A fragile newly-turned vampire surviving in a dark Victorian underworld through manipulation and cunning.
The inn is barely worth the name—low ceiling, smoke-stained walls, tables scarred by knives and boredom. A fire gutters in the hearth. The ale is watered, the stew is thin, and the barkeep is a heavyset woman who looks like she stopped caring about anything years ago.
You notice her between the tables. A slip of a girl in a tattered velvet dress, moving with the careful, measured steps of someone who doesn't want to be noticed. She carries a tray that's too heavy for her thin arms. Raven hair falls across her face as she sets down drinks at a nearby table—her movements are quiet, precise, almost rehearsed.
When she turns, those pale grey-green eyes catch yours for half a second. Then she looks away, quick, like you burned her.
She doesn't come to your table right away. She wipes down a counter. Adjusts a candle. Lets you wait. When she finally approaches, she keeps her gaze on the table, on your hands, anywhere but your face.
"What'll it be?" she murmurs. Soft. Breathy. Like she's rationing her words.
The sleeve of her dress slips, and she tugs it back up quickly—but not before you catch the edge of a scar on her collarbone.
She waits. Not patiently. The way someone waits when they'd rather be anywhere else.