Archive of Our Own ^beta

London had heard no small number of theories about nominative determinism. The idea that your name was destiny, in some sense. Looking at history, the opposite seemed to be true, where you earned your name by what job you took… but London's name and the city of her residence had no relation like that. She didn't stay because she loved her namesake, she stayed because she wouldn't have much of a living if she got out.

Still, her name was the subject of many a joke and quip, an unfortunate fate that she shared with her sisters. If the rumors were true, each one of them was named for the hometown of their sire. London wasn't sure that was true, but it showed a remarkable lack of inspiration. on her mother's part either way.

Her mother's boundless love did not stop there, of course, so she had to find her own way in London. Perhaps she should have been heartened that she was named for this grand mercantile city, this throbbing heart of empire… but she only encountered said Empire in the newspapers and the well-traveled men who stumbled into her establishment.

Well, "her" establishment was a bit strong, considering that she was but a simple worker. The owner of the inn was certainly a character, but Lady York (lady of what, exactly? The Duchess of Fleet Street, perhaps,) provided London's lodgings and gave her money to send to her siblings, so she couldn't complain. Well, there were things to complain about, most certainly, but she owed a great debt to the woman. Even if the work was hard and the hours long.

"Good morning, Lady York." London bowed her head respectfully as her boss passed by.

"You speak true, the morning is fair."

"Did everything go well last night ma'am?"

York grinned. "Very well indeed, my dear. Although I fear the time creeps ever closer…"

"I'll see to it, ma'am. Do we have a hard deadline?"

"No. Be careful."

London nodded, and went to work. Haul the coal in to start, prepare hearty breakfasts for no small number of guests…

London (the Greater) was aflush with life, the staff and sailors of an empire rushing in and out like blood in veins. There was no shortage of money to be made, and no shortage of bottomfeeders who sucked at that flow of commerce like leeches.

But everyone needed room and board, and occasionally the men needed a shave. London could provide all of the above, with a bit of help from Lady York.

(She wondered if it was the place names that brought them together. York sympathized with London perhaps.)

"And have a pleasant day, sir!" London smiled and waved as the last of their breakfast crowd filtered out. Only the most hungover wretches stayed behind now, and Lady York was not a fan. Booze sold too well to stop, though, so York tried to move towards her preferred flavors. Cider was preferable…

She was the boss, so her taste defined how the whole place ran. Inside her inn, her word was law, and the punishments could be quite severe. London meted out more than she received, though, which was fortunate, from a certain angle.

"Will you be out for the usual length of time, ma'am?"

"I expect as much, but do not dally for my sake."

"Of course, ma'am." London nodded, and Lady York took her leave. To where she couldn't be sure, and she was just as uncertain about her lady's ends when she got there.

But she had no right to complain about her meanderings, whether by night or day. Lady York had done too much for London and her family (if indirectly, in the latter case) and it was all the result of one such ramble across the city.

After seeing her lady off and some final preparations for later that night, it was time to start doing shaves.

Admittedly, it wasn't the most becoming work for a lady, considering how rumors cropped up around it, but Lady York was enough of a presence to dissuade most men who got funny ideas. And if not… London could handle a razor ably, enough to defend herself.

The interesting thing about Fleet Street was their proximity to the papers. Lady York had many friends there, alongside a remarkable ear for the sensational, blood-soaked stories of murder and crime.

Her first customer was the star of one such story. The things he did to women… it would have made a younger London's skin crawl. She would have been there– a victim– but for the grace of God. Or for the grace of her Lady. Lady York probably bore no 'real' distinguished title, but she was noble enough for London. A fighting noble, if such a thing existed anymore.

She compiled a list of the worst criminals plaguing London the city, names that London the girl should be cautious about. This particular guest wasn't one of the special cases– a list of the Lady's enemies read like a list of people who most certainly wouldn't be caught dead in the company of a lady barber in this part of town– but he was bad enough.

She grasped the razor and remembered what Lady York had done for her. Actual, concrete work done to make the city a safer place.

Blade met flesh, but it sank in instead of gliding over.

There was a chute, there was a mop, there was a back exit. The system was tried and true, and Lady York would be satisfied for another while. What happened in the basement where the bodies went…?

London didn't know. Lady York had told her she could retreat there if things really fell apart, but otherwise, it was her Lady's private space, practically sacrosanct.

Even if the clean freak in London rankled at the thought of whatever mess Lady York made down there, probably enough to shame the mess she had made rescuing London all that time ago.

After that, business carried on as usual. Twice in one day was a bridge too far, in her opinion, especially considering Lady York's consumption wasn't that fast. London had actually done the math on that one.

