by Lee Bross
“Did you dance, miss?” Becky’s nimble fingers made short work of the task, and soon the blessedly cool air caressed Arista’s hot, itchy scalp.
Becky’s question abruptly brought back images of a highwayman. Specifically, his eyes. Had she really let a stranger put his hands on her like that? As Becky unlaced her stays, Arista reached for the spot on her neck that the highwayman had touched. Her own fingers traced the path from her shoulder to just below her ear.
It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t even the same feeling as when Nic had touched her in the hallway.
Arista’s mind flew in a million directions. She wanted to get her trousers on, pull the dark wool cap down over her head, and go for a walk. She needed to try and sort out what had happened at the masquerade so it wouldn’t happen again.
“Did you remember everything I taught you, then?” Becky interrupted her thoughts, and a prickle of irritation swept over Arista. The girl loved to talk, especially after Arista had gone to a party.
Arista wanted to snap back that yes, she had remembered her rehearsed dialect and subdued graces after they’d been pounded into her head for years, but she held her tongue. Becky didn’t deserve abuse for her show of concern.
Arista glanced over at the girl who had become her friend. She flitted about the room, seemingly wrapped up in her own thoughts. Becky might have been pretty once, but now she walked with her head down and turned away from anyone who might look too closely. From the left, she appeared normal; but on the right, her skin was misshapen and lumpy from her temple to her chin.
The deep burns had not been tended to properly, and as the skin healed, that whole side of her face had been left horribly disfigured. No one but Arista knew the circumstances behind the injury. After two years of teaching Arista the finer graces, Becky had reluctantly told Arista the story.
Becky had worked as a lady’s maid for a family in Piccadilly. Becky and the lord of the house had had a disagreement over her young charge’s future husband, and he had beaten her. As she lay on the floor cowering from him, he had taken a candelabra and tipped the hot wax over her face. There were smaller, matching scars on her arms where she’d tried to protect herself from the burning wax, but her sleeves usually hid those.
Her employer had then turned her out with nothing. Arista wanted to gut the bastard, but Becky refused to name who had done it.
“Yes, I remembered everything you taught me.”
Becky beamed as she shook out the black silk dress and carefully hung it away, to be brushed down later for the next time it would be needed.
Arista exhaled, her first real breath without the constraint of the corset, and pulled a ratty, stained chemise over her head, followed by a plain brown shirt. It had grown threadbare in several spots, but Becky’s nimble fingers had patched the holes as if they were never there. Not that it mattered. Arista always wore the shirt under an even darker brown coat that hid it, and her shape, effectively.
Black wool trousers covered her legs, rough and familiar. She strapped her knife to the outside of her thigh, in plain view now for anyone thinking of trying his luck. She slipped bare feet into an old pair of Nic’s boots that now fit her perfectly.
“I’ll be back by morning.” Arista grabbed her wool cap off a peg that was wedged into the cracked wall and clicked the lock to their room open.
Before she left the room, her glance slid to the crude charcoal drawing on the boards lining the far wall. Nic had made it for her when she was barely eleven. They were supposed to be picking pockets at the market, but instead, Nic had wanted to show her something. They’d spent an entire day at the docks watching the ships arrive and depart.
There had been a ship there unloading goods from India. She recognized the same smells that used to come from Nalia’s tea. A man in a turban and clothes unlike anything she’d ever seen before stepped off the ship, and when he reached the dock Arista saw a monkey perched on his shoulder. A real, live monkey. He must have seen her staring, because he smiled and approached them.
“A pence to carry your bags, sir?” Nic asked.
Instead, the man handed them each a shilling and told them both stories while the monkey wound around his head and chattered as if he, too, were telling tales.
It had been the best day of her life, that afternoon on the docks.
When the ship finally emptied, the man bowed and thanked them for their time. She had never met anyone so kind, except for Nalia. Arista watched him walk away, his words still conjuring vivid images in her head.
“I will go there someday,” she told Nic.
