“Unique? A power struggle in the Moors is hardly ‘unique.’ If anything, a stretch of time as long as you had without your sister trying to rip your pretty throat out with her teeth counts as ‘unique.’ This is no concern of me or mine.”

Jack bit the inside of her cheek—her sister’s cheek—until her heartbeat calmed enough to leave her certain her voice wouldn’t shake. “I think it is,” she said finally. “What do you consider ordinary about this situation?”

“It’s my business to know everything that happens in the Moors. Your Dr. Bleak is dead, perhaps beyond resurrecting, and the Master intends to bring his daughter fully into the family under the full moon. I have little doubt your motley band of heroes will be enough to destroy the elder vampire, even as foolish sentiment stays your hand from slaying your sister. The balance will be maintained. The two of you will make excellent monsters, until something novel comes along to take your place. The Abbey will stand, the Drowned Gods will smash ships against our shore, and I’ll trade you rum and chocolate biscuits for bread and jam. It’s happened before.”

“Ah, but you see, that’s where you’re wrong.” Jack started to walk forward, suddenly smiling. Jill had always taken excellent care of her teeth, anticipating the day when they’d become the symbol of her power. In the dimness of the Drowned Abbey, they gleamed. “I realize the Moors aren’t very considerate when it comes to matters of mental health; I suppose when your power structure depends on the actions of scientists with poor impulse control and a variety of personality disorders, investing in therapy seems like a poor idea. But it’s your job to know things, as you say, and so I’m sure you know that I’ve always had a bit of a problem with the filth of daily existence.”

“I know you’re squeamish, but you’re bloody-minded enough to overcome it,” said Gideon.

“No. I’m not. I have a condition—there isn’t a word for it here, although I’ve heard a few of the older villagers comment about a cousin or grandparent with symptoms similar to mine—that transcends squeamishness. I can’t abide being dirty. It revolts me. This body is tainted, Gideon. It’s rotten, it’s spoiled. The things my sister used it to do … I could wash the skin from these hands and still be unable to stand the sight of them. How do I wash my blood? My organs? How do I scrub the sins from my sister’s skeleton?”

Gideon sat up straighter, looking alarmed for the first time. “I don’t—”