by Jeff Wheeler
“Don’t mind her,” one of the other women said as Cettie left. “Poor thing. She’s run off.”
“That’s not my problem,” said the washerwoman. “Forsook her deed by the looks. Them kind is nothing but trouble.”
So Cettie continued to wander the streets, walking with a fierce determination. She knew that by wandering aimlessly, she would catch unwanted attention from one of the many street gangs in the Fells. Her ill-fitting, torn dress and her injuries had already garnered plenty of looks. She had no money to steal, so the pickpockets would likely leave her alone, but she needed to find shelter. The skies overhead were thick with clouds from the storm she’d seen approaching earlier. Another part of her mind, one she barely allowed to hope, was still intent on finding the law offices of Sloan and Teitelbaum. It didn’t seem possible, but she’d not stop looking until she found it.
Hunger began to torment her. It was a familiar feeling, a ghost friend she’d not met up with in a long, long time. Remember me? it seemed to say. And she did remember. She remembered Miss Charlotte spending all the living she received from the deeds on drink. How the children had gone to bed hungry each night. How Cettie had sometimes given her portion to the others because their sobs were more needful than hers. Cettie had grown a lot since coming to Fog Willows. Properly nourished and cared for, she had already begun to blossom into a young woman. As her ankles throbbed on the hard cobbles, she felt a pang of longing for Anna, for her companionship and comfort. For anyone. Instead, her only companion was the hunger, its skeletal clawing against her ribs. She did not cry. It was not so bad as that yet.
Eventually the sun began to fade, and Cettie knew she would need to find a place to rest and wait out the night. Walking the streets at night was a sure way of getting attacked. But she wanted to find a safe, secluded place. She remembered passing a kirkyard a few streets back. It was small and crowded with thin stone grave markers, but she’d spied a tree and maybe a little patch of grass. It might be her best option. In the Fells, people stayed away from kirkyards, especially at night, for fear of the ghosts. She didn’t imagine she’d have much competition in such a place, though there was the possibility ghosts would assail her sleep. She decided to give it another look and turned and went back in that direction.
Just as the sun was setting, a loud factory whistle blew, and she knew the streets would soon be full of workers trudging their way back to the tenements. These men and women worked in the factories all day, from sunup to sunset, and they’d be angry and irritable. She hastened her step. Just when she was beginning to despair that she had lost her way again, she spied the kirkyard with weeds choking the bottom of the metal gate. The gate was closed. Cettie stopped to stare at it. There was indeed a singular tree; the bark of the trunk had been scored away with knife marks from where people had cut into it. Around the tree was the sight that had drawn her eyes earlier that day. Headstones surrounded it on all sides, stacked up against each other. It was a curious sight.
The noise of marching men filled the streets, giving her impetus to act. She squeezed through the bars of the gate, which were spaced just barely wide enough to admit her. She really had to push to get through and feared for a moment that she’d get stuck there. But she managed it and then stole into the kirkyard and hid behind the moldering heap of stones. The earth was soft, and she was grateful for the chance to rest. Leaning her back against the stone, she listened to the noise of the marching workers, their coughs and grumbles, the thrumming of their feet against the ground. Cettie lay down, her cheek pressing against the earth, and she listened, and listened, wanting to wait until the workers were all gone. Maybe she could find another place. Another shelter. But she was so exhausted she fell asleep.
She awoke in the dark to the overpowering feeling of invisible hands groping her arms and legs. It felt as if the dead in the graves arrayed below her were sucking her down to join them. The feeling of combined violation, greed, and suffocation was overpowering. Cettie wrenched her way loose and quickly stood, only to realize she was surrounded by ghosts. The desire to lie down and die slammed into her. She had no friends, no rescuer, no guardian. She would perish in the Fells before Fitzroy ever found her. Why not sleep in the kirkyard forever, her bones mixing with the slabs of stone?
The thoughts pounding in her skull were not hers. She pressed her fingers to her ears and started to walk away, tripping against the crush of headstones.
