Chapter Text
They dream so high and do not care to look down at the foundations laid beneath their feet.
Thaddeus Campbell
He hates the stark rigidity of the Abbey in which he spends his days. The stones of the Abbey are white so that stains will show all the clearer. His coat is the red of all this corruption, wine and desire and blood. His hands are brutish. There is no subtlety or give about him. He is more fitting to the faith than he will ever admit or understand.
Custis Pendleton
His mind is tuned to facts and figures and not to the realities of slave ships and the shuddering dark of the mines. He takes. His fingertips are stained with the ink of the ledger. It is as dark as a bruise. It is far darker than blood.
Morgan Pendleton
There is nothing that is not his right. The girls look away from his gaze. He likes to leave marks upon their skin like a signature, wholly his, possession, something that is not twined up in the shadow and expectation of his twin, a thing that is his alone.
Hiram Burrows
Everything is polished. His coat is tailored tight. His rings gleam. The rumors that he works in must be tried and tested and proven true before he brings them to light and fits them to his plans. He is all gilt and clean lines and cleverness, and when put to the rack he snaps like clear glass. He will count each piece as it falls. All must be in its proper place. All must be his. He knows no other way.