"Pudding Lane? What kind of name is that?"
Shade followed the narrow alley to a crossroads, checked the street signs, and continued west. Before long, he found Number 8 Pudding Lane. Outside the low shack was a crude little yard. The older girl was holding the boy's hand as they played, her expression numb, while a woman with the same vacant look struggled to beat clothes with a washing paddle over a basin.
Beside her was a mountain-like pile of laundry, while the yard was hung full of clothes that had already been washed. She was clearly a laundress who washed clothes for others, and the family's entire income probably depended on her.
The afternoon spring breeze from the Duin River blew into the yard through the fog, making the clothes on the clothesline sway gently. Yet the scene held none of spring's vitality. Instead, it looked as though a crowd had been hanged there, their corpses left to sway in the wind.
"Hello."
Though the yard gate stood open, Shade still knocked on the wood rather than walking straight in.
"Does Mr. Jack Sibir live here?"
That was the grave robber's name.
"I need to speak with him about something."
The girl, who looked no older than ten, grabbed her brother's hand and hid behind the clothes rack. The washing woman looked up at Shade, then nodded sluggishly.
"He lives here, but he can't speak to you anymore."
"Has he passed away?"
Shade asked regretfully.
"No, but he's mad. Completely mad."
The woman said, but Shade still walked into the yard.
"That's fine. Madmen aren't incapable of speaking."
As he spoke, he took a handful of coins from his pocket, loose change totaling about two pounds.
"I'll be disturbing you for around half an hour."
He handed the money