She started to squeeze herself through the gate bars again, and this time it was more of a struggle—it felt like hands were gripping her limbs and trying to keep her inside.
Be gone! she shouted at them in her mind, and the ghosts recoiled from her. But they only receded for a moment before renewing their attack. She finally managed to squeeze through the bars, her arms and legs wooden with cold. To her relief, the ghosts remained penned in the courtyard as she walked away. She could feel the writhing mass of them behind her. Could feel their hatefulness, their desire for revenge against her, one of the living. Some warding had been set to hold them in. A warding that she had violated. Cettie shuddered and knelt by the gate, leaning against the dilapidated wall of the building nearby. The night was so bitingly cold. She blew on her hands and rubbed them together, shivering beneath her torn dress.
She lay against the wall of the building and fell into another fitful sleep.
She was awakened again, this time by a stiff finger jabbing her in the arm. She heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Blimey! She’s alive!”
It was a boy, probably eight years old, with a dirty cap askew and scraps for clothes. The small face was so smudged and dirty it was impossible to make out his features. It was early morning now, with just enough light for her to see the lad.
“Oy, Renn! It’s a girl! She the one?”
Cettie hurried to her feet, her knees aching and her whole body trembling with cold. She became aware of the sound of others approaching. Not the marching of workers, but the stealthy sound of children. She realized she’d been found by a street gang. The numbness in her mind began to flare with worry.
The boy who had poked her was backing away, but his eyes sparkled with greediness and hunger.
“Oy,” said a deeper voice. As Cettie saw the other children approach out of the gloom, she knew she was in trouble. This lad was sixteen, and, by the looks of him, the best fed of the bunch. He was chewing on an apple core as he approached. “You’re the lass the law is out searching for. Been lookin’ all night long. We found you first.” He gave her a gap-toothed grin and a chuckle.
Cettie backed away from him, preparing to flee. The boy-man, Renn, gave a curt nod, and suddenly his gang pounced on her. One grabbed her arm; another grabbed her around the middle. Then Renn was there, grabbing her by the jaw with his fingers and looking into her eyes.
“Come on, lass. We’ll get that reward.”
She was ushered forward by the gang, trying to think of what she could do to escape. There were six in all, most as young as her. Gangs usually worked for older men, anyone who would provide shelter in a crumbling building.
As they reached a side corner, there was someone else blocking the way.
“Oy, Renn. Let her go.”
Cettie recognized the voice. She’d not heard it in a while, but she knew it well. It was Joses, her friend from Miss Charlotte’s. The despair from a moment before turned to hope.
Renn stopped, visibly angered by the intruder.
“We found her first, Joses,” he growled.
“Do you think Clayton will care a rat’s whisker about that?” Joses shot back. “He sent me to warn you. Hand her over, or he’ll stick you in the ribs. You know he will.”
“This ain’t fair, Joses,” Renn said with fury. “We found her first!”
“What’s fair in the Fells?” Joses said with open palms and a look of exasperation. “I’m just the messenger. You want Clayton as an enemy?”
“No,” Renn muttered.
“Smart one. Let
her go.”
Cettie felt the hands on her loosening. Joses stared down the much-bigger boy.
But in the end, the threat of Clayton prevailed, and Cettie found herself walking alongside Joses as he led her down the street.
“Blimey, Cettie,” he said, shaking his head. “I told you to be careful. Is it true you can’t talk?”
She looked at him in surprise and nodded vigorously.
“Blimey,” he said again. “Everyone is looking for you. They want to keep you away from Fitzroy. But you want to go back to him, eh? Right?”
She nodded again, squeezing his arm.
He gave her a crooked smile. “I figured. Been up all night looking for you. The law wants you. But I don’t trust that Staunton. Never have.” He coughed against his forearm, a huge hacking cough. Cettie noticed the pallor of his cheeks, the feverish look in his eyes. Joses was sick. She’d heard that kind of cough many times, and it usually ended badly. A flicker of worry shot through her.
