Gemma rose long before the sun decided to make an appearance the next morning. She’d not been an early riser until after she’d married Baz. The Kincaid family trade was plied at night. But she’d not had to do that for years, and she’d found she liked watching the sun rise.

Watching it from the house where she’d first felt safe and welcome did her heart a world of good.

“Hearts are weak things, girl.” She heard her father’s voice return to her mind from across the years. “Best silence yours before it lands you in a heap of trouble.”

It hadn’t been a bit of fatherly advice, nor even a well-meaning warning. It’d been a threat and nothing else. She’d been ten years old and had sobbed when she’d heard they’d been hired to rob the grave of a neighbor she’d been fond of. Had she not dried her tears and moved forward with him, her father would’ve exacted his revenge on her. He always did.

She’d hated growing up as a resurrectionist’s daughter. They’d barely stayed a step ahead of the law. Her father and uncles used threats and violence to silence anyone they thought needed it. She’d had only one friend in all of Southwark, but Gemma’d pulled away, not wanting her friend to be tainted by association with the Kincaids.

She’d been lonely.

She still was.

But she had a place to live for a time. She’d have money once she found a job, and with that money, she could move on again. London was overflowing with options if a person weren’t too picky. There were enough houses and buildings that were all but falling over, held up by grumbled prayers and long wooden planks leaning across alleyways. Plenty of people with nowhere else to go hunkered down there, guarding what little they had with a wary eye. No one ever slept well in those half-fallen hovels, but it were better than nothing. Gemma could toss herself into one of those if need be. She’d done it before.

She knew of one in South London, not far from where she grew up, that only one other person beside herself knew about. If it came time to leave Baz’s home before she’d another option, she could lug herself there.

She stepped up to the door of the humble flat the Donnellys called home at what she hoped was a reasonable hour. The jaunt from Finsbury to Piccadilly had taken some time, as she’d wound her way a bit, lengthening the journey.

Brogan answered her knock, looking awake enough for her peace of mind but more than a little confused. “Gemma? What brings you here this early?”

Perhaps she ought to have wandered a bit more. “I’ve come looking for Móirín.”