she had found a way to kill Ballentyne for what he had done, she wouldn't be able to bring him back, to do it again.

The sky darkened and then lightened, and it was on its way to darkening again when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. George came into the room, wrinkling his nose at the smell of vomit in the pail, and ignored it as he stepped towards the bed.

"Come on," he said, pulling the blankets off her, exposing her body to the slightly cooler air which was still unnaturally hot for this time of year. "Get cleaned up and dressed. You've got a new client to see."

She looked at him, and an image of her bashing his head in briefly flickered across her mind. Couldn't he see that she was grieving, in mourning for the woman who had been like a sister to her these past years? Couldn't he see that she just wanted to be left alone?

"I'm not feeling well," she said, gesturing to the pail full of vomit. "You might want to use one of the others tonight."

"Ordinarily I would, but this new patron has specifically asked for you, and he's paid a pound, a whole bloody pound, just to see you tonight. So you're going to put on your finest dress, do something with your hair to make it look even marginally civilised, and be ready to go within the hour, or you'll be out on the street and good riddance."

He left her no chance to argue, disappearing from the room, his heavy footsteps shaking the floor slightly as he descended the stairs. Meg forced her body to obey, not because she cared about George or any new customer, or how much someone was willing to pay to spend a night with her, but because she had to keep going. She had to keep living so that she could avenge her best friend and the unborn child that had died with her. She had to find a way to make Lord Ballentyne suffer for everything he had done.

She used some of the clean water in the nightstand to rinse her mouth and chewed on a peppermint leaf to freshen her breath. As she chewed, her body moved automatically to select one of her dresses, and she pulled a pair of slippers onto her feet. She managed to apply her white face makeup, and rouge for her cheeks and her lips, even without a mirror to look in. She had done it so many times that it was now second nature to her. And when she deemed herself finally presentable, she swallowed the mint leaf and left the bedroom.

George was waiting for her, wearing his finest clothes, his face covered in a nervous sweat. Without a word he escorted her from the building, and hurried across the tanner's yard as if the hounds of hell themselves were chasing him. He all but dragged her along the dung-ridden cobbled roads, dodging the few riders out at this time with an apologetic touch of his cap. Through the street known as the Stranda he took her, and finally onto Fleet Street, to one of the larger houses nestled in amongst the small private businesses and their associated offices.

He approached the door of the house, taking an effort to straighten his clothes and wipe the sweat from his face with a cloth kerchief. Then he knocked on the door without even giving Meg her usual 'sit still, smile, look pretty, don't talk' speech, which showed just how unnerved he was by a patron willing to pay a whole pound for a night with a whore.

The door opened, and a slightly-built man appeared, offering a slight bow. He did not speak a word as he held the door wider, and George chivvied her inside the building, respectfully removing his cap as he did so. The man who had opened the door led them down a long, carpeted hallway, all purple and gold thread, and pushed open a large wooden door at the termination of the corridor. This living room was easily twice the size of Thomas Litton's drawing room, and twice as sumptuous. Crystal-cut glasses adorned display cabinets, and elaborate paintings of hunting scenes were hung from each of the walls. There was a fire in the hearth, but all it did was allow shadows to cling to the corners of the room.

"Please, have a seat," said a voice from one such shadowy corner. George immediately led Meg to the closest settee, and pulled her down with him. "Thank you for coming so promptly." The voice was all soft tones and warm honey; it practically oozed from the dark corner, pulling at something inside Meg's stomach.

"No problem at all, Sir Lamb," said George, trying his best not to wring his cap in his hands. "I've brought the girl for you, as promised."

"And as promised, here is your payment."

The servant brought forth a coin purse, which George didn't even bother hefting. He merely slipped it inside the pocket of his coat and cleared his throat nervously. "Appreciated, Sir. Now, I normally say my girls have to be back for morning, especially where new clients are concerned, but I can tell you're a true gentleman, Sir Lamb, so you just keep her as long as you need her."

Meg aimed a glare a George, but he pointedly didn't look at her. He just sat there, sweating, with that ingratiating smile on his face. She wished she could wipe it off.

"How very good of you to waive your rules for me," said the voice. It sounded both genuine and patronising at the same time. "Now, if you don't mind, my man will show you out.

"Yes, of course. Good evening to you, Sir Lamb."

George was led out by the servant. Meg heard the front door open and then close again, but the servant didn't return to the room, and the man in the corner didn't say anything else. All she could do was sit there, being watched by a stranger she could not see, feeling the weight of his eyes upon her. It made her prickle inside, the irritation building on the anger which had grown over Clara's death. At last she could take it no more, and she spoke out.

"Why do you hide in the shadows?"