He noticed her looking at him in concern and gave her a shrug. “I’m all right, Cettie. Better than most. Look at you now. Like one of us again.”
A loud whistle blew just overhead, startling them both. Then Joses began to laugh. In a moment, the streets were thronged with people preparing for the labors of the day. They were just two in a crowd, lost in a sea of bodies and desperation. But she felt comforted that her friend had found her.
“Hungry?” he asked her in a low voice as they walked.
She nodded, her stomach desperate for food.
“Just keep walking,” he said. With that, he disappeared into the crowd, weaving through it deftly. She worried about him. He’d been caught stealing before, but he was back at her side in a trice with some bread, a small, hard loaf. Cettie gave him a scolding look, but he didn’t seem chagrined.
“I’ll not let you starve,” he said, offering the bread. “Not after all you did for us.”
She took it and tore it in half, giving the second portion to him.
“You eat the whole thing,” he said, shaking his head.
She held it out to him again, giving him a forceful look.
“All right,” he said begrudgingly. He hadn’t grown since they’d last seen each other. If anything, he looked even weaker than he had before, wasted away by illness. He took a few nibbles on the bread, obviously intending to savor it. Cettie did the same.
“When I last saw you,” he said above the noise of the crowd, “I warned you about the sham. The trick.”
She nodded eagerly.
“Lots of folk have been talking about you. That you belong down in the Fells, not up in the clouds. Fitzroy’s advocate has been hunting for your records. But he’s not the only one. There are others who will pay more than what Fitzroy is offering. Pay more for you. It’s a scam, Cettie. They want to shackle Fitzroy through you. He’s kind of a hero cuz of what he did for you. They say if he’s the prime minister, things will finally change. But others don’t want them to change. They’ll pay to keep you lost, to keep him distracted, searching for you.” Joses shook his head angrily. “I don’t know who to believe. But I won’t let nothing happen to you, Cettie. I don’t care what Clayton does to me. I’m getting you back to a real home.”
She felt her throat tighten at his show of loyalty. They walked for a long way. Many of the workers had already started their shifts, but the streets were still crowded. As Joses led her, she began to notice that the clothes were growing finer, the smell not as putrid. They were entering the business district. The structures were better kept, and she saw street sweepers pushing their brooms. There was something vaguely familiar about it.
Then she saw the streets open to a giant square, and she recognized it instantly. She had come there with Fitzroy. She even saw zephyrs flying overhead. Excitement built inside her.
As they reached the opening to the square, she saw the law offices she had visited with her guardian. She nearly broke free and ran to them, but Joses gripped her arm and pushed her against the wall.
“Hold up,” he said, eyeing the square and the crowds. “That’s Staunton’s ship,” he said, nodding toward one of the zephyrs. “The square is crawling with the law. I recognize one of the men in the square. He’s not even wearing a uniform, but I know him. They’re waiting for you. They’ll have us before we reach the fountain.” He uttered a foulmouthed curse and then, “Let’s go around the other way.”
Still gripping her arm, he turned and led her back down the street.
Then Joses stopped in his tracks, his fingers digging into her flesh.
“Clayton,” he whispered in fear.
CHAPTER THIRTY–SIX
BEHIND THE DOOR
Cettie had never seen the gang leader before, but she had no trouble picking him out of the crowd. He was well fed and had lank dark hair that went down to his shoulders and a new cap on his head. Mostly, though, she recognized him by the look he was giving Joses. He knew he’d been betrayed, that Joses had taken Cettie away. In his clenched fist, Cettie saw a cutting tool. The blade looked rusted—or maybe it was covered in dried blood.
“We have to run for it,” Joses whispered to Cettie. “I know an abandoned house. I stay there sometimes. You have to keep up with me.”
She clutched his arm and nodded, her mouth dry, her body tensing.
