“Are you finished?” Jinn closed his book and, getting up, tossed it onto the bed. He looked up at the wooden clock on the cabinet. “Half past one. I think I’ll have enough time.”
“Time for what?” Iris asked, suspicious, as he walked to the door.
“Just some business,” he said, passing her and shutting the door behind him.
Iris folded her arms, staring at an oblivious Max and a forlorn Cherice. What a mess. But she had a way to fix this.
“You know, there are things I need in the city,” Iris said to Cherice, sauntering over to her. “Clothes and whatnot. We can use the money you stole from me to get them. How about it?”
Iris didn’t wait for an answer. Grabbing the short girl by her sleeve, she pulled her out of the room, ignoring her protests.
* * *
Maybe Jinn was right: Iris did have a taste for the good stuff. But many of the stores she tried to drag Cherice into wouldn’t even let them in—Iris for the shade of her skin, and Cherice for her dilapidated, working-class clothes and unique musk. Max had come along, if only to carry their things, but it didn’t seem like he’d have much to carry.
It was more important to Iris that she square things with Cherice. She’d been surrounded by annoying men for so long; it was nice to have another girl to talk to. But what a hard shell to crack.
“Some of those store owners could use a smack in the face,” Iris said as they stalked down the streets, Max strolling along behind them. “That combination of curse words you gave one was brilliant though. You’ll have to teach me that one.”
“I’m not the teaching type,” Cherice said, her lips pursed. “Ask one of your boy toys.”
Iris sighed impatiently but didn’t give up. Hooking her arm around Cherice, she swiveled her toward the next store on Regent Street.
The skies had cleared, and the streets were unusually bright and bustling with children rushing past. Somewhere on the streets a newsboy was peddling papers: “The African ambassadors met with the queen yesterday! Read all about it!”
Inside the store, Iris could feel a little tension vanish from her body. Sometimes the act of looking at pretty things was therapeutic. Jinn really did have her pegged. Though, as she noted with annoyance, he still hadn’t bothered to get her a hat when she’d asked him for one.
Cherice seemed to enjoy it too—at least when she thought Iris wasn’t looking. And then when she caught Iris’s amused smile, she turned around in a huff, trying very badly to remain cold as stone. It was actually adorable. Iris could see why her friends doted on her.
Unfortunately, her good mood turned sour when the shopkeeper shooed them out of the store, though not before hurling a terrible word at Iris like a grenade. Her stomach dropped out as the door slammed behind them.
“What was that, you slime ball?” growled Cherice. “Open up and fight us face-to-face, coward!”
“N-no, forget it.” Iris managed a weak smile as her shoulders slumped. She was an African tightrope dancer who performed primarily across Europe. It would have been a miracle if she hadn’t come across such words before. They still hurt.
Eventually, Iris was able to find a dreary black dress and Cherice a new pair of slacks. As Cherice hungrily eyed the café on the other side of the street, Max kept a watchful eye on Iris. She noticed but she didn’t know how to respond. Because he’d wait outside while the girls were in each store, he hadn’t seen how rudely they’d been treated—until that last encounter. His expression had turned uncharacteristically solemn afterward.
Then suddenly—“Come on, you two. Iris. Cherice.” Max grabbed Iris’s hand and tugged her down the sidewalk, Cherice scurrying close behind.
“J-just wait a moment,” Iris said as she stumbled along past throngs of children.
“See these kids?” He jerked his head toward a group of them. “I think I know what all the commotion’s about!” he said.
Many of the children were still in their Sunday church finest, the girls in their bonnets and doll-like dresses, the boys in their cloaks, tam hats, and sailor suits. Some carried pinwheels and slingshots, others carried dolls and strange toys Iris had never seen before. And eventually, Iris realized where they’d gotten them.
“Whittle’s?” Iris read the extravagant sign on the storefront window, nearly tripping over her own feet as Max pulled her into the redbrick toy shop.
