by Emma Newman
“He isn’t one of you!” she sobbed. “He’s a baker’s boy, that’s all!”
“He will be tested,” one of the magi said. Her voice was firm but not without sympathy. “If he is found to be a Latent, you’ll be brought before a magistrate for trial.” She held out a scroll tied with red ribbon and sealed with wax. “Take this and let your son go, or it will be all the worse for the two of you.”
“You brought it on yerself!” called out the red-faced woman who had made Charlotte feel ill.
“You shut your mouth!” the baker shouted back. “You don’t know nothing about us!”
“Take it and let your son go,” the magus said again. “Do this, and I will see him safe,” she added.
Charlotte didn’t believe her, but it was enough to take the last of the mother’s fight out of her. She released her son’s arm and sagged. The magus rested a hand on her shoulder and put the scroll into her shaking hands.
“Ma! Ma!” the boy had time to shout before he was bundled inside. The rest of the magi entered the carriage, along with the bearer. The magus who had delivered the scroll climbed up onto the front to drive it away.
Drama over, the crowd drifted apart. Charlotte tried to shut out the judgemental comments and snide remarks directed at the baker and found it impossible. “Haven’t you seen enough?” she said to a cluster of people who stared openly at the baker’s distress. “Surely there are other tragedies for you to judge elsewhere?”
“Charlie,” Ben said gently, but she was angry now.
“Well?” She shrugged his embrace off. “Or is watching a mother crying in the street of the upmost importance to you?”
The group finally felt enough shame to leave, but not without a few comments aimed in her direction about rude young women.
The baker was still standing there, staring at the end of the street where the carriage had last been seen, tears rolling down her cheeks. Charlotte went over to her, ignoring the tuts and the way the stragglers were turning their backs on the poor woman. She gently rested a hand on the woman’s arm. “Perhaps it would be best to go inside and sit down? I can make you a cup of tea, if you wish?”
The baker blinked at Charlotte as if she was an apparition and didn’t trust her eyes. “My boy,” she whispered.
“I know. I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said, steering the woman back towards the bakery gently. “Do you have any family I can send for?”
“He was it.”
“A friend, perhaps?”
“Not now this has happened.”
Charlotte guided her through the door and fetched a chair from the back room as the woman stood ghostlike in her own shop. Once the baker was seated, Charlotte grabbed a dustpan and brush she’d spotted behind the counter and began sweeping up the broken glass. “You’ll need a locksmith for your door. I think there’s one in the next street along.”
The baker broke down, her whole body heaving with each sob. Charlotte set the dustpan and brush down and knelt beside the baker, feeling horribly impotent as she rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Charlie?” Her brother’s voice at the doorway made her look up. The sight of his dreadfully pale face startled her into standing again. “Could you possibly find a cab?”
“Of course, darling.” She looked back at the baker. “I’m so sorry. I need to get my brother home. He’s been unwell and he needs to rest.” The baker didn’t acknowledge her. Charlotte moved to the doorway. “I will call by tomorrow, if I can. Please do try to get some help with the door.”
“Charlie,” her brother said again and she rushed to his side, wrapping one of his arms over her shoulder to help him back onto the street.
“Sorry, darling. Let’s get you home.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Dear Charlie Bean, always the one to help the least deserving.”
“That’s not true,” she said as she steered him towards Bond Street. “I always help you and no one could deserve that more.”
They kept up the gentle banter as they walked but she couldn’t pull her mind from the bakery. She needed no further reminder that she was a criminal and a coward, and yet there it was, played out in front of her. How long could she keep her latent magic hidden before she brought that same grief to her own family’s door?
Chapter 2
BY THE TIME the hansom cab was pulling into their street, Ben’s lips were a disturbing grey colour and Charlotte felt exhausted. It was as if the panic caused by the arrival of the Enforcers had made everything inside her surge like in a spring tide. Now it had all ebbed away, leaving nothing but a churned-up shore and driftwood. All is well, she kept telling herself. No one suspects a thing. She just had to be careful for two or three more years, until she was a happily married woman in her early twenties and such an unlikely candidate for being a rogue magus that no one would pay her any attention at all.
Charlotte closed her eyes, enjoying the last moments of rest before the cab came to a stop. She imagined her and George, living in one of the little terraced houses just a few streets away, making a life together. He a fully qualified registrar, she an illustrator. She frowned to herself. When should she confess her secret career to her fiancé? The right moment hadn’t yet presented itself. He was such a . . . sensible man, she wasn’t sure he would take the news well. It felt dishonest to keep it from him before they married, but what if he broke their engagement at the news? Perhaps it was better to just carry on as she had for the past two years, working in secret. He knew she was a keen artist, as did her parents. Did he really need to know she had an income of her own?
“’Ere we are then,” called the cab driver.
She paid him through the hatch behind her and he released the lock on the carriage doors. It was only when she’d helped Ben down the steps that she realised a man was on their doorstep.
As soon as Charlotte saw him, she instinctively looked away. There was something about the way he peered at them from beneath the brim of a rather tatty bowler hat that made her shudder. He wore a long coat that was expensive but poorly cared for, and boots that were fashionable five years ago which had suffered a great deal of wear.
When she looked back, she was dismayed to see the man was still there. She knew most of the local residents by sight and his was not a familiar face. He had a moustache that looked more like an old broom cut to size and tufty black eyebrows that looked like they were trying to push the hat brim off his forehead.
“Good morning,” she said, straightening up as best she could whilst supporting her increasingly limp brother. “May I help you?”