Clayton’s gang charged first, rushing toward them through the gaps in the street. Joses gripped Cettie’s hand, and they plunged into the square. There were so many passersby that they had to cut and dodge to avoid running into them. Urchins abounded in the public places and were an annoyance to everyone, and soon Joses and Cettie were followed by angry shouts as well as Clayton’s gang. Her heart pumped wildly in her chest.
Joses led her to another alley, and a man in uniform stepped forward to block the way. He had a thick mustache and sandy-colored hair.
“Hold there!” he barked in command, but Joses let go of Cettie’s hand, and they dodged around him on either side. He reached to try to snatch one of them, but couldn’t get a hold of either. A ministry whistle began to sound shrilly in the court, adding to the mayhem and confusion. Joses grinned in triumph as they dodged the officer, and they plunged into the narrow street, dodging carts and slower pedestrians. Soot smudges smeared the walls, and litter and refuse required them to be constantly alert to avoid tripping. Almost as soon as they had entered the street, Joses grabbed her hand again and pulled her down another alley. It was so narrow they had to run one at a time, leaping over the sleeping forms of drunkards and those who had no shelter.
Behind her, Cettie heard the noise of the chase. Some of Clayton’s boys were still on their heels.
“Turn!” Joses called and abruptly fled down an even narrower street. Cettie almost missed it but rushed after him. The sound of pursuers was drawing closer. They were faster and very motivated to catch up.
The shadows were deeper now, and it was getting harder and harder to see. She was afraid she’d fall and ruin the escape, but somehow she managed to keep her feet. Her chest burned with the need for more air, and her limbs were tiring quickly.
A hand brushed against her hair, the fingers trying to grip her, and she bent forward, spurred to greater speed.
“Turn!” Joses shouted again, and disappeared around the next corner.
Cettie followed, only to realize that Joses had stopped at the edge. As their pursuer came around the corner, Joses swung out his leg and tripped the fellow, causing him to crash painfully onto the cobbles. Joses then kicked him hard in the ribs and motioned for Cettie to keep running. Only she couldn’t—a stone wall at the end of the alley blocked the way. Her heart went into her throat with fear.
Joses increased his sprint, heading right for it. He didn’t stop as he ran, jumped, and caught the high part of the wall. Swinging his legs up onto it, he beckoned to her again.
“Hurry, Cettie!” he called.
Heart pounding, she leaped up the wall and grabbed his hand. Her feet scrabbled to find footing,
but he held her and kept her from dropping. Footfalls approached, and she tried not to panic, fearful one of the gang would grab her legs and pull her back down. But Joses hoisted her up onto the wall.
Clayton and the other boys now filled the small alley, their faces dripping with sweat and grime.
“You traitor!” Clayton bellowed.
“Jump!” Joses said, grabbing her hand.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cettie saw Clayton pull back his hand and throw something. Joses stiffened with pain as the blade struck him in the back, sinking all the way to the hilt. They were already coiled to spring, and she leaped, but Joses fell, landing in a heap of broken crates at the base of the other side of the wall. The jolt of the landing jarred her knees and made her fall on her hands. But her own pain didn’t matter. When she turned to find him, frantic, Joses was struggling to exit the debris. His face was tight with pain, but his blue eyes burned with determination. He looked at the hilt sticking out of his back and shook his head.
“Pull it out,” he gasped.
She stared at it in horror, watching the blood stain his clothes. She heard the noise of youths running at the wall and knew they didn’t have much time. Gripping the small handle of the dirk, she pulled it out of him. Blood began to flow down his skin, making her blanch. He pressed the heel of his hand against it and started to jog down the alley. His hiss of pain made her heart cringe with anguish. She held his arm with one hand, trying to help him away, and gripped the blade with the other to defend them both.
“That way,” Joses said, jerking his head. They went down another alley and then another, but they could hear their pursuers.
“See that . . . broken crate?” he whispered, gasping. “Hide . . . under it. They don’t know which way we went. I need . . . to rest.”
