19A Harrow Street was gloomy, ugly, and just barely holding itself together. A dismal little thing, crammed between two buildings when the streets were expanded; it was likely meant to serve as a house for London's most unfortunate family, but, in a rare display of humanity, the landowner had pulled it from the market some three days after it was listed. The official line was that the building had been abandoned, but one look at its letterbox windows would reveal a constant flickering candlelight, which, in turn, would reveal that it had an occupant. He had sold it- not as a house, but as a place of commerce.
It was the one place in London where they didn't ask all the wrong questions. Questions like who'd you pay to put this together and is this some kind of joke and who do you think you are, anyway? Henry tried to answer the questions they didn't ask, the right questions, the questions about what it was, where it had come from, whether there were more of them.
No one cared about that, though, because no one believed enough to ask the right questions.
No one but Morgan.
Henry knocked on the door, hiding himself in the shadows, the sack slung over his shoulder lumpy and odd colored. It was after dark, because there were some questions he didn't even want to be asked.
The woman who answered the door looked just as ill-favoured as the building that mounted it; sharp-stared and weasel-like, a frown chiselled into ashen, stony flesh. Her face was enclosed by a mass of black hair, neatly coiled, as if she had thought herself worthy enough to frame. She wasn't, he could tell. She assumed he could tell. Taxidermy was hardly a job for the conventional; so, here she stood, boyish and miserable, squinting through the darkness to see what fresh abberation her client had brought.
She couldn't see much of him- or much of anything, for that matter. Her frown tightened.
"Here, here. Towards the light." She said brusquely, "What is it that you're holding?"
The door opened, and she stepped out. Henry wasn't fully convinced that she wasn't a... a... Thing. Her face was human enough. Not pretty, but human enough. The rest of her, though? He didn't know. You could hide a lot, under clothing.
Or maybe she was just strange. He stepped inside, through the door, into the flickering lamplight. The bag was soggy and would probably ooze onto her floors, but Henry knew she wasn't going to care about that, or at least not until later. She asked about the bag, because that was all she was ever interested in. Henry preferred it that way. At least someone was.
"Mole." His answer was short, one word, as if he didn't have a lot of them to spare. He thought a minute, then added, definitively: "Long mole." His hands were weathered, calloused, but they had no trouble with the knots on the sack or opening the bag so she could see inside. The creature was, indeed, a mole, the face much like a common mole, as well as the legs, and the legs, and the legs, and the legs, and the legs...
It had fourteen sets of forepaws - or one set of forepaws and thirteen sets of midpaws - before the hindpaws and the tail. It was coiled up in the bottom of the sack, looking a bit like a furry snake with extra bits tacked on. Uncoiled, it was almost as tall as Henry. He was not of any great height, for a man, but for a mole it seemed excessive.
Morgan closed the door behind them, making sure to lock it firmly shut before even entertaining the thought of turning back around.
"Long mole." She repeated, rolling the words around her tongue like an unfamiliar taste, "Long mole. I see. Too long for a mole-thing, too mole-like for a long thing."
Something that could have been mistaken for a smile seemed to flicker onto her face; a trick of the light, perhaps. She made her way into a cramped room at the back of the building, one lined with hanging hides and racks of tools. It smelled of formaldehyde and the rot it tried to prevent.
"In, in." Morgan said, ushering him inside, "I think my table is long enough- there's a chair in the hall, if not. I may have to work on this in sections."
She paused. Well, paused is quite a gentle word- she stopped dead in her tracks, like a needle had slipped off a gramophone. Was there something she forgot?
He didn't argue when she shooed him inside. She wasn't the sort of person you argued with. Maybe that was because arguments needed two people in them, and she seemed like the sort of person who would just step right past the argument without noticing it because she was focused on something else. Or maybe Henry was just afraid of her. Strange creatures, not so much. A little. Sometimes.
Her, though?
Maybe. Maybe.
He dumped the sack out onto the table, the long mole coiled up in a rather undignified heap. It was dirty, but not as dirty as it could have been. He hadn't washed it, though. Sometimes that ruined things. She asked about where he'd found it, and Henry returned a shrug. "Ground."
He didn't really know where else she expected a long mole to be.