<span style="font-weight: bold">London - 1892</span><br/><br/>â€œAnd what did your mother say, Doll?â€<br/><br/>Rena really wished he would stop calling her that.<span style="font-style: italic">Dolls</span>was the same thing he called corpses.<br/><br/>The girl scoffed and imitated her motherâ€™s posh accent and patronizing tone.<span style="font-style: italic">â€These things take time, love.â€</span><br/><br/>The undertaker snorted as he was bent over his current doll: a man of about fifty with only a wisp of white hair on his dull scalp, the highest concentration of hair dominating his sideburns instead of the top of his cranium. Rena was in the sitting room, speaking to him through the large door way that was usually covered by a thick, green velvet curtain. The girl was sprawled in an armchair that didnâ€™t match the loveseat... or the couch... or the ottoman. She yanked her black skirt over her knees; the white ruffles underneath were annoying her. And honestly, she had never seen more hideous carpet, and the curtains were an atrocious dull green-yellow.<br/><br/>â€œHave you considered that your niece deserves your patience? Sheâ€™s only an infant.â€  Said the undertaker over his shoulder. There was a metallic clicking and sliding sound where the corpse was laid out on the table.<br/><br/>Rena turned her wine colored eyes away from the undertakerâ€™s back and stared at her book unseeingly. Her niece deserved her patience? Why? What had the child done to deserve it? Then again...what had it done to deserve her disdain?<span style="font-style: italic">Why, it cried in the middle of the night nonstop for weeks. Thatâ€™s what it did.</span>But it had also lived when her sister had died. What had the child done to deserve to live? What had her sister done that deserved a death sentence, dealt swiftly by a toppling carriage? She harrumphed and settled lower in her chair, her feet dangling over one arm and her head leaning on the other.<br/><br/>There was a silence for a while, interrupted once by a caw from Corvin, who strutted along his perch importantly, black feathers shining in the dusty light. Renaâ€™s eyes were trained on the text in front of her: a thick, dusty textbook describing the Vikings of Norse pirates. How easily she could see herself battling a brutish man with a scraggly blonde beard, a cap with protruding horns on his head. In her mind she swung a sword that left a trail of white butterflies, wore trousers and had short hair. And an eye patch. Eye patches were wonderful.<br/><br/>She battled the Viking in her head as he cursed in some other language, unable to land a hit on her small body due to her amazing speed. She had the blade of light and goodness, and he was on his way to pillage and rape. Of course she, the Warrior of Goodness, had to put a stop to it.<br/><br/>â€œSo where does your mother<span style="font-style: italic">think</span>you are, Doll?â€<br/><br/>Rena grimaced at being broken out of her musings. She hadnâ€™t killed the Viking yet. She scoffed and answered annoyed, â€œAt Angelaâ€™s.â€<br/><br/>She saw his nose over his broad shoulders as he turned slightly in her direction. â€œAnd the maid? Wasnâ€™t someone escorting you? Beinâ€™ a lady and all.â€ She could hear the sardonic smile in his voice.<br/><br/>Rena snorted, turning to stare dully at Corvin. â€œPoor May lost me in the market when I spotted a bauble I simply<span style="font-style: italic">had</span>to have.â€<br/><br/>The undertaker snorted a chuckle, laughing sort of derangedly. â€œHow many maids have lost their jobs by your hands, child?â€ He chuckled again and turned to look at a fuming Rena. His uncombed ash hair was in his face, obscuring all of his features besides his wide grin. He looked madder than a hatter. Rena shrunk in her chair, ready to use her thick book as a shield if need be.<br/><br/>She nodded towards him. â€œYou sewed your cravat to your corpse again.â€<br/><br/>Surprised, the undertaker looked down, finding that there was indeed a thread connecting his tie to the corpse behind him. He made an aggravated noise and cursed, â€œBlast!â€ Soon he was searching for scissors, but Rena had seen him toss them into a bin by the sink. The undertaker tried to reach them, but he was still very much connected to the corpse and unwilling to use his nasty, gloved hands to untie the cravat or allow the corpseâ€™s flesh to rip.