The busy shop buzzed with children’s delighted cries, the floor bustling with energy. A flock of children surrounded the red pedal cars and tricycles in one corner. Another held Pulcinella marionettes, strings, and beautifully painted boxes so children could put on their very own Punch and Judy acts. Iris swirled around on the spot, following a little red train as it buzzed around the beige walls of the shop atop finely built railroad tracks.
“New deliveries!” one child cried, her eyes stuck on a silver-rimmed toy theater of porcelain dolls.
“You hear that, Cherice?” Max jumped up and down, clapping. “New deliveries!”
“Oh, shut up.” Cherice rolled her eyes, but not even she could hide her excitement.
“Remember how we used to take you here? Chadwick, Jacob, Hawkins, and me?” Max leaned toward Iris and “whispered” in a very loud voice, “One time she wouldn’t stop crying until she got something. Saw some Protestant boy with a pinwheel and nearly beat him up for it.”
“His snotty arse deserved it,” she said, folding her arms.
Another seemingly new delivery caught the children’s attention—a giant Punch puppet about the size of an average boy: rosy cheeks; wide, pointed nose; extravagantly large black eyebrows, curled up at the tips; with a red cap and pin-striped pants. Though a puppet, it stood upright on its own two feet, solid as a statue. How in the world had they created such a thing?
Iris turned to Max, bewildered, but with a helpless wide grin on her face nonetheless. “Maximo Morales.” She couldn’t but laugh at the unbridled boyish passion curling off Max’s whole body like smoke as he took in the sights. “Why did you bring us here?”
“It’s Whittle’s!” Max declared. “The most famous toy shop in the city.”
While Cherice pushed through throngs of children to get to the merchandise that had caught her eye, Max beckoned for Iris to follow him to the wall nearest the cashier.
“I always loved coming here as a kid,” he continued. “When the others weren’t around, I’d stand outside the window because I couldn’t afford anything.”
Iris raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t steal anything? Even with your abilities?”
Max looked intensely offended, enough to draw a laugh from Iris’s lips. “Hey, unlike what that bloke Jinn might think, I didn’t always spend my days engaged in crime.” He paused. “Well, I usually did. But not here. Okay, a few times.”
Iris folded her arms by a pearl-painted wooden rocking horse.
“One time was to get Cherice a doll. It wasn’t easy for her, growing up the youngest and the only girl among a bunch of smelly orphan boys.” Max smiled a little. “You know, deep down, I always hoped that someday I’d step inside these doors with… with my little sister.”
“Berta, you mean,” she whispered.
Max’s expression became warm as he gazed back at her. “You remembered.”
Iris’s face flushed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” She fidgeted a little. “I still don’t understand why you took me here.”
It was then that Max grabbed a puppet off a shelf before anyone could see him. It had the armor, long boots, goatee, and brown hard hat of a Spaniard of the early modern era.
Iris tilted her head. “Don Quixote?”
Max’s hand flew up its back.
“Why did Max bring you here?” Max repeated her question in such a ridiculous, high-pitched voice, Iris burst out laughing. “Why, it’s because you were looking so distraught before, I figured you needed a reason to smile!”
Swallowing her laughter, she pressed the backs of her fingers against her lips. “But why shoul
d the great Don Quixote care about how I feel?”
Puppet Quixote shook its head sternly. “Oh, sweet young girl. Don Quixote always cares.”
Iris grabbed its little white hand. “But why does he sound like an old maid?”
Max cleared his throat and placed the toy back on his shelf, and grabbed a cat puppet and threw it to Iris.
“You’re a fool,” she said.
“I’m not a fool but a trickster.” Max winked. “That one’s on the house. You want it, just say the word, and I’ll sneak it out.”
So he hadn’t entirely forsaken his life of crime. Iris giggled as Max went off to browse the merchandise. And when she turned, she could see a little apricot head peeking out from behind a shelf. The moment she called to Cherice, it bobbed out of sight. Iris giggled. These two.
Might as well give it a try, Iris thought, pulling on the puppet and catching Cherice before she could scurry off. But the second Monsieur Cat tried to introduce himself, Cherice began barking at him like a dog. Iris’s eyebrows shot up. Parents and kids alike were staring.