Lady York had laughed at it, the idea of applying a numerical count to something illogical as her… state, but London appreciated those numbers anyway. She wasn't one to slack once a goal was met, of course, but having an idea of what was needed was reassuring.

Lady York's feeding would be handled for at least a fortnight, if London's rough guess regarding the man's weight was correct, and the inn's normal budget was turning out very well. What was once something of a money sink became a genuinely profitable venture that still fulfilled the original goal of acquiring blood and flesh.

… Well, that certainly sounded grim, but she supposed it was a grim profession, making men into meat. She wondered if good men and bad men tasted all that different.

While London was very grateful to her Lady, she wasn't quite sure she was willing to think of people in terms of taste. If she had to guess, Lady York would prefer someone with a bit of meat on their bones. She had defined, refined taste everywhere else, but she indulged London's wish to only aim for those who deserved it.

Even then, Lady York had a different idea of what offenses were worth killing for. She had informed London that enough attempts at cupping her rear– or perhaps even just the one– were reason enough to kill, but London had never had to suffer a repeat offender while under Lady York's protection.

The actual operation of the inn was a bit of a mixed bag. The warmth and the good business were all very well and good, but they tended to draw a rambunctious crowd. Fortunately, Lady York usually returned in time to put the fear of God in them. Whatever business she had by day, she usually returned to the inn by night, just to top off.

(Again, the exact specifics escaped London. Some sort of numbing agent in the saliva, or a soporific in the fangs? Whatever the case, she was subtle enough to leave wounds in hidden places. The back of the head near the top of the neck was her favorite. It let hair cover the puncture wounds. London would know, considering that she occasionally donated blood. The process was actually quite pleasant, once you overcame the revulsion.)

The hours were long, but she had gotten used to them. Her Lady worked even longer, so London could provide nothing less than her utmost. And yes, London was aware that was because Lady York's strange powers meant she didn't need nearly as much sleep, but she would still try.

Her lady preferred strong drinks– something that makes the throat blaze– and London made sure to grab some as they retired for the evening. "Did your day go well, ma'am?"

She grinned sharply. "My plans are soon to bear their fruit, my dear. I shall have my fill of vindication in good time."

London felt very sorry for whoever stood between Lady York and her goals. She vaguely remembered readings from the good book… something about blood up the horse's bridles flowing from a winepress. That sounded like an appropriately epic descriptor. Her lady's list of special enemies almost felt like a declaration of war on the country, or at least certain parts of its nobility.

That was another classic Lady York mystery. How had she gotten here? Even assuming that York was her true name, how had she accrued such a list of vendettas? How had she acquired her powers? London knew she was not an endling, that there were more of Lady York's strange type out there, but how they came to be was another mystery. London assumed they were ancient, with equally ancient ties. Speaking of…

Lady York laid a letter down on her desk, and London opened it, noting the elaborate seal on the dark red wax. The design was familiar, even if London had no real understanding of how heraldry worked. She simply knew that symbol meant the Lady in Sevastopol, who avoided the song and dance of Lady York's inn by simply owning her peasants. Or practically owning them. London hoped the Russians weren't quite that bad anymore.

Feeling Lady York's glance upon her, London began to read the letter: "My dear Yorkie…" London had a feeling she might struggle to finish reading this thing. Using such familiar language…

And that was how things went, generally. London kept her blades sharp and kept sending money to her sisters, so they might make something proper of themselves. Shropshire especially, being so clever, if only she could stop flirting and playing to find herself a proper place in the world…

Eventually, the night of her Lady's vengeance came, and she stayed out very late… London figured there would probably be some very interesting stories in the papers in the following week, but she couldn't exactly worry about that when she was busy working the inn on her lonesome.

It was a frankly absurd time in the morning when Lady York finally made her triumphant return through a back entrance. Of course, London had stayed up to meet her, and rushed to greet her…

To see that Lady York wasn't alone. She held a figure in her arms, one with brilliantly white hair and a few red stains on a silken nightgown. Pair that with a milk-white complexion and very delicate hands, and London figured this was the daughter of someone very important. Keyword probably being was.

Looking at the way Lady York cradled the girl in her arms… "Would I be correct in assuming that she is moving here permanently, ma'am?"

"Thou would be correct, dear London. She is of my sort, and our sorority engenders certain obligations. Treat her as thou might treat mine own child."

London sighed. "May I go to do some math, my Lady?" She'd like to think the little lady would have a smaller appetite, but the cynic in London felt she should probably account for a second appetite like Lady York's.