#monstrousstarter

The energy flowing through the city had nearly soured with the continuation of the murders happening. With no suspects in sight, and what seemed to be no leads, the fear that had begun to grip the city was nearly tangible, thickening the very air surrounding the once lively place. Though they came every year, the holidays truly could not have made an appearance at a better time. The allowance to focus on something other than the vile mystery seemed to have breathed a new life into things, people smiling, daring to laugh for what felt like the first time in a long while. 

The winter crops were hardly easy and rarely kind, though the Earth had provided as she always did, allowing Genevieve and her mother a harvest which would carry them through the most difficult of months. Atop the table before her sat a spread of winter vegetables- beets, cabbage, carrots, onions, and peas shone beautifully against the wood of the tabletop, flanked on their sides by sealed glass jars containing canned asparagus, beans, peppers, and okra, an array that was sure to draw a multitude of customers. 

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Genevieve called to a passerby, one she’d noticed had slowed slightly to take in the produce. “Winter is never a friend in a business such as this, though we have remained blessed with a gorgeous harvest this season.” A small smile played upon her lips. “There are many lovely dishes one can elevate with such additions. If you have yet to complete your shopping for your holiday dishes, you have certainly come to the right place. Even if you have, I am certain we can provide something you shall enjoy. After all, who can resist the draw of succulent summer okra, most especially during this cold and bitter winter?” 

Though Verona had visited London before in her long life, her visits had never coincided with Christmas. She found the season uncharacteristically tolerable -- the frigid air and thick snow reminded her of home, and that humans were more inclined to partake in wine and beer made their blood all the more sweet.

And so, as unusual as it was for her to leave Highgate Cemetery before the late afternoon, she found herself standing beside a stall selling hot apple cider, the tangy scent of it wafting pleasantly through the air. In her gloved hand, she held an empty glass, for appearance’s sake, and her small sunglasses remained perched on the bridge of her nose, as always when she went outside on bright days. Despite the merriment of the occasion, she could not shake memories of the Count, as if he were standing right beside her, as he had done for centuries.

Estella sighed heavily, eyes rolling as she stooped to collect the crumpled shirt discarded at the foot of the boarding house stairs. Her dark eyes turned stormy, temper flaring near-immediately as she silently cursed its owner within her own mind. Lifting the garment, she inhaled a quick breath, just enough for the stench of sweat with an undertone of mildew to flare within her nostrils. 

“Heavens!” Estella exclaimed, a light cough forming as the offensive smell tickled at the back of her throat. While operating a boarding house had never been the fate she might have chosen for herself, for the most part it was tolerable enough, and the money she garnered from her tenants each week was more than enough to provide for herself with a small bit to spare. A small bit which, through the years, had transformed itself into a fair bit. Still, there were moments in which she could not help but to wonder if the wages earned and saved were a fair enough trade for the duties which came along with them. 

Pinching the foul fabric between her thumb and forefinger, Estella debated within her own mind how to proceed with the situation before her. In truth, her first and most powerful instinct was to seek the owner of the garment, for no other purpose than to embarrass them thoroughly before God and her other tenants. Still, she was more self-aware than she had often been given credit for, and the understanding that such an act might very well have lost her a tenant managed to take precedent, above even the situation at hand. Before the ability to solidify a plan had come, she was torn from her thoughts by the chime of the bells hanging above her front door. 

As much as she was enjoying the sights and sounds of the marketplace, only for its complete difference to the peace and quiet of Highgate Cemetery, there was only so much mingling with humans that Verona could bear before she got irritated. She had not felt strong emotions for centuries, but she couldn’t stand another moment in the busy crowds of Oxford Street, so she had slipped away to wander down one of the quieter side streets. All the shops were shut, of course, for the market, and she walked at a leisurely pace towards the more suburban heart of the city, before realising that she had walked this very same path just under half a century ago, when the Count and her sisters had visited London.

Wondering if her old acquaintance was still local, she continued with purpose until she reached a dilapidated old mansion which smelt of must and decay, even from the doorstep. Unlike the other houses on this street, this one had long-since fallen into disrepair, and Verona tutted to see what had become of it. Though, to the less knowledgeable person, it would appear uninhabited, she rang the doorbell, which made a shrill sound, and the door was opened cautiously by a servant in dark attire, blinking like a rat in the sunlight.