Author's Notes
Hello, lovely readers. Great to meet you. Now, I realize that a lot of folks don't like to read long author's notes right up front. If that's you, no problem – feel free to skip away! I won't even be offended. :)
For those of you still with me, just a couple things to go over. First off, this story was actually progressing quite well – about a year and a half ago. Then, bad tech things happened, and when I restored my iPad's backup, lo and behold, The Jade Curse was nowhere to be found. That was fairly depressing, to be honest, and it set me back for quite a while. However, I have decided to dust myself off and try again. That's part of the reason I'm posting this prologue.
I'm also posting it to encourage myself to knock out the story quicker. I don't actually like posting stories a chapter at a time, both because I tend to do major edits and because I started one other multi-chapter story a while back, and it fizzled. OTOH, that was largely due to the fact that more movies came out, which meant my story's premise didn't really fit within the universe any more. I don't see that being a major problem here, so I'm hoping to lure myself into writing more regularly by putting this out.
This story is set in the main Doctor Who universe some time after the Doctor finds Vastra and gets her set up in London, and is my take on how she might have added Jenny to the household. Unfortunately, this means there's a distinct lack of Strax (boo!), but if all goes well, perhaps I'll be able to get my story ideas about him down on paper at some point (yay!). I've done my best to fit my story in with the known facts from the show & extended media (books, etc.), so let me know if you notice a glaring error. I like my stories to fit in.
Yep, it's an "M" rating. Vastra's an upper-class lizard in a relationship with her maid when she's not busy chasing after violent criminals and potentially bringing them home in pieces to enjoy with a cocktail. Honestly, I don't know what other rating you'd expect. I get nothing out of this beyond enjoyment and (hopefully) refinement of my writing skills. Anything you recognize belongs to the BBC. No beta, so if you notice any typos or have constructive criticism, feel free to share with the class.
Whew, that was long. Sorry. And thanks. On to the beginning …
Prologue
The fog lay heavily over the dark London streets, blurring the lines of buildings and roads and lending an unreal cast to the city. The conversations of passersby and the clatter of carriages were curiously muffled, as though the fog was a blanket of silence smothering the city's voice.
The expansive townhouse overlooking St. James Park excited no interest from pedestrians – it was one of many such houses. The lower windows were dark; only a few lights showed on the upper floor. Evidently the occupants had retired upstairs for the evening.
If any of the pedestrians had approached the door of the townhouse and listed, very carefully, they might have heard a faint but terror-filled wail from behind the thick oak. But none of them did.
#
In another London townhouse, a solitary figure sat in a large armchair pulled unreasonably close to a roaring fire. The figure was shrouded in a heavy robe, and only moved on occasion to add a new log to the fire.
An observer might have noticed how the cloaked figure's posture sagged, bespeaking deep weariness. The observer might have seen the occasionally shake of a head or drop of a shoulder that marked the figure's not-quite-silent sighs of anguish. But there was no one to observe.
#
The darkness of Whitechapel flowed around a woman, huddled against the side of a crumbling tavern wall. The threadbare shawl she clung to was hardly warm enough to hold back the chill of a London night. She stared longingly at the light spilling from the tavern's door for a moment before catching herself with a brusque shake of her head. Pulling the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, the woman turned her back on the tavern and made her way deeper into the warren of Whitechapel's streets.
If any of the boisterous late-night drinkers had taken notice of the woman, they might have seen the tear tracks sliding down her cheeks or the way her lower lip trembled. But no one saw.
#
On a quiet country estate some thirty miles from London, a tall, dour man moved through the house snuffing candles. His tread was light, his steps careful to avoid any of the loose floorboards that would disturb the master of the house, already abed with his mistress.
The wind whistled through the elm trees lining the front drive and rattled the windows. The man cinched his coat a little tighter against the draft. He leaned over another candle, then hesitated.
In a sudden moment of stillness as the wind died down, the creak of a stair echoed through the hall. The man turned slowly, hands tensing at his sides. His light, careful step took him to the base of the stairs.
But there was no one there.