The voice chuckled throatily, which made her shiver, and goosebumps rose on her skin. "I could ask you the same question."

Before she could ask what he meant, he stepped out of the shadows, his brown eyes fixed on her. He was wearing a blue cloak trimmed with red fox fur, and carried a thin sword sheathed at his hip.

A gasp of surprise escaped her lips. "You," she whispered. "You were watching me at the May Day festival. And then again more recently, at the docks."

"Yes," he said. His eyes were focused on her with such intensity that it made her want to look away. No man had ever made her look away before. "And I was surprised, both times, that you saw me. Very few people can see me, when I choose to remain hidden. You are a very special person, Meg."

"Why were you watching me? What do you want with me?" she demanded, standing up so that she did not feel quite as small, quite as vulnerable.

"Good questions," he said, smiling. "As for the answers... well, I would like you to think of me as... your guardian angel."

"I don't believe in angels," she said immediately.

"And you shouldn't. They don't believe in you, either. How could they? After all, you're just one more whore to them. God and his winged minions could never understand you as I do. They could never offer you the things I offer you."

She didn't like his tone. The honey was gone, replaced with something sharper, more acrid. Here, she realised, was somebody who hated God even more than she.

"And just what are you offering?" she asked.

"Anything and everything your heart desires."

She laughed at his audacity. "You know nothing about my heart."

"Don't I?" He stepped closer, lifting his hand to her chin, turning her face to either side, so that he could examine her. "You are even more beautiful up close. You wouldn't believe how long I have searched for you, Meg."

"Searched for me?" The urge to pull herself from his touch was strong, but she overruled it. "I don't even know you."

"Not yet. But you will." He let go of her face and walked around her, looking her over from top to bottom. "I have a son, but I've always wanted a daughter. A daughter so beautiful and terrible to behold that she can break men's hearts and bodies with a single glance. I want you to be my daughter, Meg. I want to welcome you into my family. I want to give you a home, and a purpose. And the beauty of it... the beauty of you... is that you're already halfway there."

She stepped back, moving away from him, looking at him in the firelight. He was clearly mad, or possessed by some ill spirit. Rightfully she ought to run, to save herself from this madman... but he had aroused her curiosity. He spoke as if he knew her, yet that clearly couldn't be. He offered her a family, and yet she was a stranger to him.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Well, I'm not Sir Lamb, if that's what you're asking," he said, with a wicked grin. Then, his eyes changed. No longer a hue of dark brown, but as yellow as a cat's eyes without the slit. The cry of horror that wanted to escape her lips failed to come, so instead she backed away, into a bookshelf, her hands searching behind her blindly for anything she could use as a weapon. "No need for that," he said, seemingly reading her mind. "I would never hurt you, Meg. How could I? You are one of us."

"One of who?!" she demanded. But in her heart, she already knew the answer. There was only one manner of creature that could hate God and his angels, that could know a man's thoughts before they were even spoken.

"My name is Azazel. Your kind call me 'demon', and think me evil. But we aren't evil... not truly. We're just a different type of creature. We believe in freedom and free will. We believe that no man or woman should have to bow down to a heavenly father who cares nothing for us; who abandons us and causes us pain for no reason other than his own twisted entertainment."

"You... you're a demon?" she said. Her heart was pounding inside her chest, now. Demons were wicked spirits which infected people, made them sick, spread disease and bad feelings and tempted men into committing crimes and sins. And now she was talking to one. If it got too close, it would infect her too. But maybe it already had. It had touched her. Maybe it was too late.

"That's what I said. Come now, Meg, there's no need for this fear, this... pretence. Can we not talk like civilised individuals? All I ask is that you hear me out. If you don't like what you hear, leave, and you'll never see me again."

"Very well," she said. After all, it couldn't hurt to listen, could it? "But no tricks!"

"I wouldn't dream of it. And no tricks from you either, if you don't mind."

She nodded, and he gestured to one of the settees. With some reticence, she took her former seat, and watched as he sat down in the chair opposite.

"I am going to be honest with you, Meg," he said. His yellow eyes seemed to bore into her. "You are not going to lead a happy life. What you are, the things you've done... there is only one place your soul is going when you die."

"I've always known that," she said numbly. But to think it herself, and to hear a demon confirm it, were two entirely different things.

"Of course you have," he smiled. "I've come here to make you an offer. Hell is a terrible place, where people are tortured for eternity. But it doesn't have to be like that. Not for you. I've come here to make a deal with you."

"What kind of a deal?" she asked warily. She knew that to make a deal with the devil incurred a terrible price, but would a deal with a demon cost the same?

"I can give you ten glorious years of life. Whatever your heart desires. Even if it's something you thought impossible. That man who makes your heart flutter... how would you like to marry him? You could have great years together. Perhaps you could even bear him a child."

