The two men took seats at the rough-hewn table where Barnabus sat with his supper. Though they were waiting patiently, Barnabus suspected they were as anxious to hear what he had to say as he was to tell them.

He took his final bite of potato, then pushed his plate away. “This’ll take some explaining, but it’s necessary to truly understand.”

Both men nodded.

“Gemma grew up in Southwark. Though it’s not widely known, and I don’t think she’d appreciate me telling you this, she comes from a family of resurrectionists. They’ve been doing it for generations. They’re blasted good at it. And they’re dangerous, violent.”

“Blue bashers.” The creative curse whooshed from Fletcher. “She’s a Kincaid, ain’t she?”

Barnabus nodded. “Her father was the oldest of the three brothers.”

Fletcher looked to Stone. “The Kincaid family’ve been London’s most feared clan of resurrectionists for ages. I grew up hearing tales of them and the three brothers that run the family in this generation. They’re very nearly as feared as the Mastiff himself, though I’d say it’s a hair’s breadth difference.”

“And your wife,” Stone said to Barnabus, “is one of them?”

“She is. My marrying her was part of helping her escape her family.”

Stone nodded as if Barnabus had solved a great mystery for him.

Fletcher waved a hand, encouraging him to keep explaining.

“Resurrectionists are a hard and dangerous lot. Sometimes, when money is tight or they’re looking to be a bit more comfortable, they obtain bodies without waiting for them to—”

He knew he didn’t have to mince his words with these two—they understood the realities of poverty and crime—and yet he was talking about Gemma’s family, the life she’d been forced into. He hated the idea of tying her to it in any way.

“They snuff the bloke’s candle themselves,” Fletcher said, finishing Barnabus’s explanation bluntly.

Barnabus nodded. “The Kincaids are known for murder almost as much as for resurrections. She escaped that life and, it seemed, her family’s clutches. But she’s heard that they’re looking for her.”

“Any idea why?” Fletcher asked.

Barnabus stood and began pacing. Too much was bubbling inside for him to sit still. “Her family is working for the Mastiff, and apparently, they anticipate their workload increasing. That means two things.” He held up a finger. “One, the Mastiff intends to increase his efforts, killing more, resurrecting more, threatening more.”