Iron tasted like old pennies in the back of my throat. My skull vibrated with every distant rattle of carriage wheels on the cobblestones outside, the vibrations traveling up the legs of the cot and into my spine. Gray light pressed against the high, grime-streaked window of the vestry, illuminating the dust motes that floated in the cold air. Cold sweat glued my linen shirt to my ribs. I reached out blindly toward the small deal table where my flask usually sat, but my fingers encountered only dry, splintered wood. Someone had moved it. "Drink this, Father." Caleb stood by the washstand, holding a steaming mug of black tea. He had laced it heavily with chicory and peppermint, a combination we both knew was meant to mask the sour stench of stale gin. His faded red hair was combed flat, wet at the temples, and his dark servant's coat had been brushed clean of the soot and bone ash from last night's excursion. I took the mug, my knuckles turning white against the chipped clay. My fingers trembled, just a fraction, until the heat of the liquid anchored me. I swallowed the bitter brew, wincing as it hit my raw stomach like liquid lead. "You smell of the river," Caleb murmured, picking up my black cassock from the wooden peg. He shook it out, his gray eyes scanning the fabric with a practiced, mechanical intensity, searching for any trace of blood or gray soot. "I smell of bad choices and cheap spirits," I corrected, my voice a dry, gravelly rasp. "Which is standard for a Tuesday morning in London." He didn't smile. He never did when the hangover was this heavy, when my eyes were red-rimmed and my skin had the gray, waxy look of a man halfway to the mortuary. Instead, he stepped closer, reaching out to straighten my crooked clerical collar. His touch was light, steady, and brief. For three years, this boy had been the only thing standing between me and the gutter, keeping my public face presentable while my private life dissolved into bottle glass. I knew what he was thinking. Last night had been a disaster of another kind. We had hauled a cold, stiff weight from the parish mortuary to the East Lane ash yard, only to find the bone fragments in the cart were too clean, stripped of marrow and flesh by something that wasn't human. Caleb had noticed. He had written it down in that small, cheap notebook he kept tucked inside his vest. I had told him to stop, to let it go, but the boy had a mind like a steel trap. He didn't know how to forget. "Our congregation is waiting," Caleb said, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "Three of them today. Widow Gable, and two men from the coal wharves who look too tired to pray." I stood up, the room tilting violently before settling into a dull, throbbing rhythm. Beneath the heavy wool of my cassock, the weight of Genesis pressed against my left ribs. The six-shot revolver felt cold and solid, a secret, lethal anchor. "Let us begin then," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "God help the poor bastards who have to listen to me preach." --- Damp stone air greeted us as we stepped into the nave of St. Jude. The gas lamps were fading, flickering yellow tongues dying in the gray morning fog that seeped through the cracks in the heavy oak doors. Faint gaslight struggled to cut through the thick yellow gloom of the nave. Smells of melting beeswax and wet wool hung thick in the air. In the third pew sat Mrs. Gable, her head wrapped in a frayed black shawl, her rosary beads clicking like dry beetle shells. Near the back, two dockworkers sat with their heads bowed, their shoulders slumped from a long night of shifting coal. I walked to the lectern, placing my hands flat on the polished oak. The wood was cold, comforting in its solidity. I forced my breathing to slow, pushing down the nausea that threatened to rise with every swing of the thurible Caleb had prepared. "Dearly beloved brethren," I began, my voice carrying through the empty rafters. It sounded deeper than usual, gravelly but steady. I had done this a thousand times. The words came from some mechanical part of my brain, bypassing my throbbing skull entirely. Caleb stood near the altar, his hands folded before him. His gray eyes never left me, watching the slight tremor in my fingers as I turned the heavy vellum pages of the Book of Common Prayer. We moved through the Litany, the responses rising from the small congregation like dry leaves scraping across pavement. I kept my gaze fixed on the stained-glass window behind them, where a pale apostle stared down with faded paint eyes. When the final "Amen" echoed through the damp nave, the three parishioners rose slowly. They filed out into the yellow fog, nodding to me as they passed. I managed a tight, professional nod in return, my jaw clenched to keep from sighing aloud. "Well done, Father," Caleb said, extinguishing the altar candles with a brass snuffer. "I didn't vomit on the altar cloth," I said, leaning against the pulpit. "Let us count our blessings." --- A carriage door clicked shut outside. Heavy leather boots crunched on the gravel path. Before Caleb could reach the main doors, they swung open, admitting a gust of cold, soot-choked air and a figure in a tailored black coat. Purple silk peeked from beneath his collar. Bishop Marlowe stepped into the nave, his young, unlined face pale against the