When they returned that evening, Nic had drawn the ship and a crude monkey on the wall, so she could see it from her pallet on the floor. Every night before she closed her eyes she imagined herself on board that ship, sailing far away from this life.
Except six years later, they were still here.
Arista quietly made her way down the hallway to the door they’d come in through, the one that led outside to the alley, with Becky close behind. “Open it for me,” Arista said.
“But, miss…” Becky always protested when Arista went out at night. The seediest of characters came out under the cloak of darkness, but that meant little to Arista. She knew the shortcuts through the alleys and the blind spots where a thief was likely to hide in wait. She knew because she was one of them.
“I’ll be fine. I just need some air.” Arista cracked open the door and peered up and down the alley. When she saw no one, she exited and waited until the click of the lock sounded before she turned and sprinted off down the alley.
This was as close to freedom as Arista would ever get.
There was a spot by the river that she’d found years ago, hidden from view in the recesses of a burned-out warehouse. She could think freely there. Already she had outlived the lifespan of an orphan, but only because Bones saw her as a commodity he could exploit for his own purposes. If he ever decided he no longer needed her, she’d be on her own. Or worse.
Noxious scents wafted from the blackest corners of the alleys, where garbage and refuse and decaying animal carcasses piled up. The night soil men, the ones who kept the main streets clean, rarely ventured this close to the river to clean up. The comfort of the working class was not a priority to anyone. The rich simply pretended that they didn’t exist; or if they thought of them, it was as just another kind of garbage.
Arista wrinkled her nose and hurried on, past the dark window of the bookmaker’s shop, until she finally came out on Fleet Street. The sounds changed, and in the pools of the streetlights, girls of all ages milled around, waiting for an intoxicated man to proposition them.
“Aye, there, sweetie.” A woman twice her age stepped into the glow of the oil-lit streetlamp and grinned at Arista. Her black-stained teeth were visible even at that distance, and her face was framed with a mop of unwashed dark hair.
The whores on Fleet Street were the lowest of the low. Rarely would a real gentleman make use of their services, as the girls at Covent Garden were much prettier and cleaner, though more expensive as well. These ones gave away their bodies for mere pennies to the scurvy-addled sailors who passed through in a constant flow.
“Fancy a little bit o’ fun, do ya?” The woman grabbed her breasts and jiggled them.
“Bugger off, you pox-ridden whore.” The deep-voiced retort slid off her tongue, and she kept walking. Dressed as she was, she’d come to expect this from the street girls. She watched them out of the corner of her eye. Their emotionless faces were painted thick with rouge, eyes lined heavily with kohl.
The woman, the one who’d called out to Arista, had on a dirty, torn shift that barely came to her knees. Her stays were laced tight enough to cause ample exposure of what she sold. “Think yer too good for the likes of us, then, li’l guvnor?” The woman extended her pinky finger and waggled it at Arista. Another woman snickered loudly.
That could have been her—very well would be her, if Bones ever decided that Arista was no longer u
seful to him. It would be a far worse hell to sell her body for a shilling than anything she had endured so far.
The woman’s attention shifted and Arista saw a man staggering down the street. A chorus of high-pitched voices called out to the man as the group began shouting prices and services at him. Wretched.
I’d sooner die than peddle myself on a corner.
The voices grew fainter and Arista pulled her coat closer to her body. In the dim light, from a distance, she could easily pass for a boy—a slight boy, perhaps, but clearly one with a knife strapped to his thigh.
No one else bothered her. She made it to where the unused warehouse stood, its tattered edges outlined against the sky. The spot where she liked to go was just past the dilapidated building, through the overgrown path leading to the river’s edge. Though it was completely hidden from view, if she was spotted, she’d have nowhere to run but into the Thames. As she could not swim, it would be a certain death for her. She had to be careful.