"A child?" She had never thought about children of her own before. She could never have provided for one. But if she was married to Thomas, and could produce him a son or a daughter...

"Yes," Azazel purred. "Right now, you're incapable of having children. Did you not think it odd, that you worked for so many years as a whore, and yet never got with child even once?" She shook her head mutely, barely even seeing his yellow eyes now. "All those things your dear papa did to you, when you were so young... you are damaged, inside, destined to live a barren life. But it doesn't have to be that way. I can give you happiness. I can give you a child with the man who makes that body of yours all hot and bothered. Hell, it doesn't have to end with one. Three kids, four, one every year. It's all do-able."

"And in return?" she asked, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"Like I said, ten happy years. After that, your soul belongs to me. You come with me, and you be my daughter. You join my family." He leant forward, his yellow eyes heated as he looked at her. "It's a good deal, Meg. Your soul is bound for Hell anyway. You can't out-run your past. Come with me and it will happen a little sooner, but I can save you years of being tortured. Like I said, you're already halfway there. It won't take much before you're truly one of us. And, as I mentioned before, I can give you what you most desire."

"And what is that?" She could tell by the look in his eyes that he already knew.

"I know what you did to your papa. I know what became of his body."

The memory flashed before her eyes, brought to the surface by Azazel's presence.

It was night-time, three days after Anne's death. Meg had finally stopped crying. For the first time in her life, she knew pure hatred. It ignited inside her, burning hotter than fire. Anne's death was her father's fault. He had driven her to this. He might as well have pushed her into the Thames himself. He was the reason Meg was alone now. Well, nearly alone.

She went into the kitchen. The carving knife was there. She took it by its handle and went to her father's room. This was just like in her dreams.

He was asleep on the bed, passed out in a stupor. This dirty, filthy, beast of a man had defiled his daughters, forced one of them into prostitution and driven the other to suicide. And he got away with it, because nobody cared about what a drunkard did to his daughters. They were little people in a big city, and the only people who saw them were the men who wanted flesh for money.

She lifted up the knife. It didn't twinkle in the moonlight, as it had in her dreams, but it cut just the same. She plunged it with all the force she could manage into her father's chest. She heard his ribs snap, felt the blade slide through his lungs, and it pierced his heart. His eyes flew open, he cried out in pain, blood and spume frothing from his mouth. She pulled out the knife and stabbed again and again. Long after he had stopped screaming, she kept stabbing, until his chest was naught but tattered ribbons, his ribs cut bare to the bone.

When the frenzy finally left her she collapsed into a heap. The blood, so warm when it had spattered her face, was now cold, and the room smelt foul, of alcohol and offal. For a long time she looked at the body of the slain beast, only a single thought repeating inside her mind. "I am free."

But free as she was, she was left with a problem. Her father's body was too large for her to move on her own, and she didn't trust anybody enough to help her with this task. Even if she managed to get the body to the Thames and throw it in, there was no guarantees it would sink. Nothing tended to stay buried in the river for long.

At last she came up with a solution. It took her two days, but finally she had finished dismembering the body, stuffing the chunks of flesh and bone into old turnip sacks. She waited for nightfall before acting. She dragged the sacks one by one to the abattoir where he worked, and dumped the contents into the grinding pit. It was where all the bits ended up that nobody wanted to eat. The bones and sinews and intestines, the less edible parts of the cows, sheep and horses which made their way here to be slaughtered for consumption. Tomorrow the men would return with their stone grinders, and break it all down into a gloopy mulch which was fit only for cheap meat pies, sometimes the staple for common-folk in winter.

Three journeys it took, three sacks in total. And from that day forth, she had never eaten a meat pie again.

"Very inventive," Azazel said appreciatively. "I hope he didn't give anybody indigestion."

"Why did you make me remember that?" she asked, tears lining her eyes. It had brought back all the pain of Anne's death, which was barely tolerable on top of what she had already gone through with Clara.

"Because I have something I think you might want," he grinned. "Your papa's soul. It's in Hell, right now, waiting for you. I know how... unsatisfied... his death left you. He got off easy, after everything he put you and your poor sister through. I've been keeping him on ice, though, just for you. In Hell, death isn't permanent. You can bring somebody back however many times you like. You can kill your father until his screams finally satisfy that empty space inside you."

Something inside her leapt up, clutching at the thought of making her father suffer. He deserved nothing less than eternal torture. Finally, she would have justice for Anne and revenge for herself. Finally she could stop feeling like an empty shell, just going through the motions. Finally she could be a whole person again.

"If we do this," she said, and his eyes flickered with pleasure, "there is something else I want, too."