<br/><br/>With a sigh, Rena peeled herself off the chair and tossed her book on the cushion, which resulted in Corvin ruffling his neck feathers in warning and cawing at her. He did not like literature being treated so roughly, apparently. The girl used a handkerchief to pick up the scissors and give them to the trapped undertaker, a look of annoyance on her face the entire time. What fully grown man made such ridiculous mistakes anyway?<br/><br/>â€œBless you, child!â€ cried the undertaker with glee, taking the scissors from her and snipping himself free while Rena disposed of her soiled handkerchief. The undertaker smiled over at her, one eye now visible through his tangled black tresses. It was wrinkled around the edges and held bags of one who was far too stressed and old for their age.<br/><br/>â€œHow old are you, undertaker?â€ Rena asked with blunt curiosity, but very blank eyes.<br/><br/>The undertaker eyed her critically and was silent for a moment. â€œ...You forgot again.â€ He stated frankly. It wasnâ€™t a question.<br/><br/>Rena just stared.<br/><br/>The undertaker sighed. â€œThirty-three. And did you forget my name as well?â€<br/><br/>She had.<br/><br/>He sighed dramatically, tilting his head to allow more hair to fall to the side and propping his fists on his hips.<span style="font-style: italic">How feminine,</span>Rena thought nastily. The undertaker said exasperatedly, â€œNow, I can tell you almost anything about you, Miss Rena Gretchen Charlotte. Youâ€™re fourteen years old and mad as a hatter.â€<br/><br/>â€œThatâ€™s rich, coming from you.â€ Rena said dryly, earning a low chuckle from the undertaker.<br/><br/>The undertaker shook his head and glanced down at her feet as he turned back to his corpse. He was silent for a full minute, but Rena had a sneaking suspicion that he wanted to say something. So she lingered, waiting, as he worked, pretending to be interested in the stitching up of a naked corpseâ€™s torso, a corpse which had a single sheet draped over its hips. For modestyâ€™s sake.<br/><br/>Finally the undertaker sighed once, and did not look at the girl as he asked, â€œDid I give those to you?â€<br/><br/>Rena frowned and looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of black pumps her mother had gotten her. No, thatâ€™s not what he was referring to. Her stockings. They were thick cotton and striped black and white horizontally. It dawned on her. She looked up at him and nodded, saying, â€œYes,â€ firmly in confirmation.<br/><br/>The undertakerâ€™s hands had stilled. â€œI see.â€ He mumbled. It was quiet for a moment, and Rena found herself wondering if she should take a step back... She knew her friend well enough to know when he was going to snap.<br/><br/>Sure enough, he took up a scalpel nearby and plunged it into the chest of the corpse on the table. Renaâ€™s eyelashes lowered as she looked down at the knife, then glanced slowly up at the undertakerâ€™s face. She could not see his eyes again, and his mouth was set in a tight line. The hand that clenched the scalpel was white-knuckled and the tendons stood out from the skin.<br/><br/>There was a silence that stretched for what felt like ages, the atmosphere was tense as Rena held her breath. Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...<br/><br/>Suddenly the undertaker flung himself away from the table as if it burned him, taking the scalpel with him. Rena tensed, ready to run, her heart thundering in her chest as she followed his quick movements with frantic eyes.<br/><br/>But the undertaker only threw his head back and laughed sharply. He smiled down at the corpse apologetically and said gaily with his hands on his hips, â€œSorry â€˜bout that, olâ€™ chap. Iâ€™d better stitch that up, shall I?â€ The undertaker set to this almost immediately, humming happily as he did so. Corvin cawed irately from the other room.<br/><br/>A bead of sweat trickled down from Renaâ€™s temple to her jaw. She lifted a trembling hand from her skirt and brushed a strand of brown hair away from her eyelashes. Her feet inched away from the morgue room and toward the threshold to the sitting room.<br/><br/>â€œGoing off, then?â€ called the undertaker suddenly. He didnâ€™t look up from his work, but he did pause in his humming.<br/><br/>Rena swallowed, and spoke dispassionately. â€œYes. Iâ€™m sure to find May down on First Street still.â€ She walked confidently over to her chair and picked up her Viking book. She returned it to the bookshelf in the sitting room, her eyes flicking over other titles. She paused on one. â€œ...Mind if I borrow a book?â€<br/><br/>â€œâ€™Elp yerself, dearie.