Footsteps came faintly from the right, growing louder with each breath she took. A stack of empty crates gave her enough cover to hide behind, and she forced her lungs to quiet as the Watchman made his rounds. In only moments, he turned and ambled away, taking the faint lamplight with him. Next to the river, the night was even darker. The working dock sat much farther upriver. There was no need for anyone to be around at this hour except the occasional Watchman.
The air grew damper as she moved closer to the river. In the stillness, she could hear faint whispers of the water lapping against the riverbanks. She exhaled softly and straightened. Though her boots were heavy, she barely made a sound as she hurried around the corner of the long building.
There had been a fire years before and the old building had been destroyed. The only thing left of the loading dock was a small bit of wood jutting out a few feet into the river. Weeds grew up along the bank, effectively hiding it, and giving Arista the perfect place to sit and watch the lights reflect off the water. The cool air there didn’t reek of refuse and deadness so much during the night. Only under the thick midday fog did the stench test the stomachs of even the most hardened of seamen.
Arista pushed through the dense brush and carefully stepped over the spot with a missing plank. Water lapped gently against the wood supports, and the tension gripping her shoulders finally melted away. The hopes and fears of a seventeen-year-old bubbled to the surface, finally free from the constraints she kept them under. Every minute of the day, her movements were calculated, as either a gypsy beggar boy or the notorious Lady A. Neither role fit. She wore someone else’s skin all the time, except in rare moments like these, when she could escape both and just be Arista.
At the ball earlier, when she’d lost sight of herself for a moment in a stranger’s arms, a slight breeze had swept over her from an open courtyard door, beckoning to her. An indescribable urge to run away had overtaken her. An urge to go someplace like where the man described; where she could be completely free. She’d never been so close to running.
Bones owned her, and he made sure she never forgot it, but something stubborn inside Arista refused to give up. She wanted freedom. Wanted to make her own choices and have a future, away from the streets of London. Maybe even find love.
She yearned for something pure and beautiful in her life. When she looked at Nic, she could sometimes see a ray of hope. Oftentimes it was clouded beneath the darkness that had been lately creeping into his eyes, but when she remembered everything he’d done for her, she tried to ignore it. She could see the faint hints of a future she hardly dared to imagine.
Lately though, trying to find hope in these short moments of solitude had become harder. As if she were fading away from herself. How long would it take before she only existed as a beggar or Lady A? What would happen when she forgot who she really was?
Across the river, a light pulled away from the glittering reflections, and a barely discernible boat glided across the water. Oars dipped down and cut through the water, and Arista saw the lamplit face of an old man staring earnestly down at the river.
Goose bumps spread up her arms. Bodyfinders. They skirted the river’s edge in the dark, dredging for bodies with a long, hooked pole. Once found, they would pull them onto the boat, rummage through the pockets for valuables, then take their clothes and dump the naked corpse back into the river.
There were no proper burials for the forgotten.
The thought made Arista tremble harder. How different was she from a body floating in the river? Who would care if she ceased to breathe? She had no past and no future, no family to lay claim to her.
“Daydreaming again, gypsy?” Nic’s amused voice came from behind her. He settled down on the rickety dock without a sound, his arm brushing against her. The familiar ache started again, and she looked up at him from the corner of her eyes.
“If I ended up like that…” She swept her hand out over the river, where the old man in the boat was now fishing something out of the water with his hooked pole. The words lodged in her throat and she had to force them out. “Would you care?”
She’d never been closer to asking Nic if she meant something to him. Her breath hitched on the exhale, waiting for his answer.
He waited so long that heat burned a path from her neck to her cheeks. Stupid. Of course not. We don’t care about anything, right? She turned away, pretending to be engrossed in what the man on the river did, and that Nic’s silence meant nothing to her.
“When Bones brought you to us, I thought you looked like a drowned kitten.”
She could feel him smiling, and she let herself relax enough to exhale. He was still talking to her as he always had.
“You were a spitting, angry, scared kitten who scratched anyone who came near. You were so small—five, I think. I know you still think about the first night every time we go back through that door.”
“Yes.” Her pulse thumped dully in her ears. She didn’t know that he knew that.