"Name it," he said, no hesitation or delay.

"The man who killed my friend Clara..."

"Lord Ballentyne, I believe."

"Yes. I want him, too. I want to kill him, and I want his soul to suffer. I want to use him as a warm-up, before I meet my father again." Azazel was right. This was something God could not give her. God only offered forgiveness, and she did not want forgiveness. She wanted revenge. She wanted it to feed the fire and sate the hunger within her. She wanted to punish anybody who had ever wronged her, who had ever crossed or spited her. And Azazel offered a way.

"Deal," he said. "Your papa's soul will be waiting for you in Hell, Lord Ballentyne will be kept safe until you're ready to send him downstairs, and after ten years of puppy-dogs and happiness with your belove–"

"No."

He looked surprised by the interruption. One of his eyebrows arched upwards. "No?"

"I don't want ten years of happiness, ten years of a perfect life. I don't deserve it. Thomas deserves more than a woman bound for Hell. It's better that he remembers me as I was, than as a monster in the making."

"How very noble," he sneered.

She smiled. "Besides, I think I've waited long enough. Every moment Lord Ballentyne is free is a moment I won't rest. I want to kill him slowly, and I want to kill him now. He's going to suffer so much before I send him to Hell, that he'll think he's already there."

"Now there's the daughter I've been looking for!" he said, happiness and pride in his yellow eyes. "Are you sure you want to go now? Ten years of happiness is something some people will sell their souls for. One of our briskest trades, in fact."

"I'm sure," she said. And for once in her life, she was. There were no nerves, no fear, no indecision. Her path was clear, now. Though she had closed the door to Heaven, she had opened a window to Hell. It was where she belonged, anyway.

o - o - o

It was known as The Year of the Carnal Killer. It started with the deaths of two prostitute, mere days apart. The first, a young woman called Clara, had been found beside the docks, her throat slit and her face beaten beyond recognition. The second was Clara's room-mate, Meg, whose body was found at the home of Sir Lamb by George Moore, two days after she failed to show up for work. There was no sign of Sir Lamb, or any of his house-servants. Stranger still, Meg's body appeared to have been torn to shreds by wild animals; huge canine footprints were found at the crime scene, but they led nowhere, apparently vanishing into thin air.

She was the last of the prostitutes to die, but not the last of the bodies to be found that year. The first was that of Lord Timothy Ballentyne, found dead at the gate of his estate the day before he was to have set sail for the Americas. His body was in such a terrible state that it could be identified only by the blood-soaked signet ring on his right hand, and by the birthmark on the top of his left thigh. He, too, appeared to have been torn to shreds, though there were no pawprints this time.

A dozen men all told were killed in London that year. The neighbours talked, the shop-keepers shook their heads and tsked over the gruesomeness of it all. That so many fine, upstanding members of the community should be taken by this killer in such short a time was a tragedy. That the Watch were never able to even name a suspect was even worse. What would drive a man to kill others like that? they wondered. They were decent men, with nothing in common save the fact that they liked to pay for the services of a whore every now and again. That wasn't a crime worthy of death, was it?

But the memories of men are short. The year passed, winter gripped the city tightly before relinquishing it, and spring arrived. The local men, all thoughts of murders and dead prostitutes behind them, went into the woods of Kennington Park to build themselves an effigy. A Maypole was erected in the centre of the fields. Girls danced, tribute was given, and a Queen was crowned. Life continued with little traditions, and even though people didn't know why they danced around the Maypole and gave tribute to a Green Man and crowned a virgin May Queen, they did it anyway. Because that's what they had always done, and it's what they always would do.

- The End -

Author's Note: Thanks for reading, hope you've enjoyed this sojourn into the psyche of Meg. If, like me, you think about things a little too much (and if you're reading this, you probably do) then you've most likely realised that the demon we know isn't really named 'Meg.' Meg Masters was the name of the first host, and the chances of a demon named Meg possessing the body of a girl named Meg, are... well, let's just say that I can't suspend belief that far. However, Meg's the name we all know, so I went with it. If you know of any back-stories out there where she's not named 'Meg', let me know, because it would be an interesting comparison.

I've realised my stories tend to end with death, or at least the threat of it hanging over somebody's head. It's not intentional, I promise. Not all of my stories will be this grim. I have to mention as well, I'm quite open to continuing this, and writing a another Meg-centric fic, since I had so much fun with her. What do you think? Would you be interested in reading more, at some point?

So, what next? Do you like Gabriel? Do you like humour? Come back in two weeks and I'll spin you a tale that's a little more light-hearted than anything I've written so far. Fair warning; it will be a cross-over. What am I crossing it with? You'll have to wait and see. Muahahahaha! *cough* sorry.