dark fabric of his heavy winter cloak. He was barely thirty-five, a rising star in the diocese, sent to inspect the parishes that the older bishops preferred to forget. "Father Greaves," Marlowe said, his voice smooth and clear as a bell. He pulled off his kidskin gloves, folding them with precise, deliberate movements. "And young Caleb. I trust I find you both in good health." "Your Grace," I said, descending the steps of the chancel. I bowed my head just enough to satisfy protocol, though the movement sent a sharp spike of pain through my forehead. "An unexpected pleasure. We did not anticipate a visitation so early." "My duties do not wait for the sun, Father," Marlowe replied, his watchful eyes scanning the empty pews, the soot-stained ceiling, and finally resting on my face. He paused, his nostrils flaring slightly. He smelled the peppermint. And the gin beneath it. "Of course," I said, keeping my voice flat. "Would you care for tea in the vestry? Or perhaps you wish to inspect the parish records first?" "My interest lies in the records, I think," Marlowe said, offering a polite, thin-lipped smile. "The diocese is compiling a report on parish registries. Particularly those concerning burials and the disposal of... unusual remains." My heart did a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. Beside me, I saw Caleb's hand twitch against his trousers. "Our ledgers are in the sacristy," I said, turning to lead the way. "Though they are mostly routine. St. Jude is a quiet parish." "Is it?" Marlowe followed us, his boots clicking sharply on the flagstones. "A parish near the river is rarely quiet, Father Greaves. The Thames washes up many things that require a quiet grave." We entered the small, cramped sacristy. The smell of old paper and cedar dust was thick here. Caleb stood by the heavy oak archive cabinet, his face expressionless, but his eyes were wide and alert. Marlowe sat at the small writing desk, gesturing for the ledger. Caleb pulled the heavy leather-bound volume from the shelf and placed it before the bishop. "This is the current burial register," Caleb said, his voice formal and quiet. "All entries are up to date." Marlowe turned the pages, his slender fingers tracing the columns of names, dates, and locations. He stopped on a page from three weeks ago, then turned to the entries from last night. His fingers were long and clean, the nails trimmed to perfect, pale crescents. They contrasted sharply with the yellowed, water-stained edges of our parish ledger. He turned a page, the heavy paper scraping dryly against the desk. My eyes tracked his finger as it came to rest on the entry for the 'unidentified poor' we had delivered just hours before dawn. The ink was barely dry, a dark smear against the pale page. "I see several entries marked only as 'unidentified poor' transferred to the diocesan ash yards," Marlowe murmured, not looking up. "With no corresponding medical certificates." "Those are standard under the Cholera Act of '54, Your Grace," I said, stepping closer. "The parish mortuary acts as a temporary holding. We bury them quickly to prevent infection." "Indeed," Marlowe said. He looked up, his pale eyes fixing on Caleb. "And you, young man. You assist Father Greaves with these transfers?" "I drive the cart, Your Grace," Caleb replied without hesitation. "And I assist the receiving clerk at the yard." "A clerk at the East Lane yard," Marlowe said, his tone casual, almost conversational. "A quiet fellow. He keeps a very precise tally. Yet, when we compared his ledger with the central diocesan registry, we found... discrepancies." Silence stretched in the small room. The only sound was the drip of condensation from the leaded window. "Discrepancies, Your Grace?" I asked, my voice dropping to its lowest register. "A matter of numbers," Marlowe said, closing the ledger with a soft thud. "A few bodies here and there that do not seem to exist in any civil record before their burial. Or perhaps, bodies that are recorded as ashes but leave behind... other remnants." He was looking at me now, his gaze sharp and searching. He was looking for a slip, a tremor, a sign of guilt. I kept my hands buried deep in the pockets of my cassock. My right hand brushed the cold steel cylinder of Genesis. "London is a chaotic city, Your Grace," I said, my voice deadpan. "People die in alleys. They have no names. We do our duty by them. If the clerks are careless with their ink, that is a matter for the diocesan treasury, not a parish priest." Marlowe stared at me for a long moment. Then, his face softened into that same polite, empty smile. "Of course," he said, rising from the desk. "I am sure it is merely clerical error. But we must be diligent. The Church cannot afford shadows in its ledgers." He walked back into the nave, his heavy cloak billowing behind him. He stopped before the altar, looking at the faded gold crucifix. "A beautiful church," Marlowe said, his voice echoing in the empty space. "Old. Solid. It would be a shame if its administration fell into disrepute." He raised two fingers, making a swift, precise sign of the cross over the altar. Bishop Marlowe blesses the altar and leaves through the west door. I watch his carriage fade into the fog. Then I turn to Caleb. "The notes you keep. Hide them." He nods once.

Chapter 3: The Morning Office