“Wassat?” called Max from another part of the store. “Cherice, you barking again?”
Gulping, Iris tilted her head with a shrug. “It was a good dog impression.”
Cherice didn’t seem to have the energy anymore to put up a front. Grabbing the puppet off Iris’s hand, she stared at it with a pout. “Maxey seems to like you,” she said finally, strangling Monsieur Cat a little.
“Never mind him,” Iris said with a dismissive wave. “I want to know about you.”
Cherice blushed, taken aback. “Me?” She paused, lowering her head. “What’s there to know? I was the youngest of a pack of street kids. My mum died of cholera when I was six. Chadwick was my older brother, but the rest might as well have been.”
“I saw his penny blood series,” Iris said. “He was a great storyteller.”
At this, Cherice smiled. “He loved drawing. Used to draw things for me all the time. It’d cheer me up after Mum died. But then he died.” Her expression turned dark. “Because of Barry Bately. That rat bastard sold us out to the police for some shillings.”
Remembering that man’s jaundiced teeth and silver tongue, Iris shivered.
“There were others in our group, you know? They got sold off to workhouses. Hawkins was going to be one of them. Chadwick fought ’em hard, and—”
Iris put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t have to go on.
“Well, that was two years ago.” Cherice straightened up. “No use crying over the dead.”
“That’s not true,” Iris said, noticing Cherice discreetly wipe a tear from her eye. “I’m sure the dead want us to cry for them sometimes. Just not too often.”
Cherice looked at Iris, her expression softer than before. She seemed like she was going to say something but thought better of it, settling for patting Iris on the back.
“Come on,” she offered. “Let’s steal a bunch of things.”
Iris supposed that was a peacemaking gesture.
Iris turned to see a schoolboy at the other side of the busy cashier counter staring at the two of them with intense, bright green eyes. He looked older and far more serious than the other children here, old enough to be sent off to boarding school. If Iris could have guessed, he was a maybe one or two years younger than Cherice.
A gray newsboy cap fit his round head of light brown hair, though it certainly didn’t cover those large ears. Along with his silver eyeglasses and the large leather book under his arm, his features were charming enough to make her want to pinch his cheeks, but his calculating expression drew Iris’s apprehension.
“Henry!” called a cheerful but overwhelmed old man packaging toys at the front counter. “What are you doing, boy? Don’t just stand there, help out, will you?”
“Yes, yes, coming, Granddad,” answered the surly boy, and joined him behind the counter.
“My, what a gloomy young man Whittle’s grandson is,” gossiped a nearby woman to another, one hand carrying a puppet, the other being tugged by a little boy. “Meanwhile, Whittle himself looks as happy as ever. Likely not a family trait.”
Iris assumed they hadn’t noticed the little smile Henry gave when his grandfather nudged him to show a perfectly tied gift box.
“David Whittle only looks happy,” said another woman with two brown bears tucked underneath her arm. “His debts aren’t exactly a secret. No matter how many toys they sell, it won’t be enough to keep the store from closing.”
They were talking too loudly. Though his grandfather seemed preoccupied with the children, Henry shot them a stiff glare before he went back to packaging toys.
Just as Max returned to them, Iris tugged his arm. “We should go,” she said. “We’re in everyone’s way. Besides.” She lowered her head. “I already feel a little better. Thank you, Max.”
“Good,” he said, his eyes shining. “And as for some new clothes, let’s try it the good old-fashioned way, shall we, Cherice?” He wriggled his fingers.
Cherice grinned wickedly.
20
EVENING. AS IRIS SAT UPON her princely bed in her new pale violet dress, she wondered if all the teams had checked into Club Uriel by now. Adam only said Sunday. But the show at Wilton’s Music Hall would start today at six in the evening. If they weren’t here, that’s where Iris would meet them—the place where they’d learn the rules of the tournament.
