Chapter 8
"Brady Street Cemetery? Why here? Why Whitechapel?" Edward scratched at his beard and scowled deeply, his black eyes glowering under thick brows. The hearth was cold and blackened with ash. I sat on the rug in front of the great fireplace, picking at the frayed edge of the carpet. Harper was staring at me. I didn't need to look up to know that his eyes were upon me. I could feel them tracing a path across my skin, like fingertips running across my eyelids, my cheekbones, my lips. I concentrated on the rug, pulling on a thread and winding it around my forefinger.