Nic reached out and slowly twined his fingers through hers. “I remember the panic when I realized you had not brought anything back that first day. I tried to keep an eye on you in the square. I half expected to find you trampled at the end of the day.”
Arista hated the memories that slammed into her head. She’d been so helpless and scared.
“I remember you gave me what you’d taken and then got hit for it.” Emotion swelled inside her throat. “I thought you were just a mean boy, but you weren’t. You saved me that night. I would have died if I’d been put inside that room for one more day.”
“I know.” He grew quiet again, but he kept his fingers wound through hers. “I thought you were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”
Arista glanced over at Nic, but he looked out across the water now, as if back in that moment. A small smile played over his lips. He wasn’t just toying with her, feeding her a line like he did with the brothel girls. Heat pooled in her stomach. She had never dared to ask him.
“I hated the idea of him putting his hands on you.” His grip tightened painfully around her fingers, but then slowly relaxed. “I begged him to let me teach you how to steal. I was the best at it, you know. I’ve always looked out for you, gypsy—not because I had to, but because I wanted to.” His voice lowered and grew thick with the rough accent of the streets. The warmth of it sank deep into her bones. He was familiar; with him, she felt safe. Her fingers tingled where he touched them. His thumb stroked the back of her hand in lazy circles, and a shock of heat raced up her arm.
They’d never had a conversation like this before. He’d never touched her so deliberately before. Her pulse leapt. “Do you think we’ll ever get away from this?” Neither of the orphans had ever spoken of escape.
Instead of answering, Nic scooted back until he leaned against a mooring pole, then pulled her back to rest against his side. One arm curled lazily around her shoulders. “Where would you go, gypsy?” His finger danced up her arm, leaving a wake of goose bumps. She liked this side of Nic.
A lot.
Though she spent almost all her free time at the docks, watching the ships come in and out of the harbor, she knew very little of the world outside London. Only the bits and pieces of talk bantered about by the sailors that constantly filled the docks. India. China. The Caribbean. America, even. They sounded so exotic and wild.
But going anywhere, even getting to the outskirts of London, took money. It was nice to dream about running away, but without the means, she would not get far. Plus, she was a commodity that Bones would kill to keep. Becky and Nic, not so much. She could not risk their lives for frivolous thoughts of escape.
This was her life.
She shook her head. “There is nowhere.”
Nic leaned down until his lips brushed across her ear. “What would you say if I told you that Bones has grown so afraid of the Thief Taker General’s ever-expanding reach that he has cut ties with most of the men in his employ for fear of betrayal? What if I told you I am one of Bones’s last confidants, and I know where he now hides his money? That I can get to it? Where would you want to go then?”
Icy fear sliced along her spine. Was he really thinking about stealing from Bones? If he got caught, he’d be killed without a second thought. Bones was swift and cruel with retribution; Arista had seen it firsthand many times. It was how he ensured complete loyalty among his men.
“There’s a board in his office, under the chair by the stove. If you pry it up…”
Arista spun around and covered his mouth with her hand. “Stop.” Her plea came out as a whisper, like Bones himself might hear them talking. Men had been gutted and left to bleed for far less.
Nic gently pried her hand away. A glint of excitement shone in his eyes. His lips turned up into an eager grin. “I’m serious, gypsy, I have a plan. We can use Bones’s paranoia to take what we want right from under his nose. We can do this. Imagine if we took Bones out of the equation. We could have enough money to be one of them. We would own them. No one would ever dare to cross Lady A.”
A cold breeze blew in off the river, but Arista shivered for a different reason. She had always known that Nic had ambition—he’d risen in Bones’s ranks until he was the old man’s trusted right hand—but to hear him talk like that, say such things, only solidified what Arista feared. Nic would never give up this life. He loved bringing the rich to their knees, and he wanted Arista—no, Lady A—to help him. She tried to pull away, but he held her fingers in a tight grip. Almost too tight. Arista ground her teeth together and stopped fighting.
