Page 52 of House of Sin
Elona raised a brow, smirking. “Who knew I could give life-altering headanddraw a stunning pair of tits? This town just isn’t ready for talent like mine.” The table exploded with laughter.
“I’ll drink to that,” Maeve said, her usual bite softened by affection. “To family, to surviving in this bloody ridiculous town, and to always having each other’s backs.”
“To family,” I echoed. “And to doing things our way.” The clink of glasses was clean and satisfying, the sound creating a sacred seal in the air.
As the night wore on, conversation flowed effortlessly, laughter drifting from one end of the table to the other. Maeve’s sharp sarcasm mingled with Elona and Violet’s playful sass, Emil’s dry wit, Nell’s quiet insight, and my own knowing smirks. Together, we filled the room with a music entirely our own.
Violet leaned forward, a devilish grin on her lips. “You know, Elona, now that your art’s a hit, you might want to raise your prices. I’m thinking real big money now, maybe even a gallery in a big city.”
Elona laughed. “A gallery? Let me adjust to the idea that my work is worthanythingbefore we go national.”
“Aye, it’s worth plenty,” Maeve said with a mock serious expression, “but with all the attention on you now, just remember who helped you get there.” She leaned back in her chair, her arms raisedas if she were a model posing for one of Elona’s sketches. “I mean, it’s not every day someone gets immortalized in charcoal, am I right?”
I snorted, shaking my head. “All credit to Elona, but don’t be surprised when we start charging for inspiration.”
“Absolutely.” Violet added with a wink. “Payment in artwork . . . preferably nudes.”
Elona rolled her eyes, laughing. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of demand for that.”
The banter carried on, but slowly the mood shifted. Wine dulled the edges of our energy, and a quieter tenderness settled over the table. Maeve, who had polished off an entire bottle of pinot grigio on her own and was most certainly feeling it, leaned back, her eyes slightly unfocused.
“Y’know,” she said softly, “I’ve no idea what we’d do without each other. We’ve come through more than most.”
I met her eyes and offered a quiet smile. “You don’t need to know. As long as we’ve got each other, we’ll be fine.” And I held onto the quiet that followed,because something in me knew moments like this never lasted.
35
A WOMANS INTUITION
VIOLET
Ididn't mind walking home this late, not usually. The air felt cleaner somehow without all the noise of the day, and it gave me a minute to breathe. A quiet space to think, to feel my own heartbeat, the place where most of my poems first began to take shape. I was halfway down the street, boots scuffingagainst damp cobblestones, when I heard them. Footsteps, quick and purposeful coming up behind me.
“Evening, Miss Violet.” The voice curled around my spine. My stomach clenched so fast, it felt like instinct, like some small, primal part of me understood danger before my mind could name it. I didn’t stop walking, just eased my pace enough to glance over my shoulder.
It was Father Frederick, his coat buttoned neatly up to his throat, white collar shining under the gaslight. He smiled as if this meeting was just happenstance, like a priest strolling behind a working girl after midnight was the most natural thing in the world.
“Evening.” I answered, voice flat, my hands buried deep in my coat pockets, fists clenched as I kept walking.
He closed the gap between us in a few strides and then fell into step beside me. “Late night?”
“I work nights,” I replied, letting the shortness of my answer make the point for me. I wasn’t looking for conversation.
Still, he walked alongside me like we were sharing some gentle stroll through a manicured garden, not anarrow street that stank of ash and spilled ale. “Fine night,” he mused, tilting his head toward the sky. “God’s own hush over everything.”
“Mmm,” I said, uninterested, silently willing him to leave me alone.
He tilted his head, studying me. “I don’t believe I’ve ever asked where you’re from. Your family—are they still living?”
“No family.” I said plainly. “Raised at St. Brigid’s Orphanage, out by the old railway.”
“Oh?” The syllable stretched too long in his mouth, like it held meaning I didn’t understand. “Tough place to grow up, I’d imagine.”
“You’d imagine right.”
Still, he didn’t take the hint. “I must say,” he continued, “you’ve carried yourself out of it all with such grace. Not many can claim that.”
I said nothing to that. We continued walking, the silence growing more awkward as we crossed under a broken streetlamp. For a moment, the shadows cut deep across his face, as his eyes stayed on me. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he went on, voice sliding toward casual in a way that made my skin itch, “howdid a young woman like yourself come to work at The Oily Cat?”