Max’s light snoring from the other side of her drawn curtain had become almost soothing, certainly more so than the clock ticking away. He’d decided to take a nap before going. But as Iris stared at the clock, she wondered where Jinn had gone and how long it would take him to return—or if he would return. Iris remembered his cold expression earlier and bit her lip in frustration. That annoying old crank letting stupid things bother him. She hated that about him.
Iris pulled her knees up to her chest and waited.
Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.
So many things had happened during the past few days she could hardly imagine they were arguing over routines just days ago. Only because Jinn nitpicked everything. Acting like he was above it all. Even now, after she’d drawn him into this bizarre tournament, he was still acting above it all. After she’d put him in harm’s way with no idea what would come of it, he still acted like he didn’t care. Like he could handle it. Like it was nothing.
Iris squeezed her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You stupid old cr—”
The curtain opened with a swish. Her heart stopped. Jinn stood at the side of her bed, a heavy sack in one hand and a long white gift box balanced in the crook of his arm. She wasn’t even sure when he’d slipped in.
“Who’s a stupid old crank?” he asked in a flat voice, dropping the box onto the bed.
Iris shot to her knees. “Jinn!” she exclaimed, and then, keenly aware of Max sleeping on his bed, cleared her throat, blushing. “Y-you’re back,” she added, feigning nonchalance. “Where did you go?”
“The circus camp.” The sack fell to the floor with a clatter. Peeking out of the burlap was the shimmer of a blade. Bolero blades. “These are yours.”
Iris blinked. “Coolie’s?”
Jinn rolled his eyes. “No, Barnum’s. I flew to America.”
Iris folded her arms with a huff. Most of the lamps were off so that Max could rest. Only the sun’s dying light streamed through the windows, dancing along Jinn’s handsome face. It was then that Iris realized with a slight jolt in her chest that the two hadn’t really been alone since she ran from the circus. There was still much left unsaid. At least, that’s what Iris felt.
“Needless to say, I quit,” he told her. “And gave Coolie a message.”
“A message?” Alarmed, Iris slid off the bed and grabbed his hands, much to his shy surprise. She noticed the sores and bruises on his knuckles.
“Coolie had his debt collectors with him. Two birds, one stone,” Jinn said. “He actually got off easy, but that’s what happens when you hide unde
r the desk wetting yourself.”
Iris smirked. “I would have dragged him out anyway.” But it wasn’t just that. Some of these bruises looked older. She wondered how many he’d gained scaling the building of the auction house and crashing through the windows to get to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Everything’s turned into such a bloody mess so quickly.”
“At least I found you again.” Jinn gave her a rare smile. “You really thought you could run away from me, eh? I’m your dance partner, for goodness’ sake.”
“No matter how far I fly…” She stopped and blushed as the room fell to a gentle lull for too long. She tried to let go of his hands, but Jinn wouldn’t let her. His grip kept her in place.
Iris looked from his clavicle to the strong muscles of his long, sandy neck, to his Adam’s apple sliding up and down his throat. She stared at the buttons of his vest. When she finally looked into his face, she saw his mouth half-parted and still wordless despite his best efforts.
He didn’t express himself easily. Neither did she. But in that moment, when he pulled her off the bed, closer to him, she realized there were many different ways to express emotion. She felt the outline of his hard body as the memory of what he’d once asked her filled her with an odd warmth.
What do you think of me?
A sudden flutter in her chest caused her to rip herself from his grip.
I’m such a coward, she thought bitterly, sitting back down on the bed, waiting for her pulse to slow. “A-and Granny?” she said too fast, stumbling over the words. “She’s okay, isn’t she?”
Jinn was left dazed by the quick change in mood. But after swallowing and taking a deep breath, he followed along. “Granny is all right. Except, I suppose, that she misses you.”
Iris smiled softly. She wished she could go back and let her know she was okay. But for now, it was too risky to return; she was facing a bigger enemy than Coolie. One day.
“In case you were wondering, that goose of yours is just fine too,” Jinn added. “Fed and watered. Living the charmed life.”
The Bones of Ruin Page 21
