Chapter 13 - The Forgotten BloodThe words hung in the noisy air of the dock market like a splash of ice water.
"His blood?" Evangeline repeated, her hand clutching Julian’s coat sleeve. "Julian... what is he talking about?"
Julian stared at Scrape, his jaw locked tight, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. "My grandmother had no other children. My mother died when I was born. I have no blood left."
"Your grandmother had a sister, boy," Scrape hissed, taking another step closer, entirely unbothered by Arthur Vance’s towering presence. "A sister named Martha. She’s sitting in a windowless hovel in the South Ward right now, blind in both eyes, coughing up dark phlegm because she can't afford a coal fire."
Scrape pointed a dirty, yellowed finger at Julian’s fine wool coat and polished leather boots.
"You're out here playing prince for rich folk while old Martha freezes," Scrape sneered. "Mother Agnes was a healer for the poor, boy. She never took a silver coin from a rich man. She healed the dockers, the coal miners, the orphans. And you... you sold her secret to buy yourself velvet trousers."
"That's enough," Arthur Vance cut in, his voice dropping into an iron growl. He stepped directly into Scrape’s path, pulling a heavy gold pocket watch from his vest. "If this woman is truly related to the boy, I will pay for her care. But if you step one inch closer to these children, I will have the port authorities throw you into the stone quarry before sunset."
Scrape looked at Arthur Vance, then at the two heavy dock guards approaching from the harbormaster's office. He spat on the ground again, chuckling darkly.
"You can buy clothes, rich man," Scrape muttered, backing away into the crowded alley with his two companions. "You can buy carriage horses and fine bread. But you can't buy back what the boy is throwing away."
The three men vanished into the thick shadows of the tobacco alley, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence.
Julian stood frozen on the cobblestones. The warmth of the spring morning had completely vanished, replaced by a dark, agonizing weight in his chest.
He looked down at his clean hands, at the fine wool of his sleeves, and then at Evangeline. She was looking at him with deep, tearful concern, her pale fingers holding onto his hand.
"Julian," she whispered gently. "Is it true? Do you have an aunt?"
"I... I don't know," Julian choked out, his raspy voice trembling. "Grandmother never spoke about a sister. She told me we were the last."
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Arthur Vance laid a large, warm hand on Julian’s shoulder—not with the tight, possessive grip of a warden, but with the quiet, grounding weight of a father.
"We go to the South Ward," Arthur declared firmly. "We find the truth together."
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