â€<br/><br/>For some reason this made Rena tense her shoulders. But she snatched the book from the shelf quickly before she could think twice about it. With a glance at the undertaker, who was still bent over the corpse on the table while he hummed happily, she let out a tense breath. She strutted over to Corvinâ€™s perch, mimicking the birdâ€™s own stride and gave the bird a reprimanding glare when he ruffled his feathers at her. â€œOh, hush.â€ She scolded, stroking the ravenâ€™s feathers softly. As she drew her hand away, Corvin gave a startled caw and flapped his wings twice. A shadow suddenly fell over her.<br/><br/>â€œWhat dâ€™ya have there, Doll?â€ murmured a deep voice in her ear. Her breath caught in her throat and she stood very, very still. The undertaker leered over her; she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.<br/><br/>Suddenly the book in her fingers disappeared. The undertaker gave an appreciative hum behind her. â€œAliceâ€™s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll.â€ He read the title aloud.<br/><br/>Rena turned slowly, finding the undertaker leering at her was much more frightening when she could see him. She almost regretted turning around. He towered over her meager height and slight frame. Sheâ€™d never felt so<span style="font-style: italic">tiny</span>. He took Renaâ€™s hand and closed her fingers around the book, patting it twice before releasing it. He was grinning broadly, a smile that stretched across his entire face and flashed full rows of teeth. His hair was in his eyes again as he leaned towards the frozen girl.<br/><br/>â€œTake care, Doll. I would certainly hate to dress your pretty little self up so soon. Youâ€™d become a<span style="font-style: italic">real</span>doll then.â€ His grin grew impossibly wider. â€œIâ€™d even specially make you a coffin. Line it with those white lilies you like so much.â€<br/><br/>At this, Rena narrowed her eyes at him, sending him a glare that could peel paint from a wall. â€œGet,â€ she spat, â€œOut,â€ the undertaker frowned, â€œOf my way.â€ She finished with a glower. For a second the undertaker didnâ€™t move, only stared at her. Then, with a small smile, he leaned away from her, removing his hands from the wall behind her. He gestured demurely to the door, his visible eye on her with an unreadable look.<br/><br/>Rena all but bolted for it.<br/><br/>â€œOh, Doll!â€<br/><br/>Rena froze in her tracks, the cheery voice of the undertaker making her halt. She looked at him suspiciously, only to find him holding up something she had left behind in her haste.<br/><br/>He smiled kindly. â€œShall I help you with your coat, mâ€™lady?â€<br/><br/>Once again, Renaâ€™s breath was expelled from her lungs harshly when she realized sheâ€™d been holding it. With wary steps she approached the undertaker and allowed him to assist her with her coat. With the book clenched tightly in her fingers, she made for the door.<br/><br/>â€œCome again, Doll! Just not in a body bag!â€ called the undertakerâ€™s overly cheery voice from the morgue room, followed by a deep chuckle.<br/><br/>â€œY-yeah.â€ Rena muttered back as she twisted the doorknob and opened the door to the street. With her chin down, she swung the door closed behind her, looked both ways before stepping out to the sidewalk. The stones under her feet were frosted with trodden-on snow, and a sign creaked in the wind above her head with a cursive carving that said in elegant script,<span style="font-family: Brush Script MT;"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">â€˜Hounslow Funeral Home.â€™</span></span><br/><br/>Rena rushed by the light foot traffic and ducked into the alley next to the funeral home, pressing her back to the cold wall. She trembled with a gloved hand pressed to her mouth. Her heart thundered against her ribs, and her breath was shallow with fright. Adrenaline rushed through her veins, making her limbs shake. Her trembling fingers parted to reveal...a smile. A secretive, madly excited smile. With sudden vigor, she fumbled in her coat for her journal and found a sketching pencil in a pocket. She flicked the journal open impatiently, flicking through some notes and furiously jotting down her new ideas on a fresh page.<br/><br/><span style="font-family: Lucida Handwriting;"><span style="font-size: 85%; line-height: 116%;">A mad scientist by the name of Jack Abberlane, posing in society as a mortician, while a secret laboratory dominates the basement...<br/><br/>...the death of a beloved daughter named Alice...<br/><br/>...striped stockings reminiscent of his cherished daughter... <br/><br/>...sought to create life, and bring his lovely daughter back to him...</span></span>