Karina Cooper - Corroded

A fortnight after my husband was murdered, I exhibited a severe allergy to sobriety.

Nightmares plagued first my sleep, then haunted me through every waking hour. In order to maintain what sanity I had left, I chewed the opium that was so much easier to attain now that I had taken my shelter below Londons foggy drift.

Laudanum alone could not accomplish what the resin of Turks bliss would.

It became a rote as unthinking as breathing. A bit of tar before I sought my rest. Another bit more upon waking, to ease the ache of the nights passing. I swallowed it when the anxieties of the fortnights events wrapped around my chest, tighter than any corset Id ever worn, and squeezed the living breath from me.

I licked the bitter medicine for courage and I choked it down to forget.

Revenge tasted best when laced with the cinnamon-sharp draught of laudanum, but such liquid was more difficult to carry and hold than the wax-wrapped bit of opium I had taken to keeping in my pocket. And certainly the ruby solution Id grown to require could not compare to the long, narrow tube I now held in my hands, its fragrant smoke drifting through my nostrils and into my hazy, addled mind.

While I imbibed, freely and without thought for consequence, I could not bring myself to grieve.

I was on a charge. Or, rather, I should have been.

My name is Cherry St. Croix, and I am a collector. I hunt men for bountiesfor coin delivered upon successful conveyance of vagrants, degenerates and those too far in debt to allow to roam free. Were I anywhere else but in a Limehouse opium den buried beneath the choking fog of London low, I would be Lady Compton, grieving widow to the late Cornelius Kerrigan Compton, Earl Compton, and certainly I would not be a collector of any stripe.

A countess could not set so much as a dainty slipper beneath the foggy drift without every periodical from here to the remote Orkneys shouting the scandal.

Of course, I had served as a collector for longer than Id ever been a countessfive of my twenty years compared to five hours a bride; and the former a secret affectation, beside.

A fortnight as a widow, and I had not yet relinquished my collectors role. Here, in this shabbily furnished parlor with the stained brown walls and shoddy, threadbare settees and chairs, I could simply be a street boy, with my soot-blackened hair hidden beneath a floppy cap, and my clothing deliberately large to disguise the specially designed collecting corset I wore beneath.

If any of the lolling, idle patrons of this dimly lit Chinese den considered me more than a slightly rotund youth, there was no word, no glance, no questions. Only the brief brush of work-rimed, callused fingers against mine as the pipe passed into my hands and out again, and the sweet, almost lyrical orchestra of voices raised in absent conversation.

The idle gossip of Jack the Ripper, that mad murderer stalking Whitechapels doxies and dollymops, could not chill the warmth of the pipe. The crimes the fiend perpetrated in the depths of smoke-blackened night turned all of London on its ear, and to date, even Scotland Yards finest had failed to suss out the criminals identityfor all that, these things did not sour the atmosphere of this dingy place. Truth be told, an evening spent imbibing Chinese opium often made the grimmest news seem tolerable, and even welcome.

For many that do not partake of the smoke often, the promised bliss of opium comes first through the senses. The things seen by the eyes become something dreamed instead, a skirling waltz for the mind and a feast for the soul. If I were to give credence to a faith which could not be proven, that what the bliss engenders in one is a religious occurrence the likes of which no clergy would approve.

By the glassy sheen to the dreamy gazes about me, most were long gone from the grim shackles of these dank environs. The voices they heard came like melodious chimes, a vibrant delight taken in each syllable, each breath. Laughter sparkled, sighs shimmered. Feelings altered.

Things that might otherwise seem unbearable softened. Eased away.

I envied them, these occasional partakers. Enjoyment though I felt, it was not as it once was for me. Such is the risk. Those who take the medicinal regularly must always take the more to feel the same as that first lovely delight.

For that reason, I was not controlled by bliss as they were around me. The sweet orchestra of their world became a muted whisper in mine. While tis true that I felt no anxietyno fear stemming from my dangerous plans, no sorrow upon my thoughtsI also could not sink back into the sweet cushion of lassitude as these partakers had.

I slept with its help and dreamed while it eased my burdens; long had I valued its assistance. My reliance upon laudanum was at one time a strength. The day my fathers alchemical tincture of opium nearly took my life, my near lifelong use allowed my intellect to overcome the medicinals effects. I fought back where he expected placid surrender.

The unfortunate result of continued use was such that while I could soften the blunt edges of this new life of mine, I could not escape it.

I could have railed against the injustice, but to what purpose? To soothe the sting, I simply took the more. I resolved to allow the details of this room to blur ever so gently, until the smoke became a gentle breeze and the candles warming the tar in copper plates turned to merry dancers wrapped in golden hue.

It was so easy to lose ones self in the slow, deliberate disconnect of time and understanding. An hours passing could be as a moment, yet a moment could stretch for eternity. I watched the dancing flame, blinking with deliberate effort to watch the copper glints of my own lashes in the fringes of my own sight, and I contemplated my coming actions thoroughly.

Without looking at him, I considered the man seated at my left. The bearded cove had been my surly and unknowing companion for the past two hoursa man whose broad shoulders and bulging gut beneath patched shirtsleeves and leather suspenders professed him to be hardy stock. He was also was my quarry.

No small game.

As a member of the Brick Street Bakersone of many gangs who claimed the streets of London low like boundaries of warBartholomew Coventry was dangerous alone and unstoppable when among his allies. Any attempt to collect him for the Menagerie, to whom he owed his debts, would most certainly draw the attention of the Bakers, were we on Baker territory.

Then again, the Bakers had no love for any members foolish enough to attract the all-seeing eye of the criminal organization what ran the Midnight Menagerie. That Coventry allowed his debts to go unpaid, earning the Karakash Veils ire through collectors such as myself, would be a black mark on the mans serviceif service was the word for what the men of a street gang accomplished. With politics of London low always teetering, swaying this way and that, neither the Bakers nor the Veil appreciated any that caused unrest. Coventrys debts rocked that balance.

As I, myself, had been given cause to learn, the mysterious heads of the Karakash Veilso named after a river in China said to overflow with boulders of jadewere not the forgiving sort.

The Veil centered its seat of power in Limehouseso named for the lime kilns that gave it its distinctly acrid stenchwhilst the Bakers usual run turned toward the more easterly Poplar and Blackwall. While Limehouses borders remained the smallest in size, with the Bakers territory reaching as far south as the Isle of Dogs, the former retained a grip upon Londons premier pleasure garden, and the firmest grip of all upon the Chinese opium trade.