The man snorted something back up his nose that had been making a bid for freedom and cleared his throat. “Just deliverin’ a letter. Live ’ere, do ya?”
She saw the envelope in his hand. “I do. Is the letter for my father?”
The man’s rebellious eyebrows twitched with excitement. “Didn’t know he had a daughter. ’E didn’t mention that.” He grinned, revealing a set of yellowed teeth that looked like they’d been crammed into his mouth in a hurry and left in disarray.
“I shall pass it on to him, but please excuse us. I need to take my brother inside now.”
She waited for him to come down the three steps that separated the front door from the pavement, but the man didn’t move. He just stood there, leering, as if he were trying to see through her winter coat and shawl. When a moan slipped from Ben’s mouth, Charlotte lost her patience with the stranger and started up the steps, expecting him to doff his hat and make an apology. He did neither, waiting until she was squeezed in front of the door next to him, Ben on the step below. The stranger smelt of waxed cotton left in a damp box too long, and his breath was worse. Sardines for breakfast could only explain part of the stench.
He held out the letter, pincered between a grimy thumb and finger poking from fingerless gloves. “It’s most important he receives this today,” the man said in a mock formal tone. “Most. Important.”
Charlotte took it, and much t
o her relief, the man descended the steps with the lopsided gait of an elegant drunkard. “Nearly there, darling,” she whispered to her brother as she fumbled for the key. She knew her father had a meeting with a publisher this morning and Mother was delivering a dress she’d finished making, then taking tea with a friend who was also convalescing from a bout of illness. There was such a lot of it about at this time of year.
Soon enough, Ben was lying down on the sofa—neither of them had the strength to get him up the stairs—and the kettle was heating on the stove. Charlotte sat in the kitchen, trembling with fatigue and regretting the excursion. It had been pure vanity on her part, and she must do better. She would allow herself a cup of tea and a slice of the sponge cake Mother had baked the day before, then she would dust the living room and beat the rugs. She had no love for domestic labour, but it had to be done.
The letter rested on the table next to her. The jagged scrawl on the front read nothing more than MR J. GUNN but even that seemed to have been written with disdain. Charlotte couldn’t stop staring at it. She was convinced it couldn’t possibly contain anything that would benefit her family or make her father happy. But that was just an assumption, based on the man who’d delivered it, surely? Perhaps it was a commission.
She cut herself a slice of cake, checked on Ben, who was snoring softly from beneath the crocheted blanket she’d drawn over him, and frowned at the kettle, wishing it would boil faster. Within moments steam plumed from the spout, spitting water onto the hot plate.
“Damn and blast!” Charlotte whispered, grabbing the tea towel so she could lift it from the stove. She had to be more careful! The morning’s events had evidently shaken her more than she realised.
Once the small teapot was filled and covered by a tea cosy, Charlotte found herself staring at the letter again. Before she had even realised she’d made up her mind, she was holding the envelope over the wisp of steam curling up from the kettle’s spout. She bit her lip as the flap curled free from the loosened gum, telling herself that it was just to ensure all was well and that nothing unsavoury was being sent to her father. He was a nervous man. It was her duty to protect him.
There was a single sheet of paper inside, of cheap stock:
6 New Road,
Whitechapel
London
20th November, 1850
Mr Gunn,
Our records show that you have not paid the last two instalments of your debt repayment. You were informed of the consequences of failure to repay when you secured the loan. You have until noon on 22th November to repay the outstanding amount in full, along with the interest incurred, otherwise steps will be taken to recover the amount.
Yours sincerely,
Mr P. Compton Anchor Financial Services
Charlotte sat heavily in the chair, making it creak in protest. Debt? Her father hadn’t mentioned anything about taking out a loan, let alone being unable to repay one. He said that he’d paid Ben’s recent university fees with money from a commission. Even then, it hadn’t been enough, though no one had actually broken that to him. Ben had written to her only a fortnight after starting his studies, confiding in her that he hadn’t got enough money to last until the end of term and asking her to find the right moment to speak to their father about sending more money. Knowing how much the household had tightened its belt to send Ben away to train as a civil engineer, Charlotte resolved to support him financially from her own savings. She’d had to tell Ben the truth, so it didn’t come out in conversation once he was home again, neither of them knowing that would only be a month later.
They had both agreed it was better that Father and Mother didn’t know she’d sent him money. She’d offered to find work many times, but both of them were adamant that she would be spared what they had to endure as children. At least as an illustrator, Charlotte could earn money from a profession that didn’t have any visible effect on her hands or give any other indications. She’d secretly topped up the caddy that held the household funds without her mother noticing, thanks to her disinterest in keeping good books, whilst squirrelling away the rest for her marriage. Now all of her savings had been spent supporting Ben, so there was no way she could pay the debt off for her father.
Charlotte made a mental note of the address on the letter, resealed the envelope and poured the tea. She knew how hard her father worked, and it was a testament to his talent and perseverance that he was able to provide for the family; many illustrators barely supported themselves, let alone a wife and two children. They lived in a small house which was so much better than the cramped lodgings they’d grown up in, and neither Ben nor Charlotte had been sent to find work as children, unlike so many others. Whilst they all hoped Ben would forge a good career and be able to support their parents when they got older, Charlotte had her doubts. Ben’s health was poor, and it was up to her to make sure he had the time and space and care to restore himself to health again. If Father developed that tic again, the one that made his eye twitch when under pressure, Ben would think it was his fault and try to go back to university too soon. He’d already had to abandon an apprenticeship in Newcastle thanks to ill health. If he went back to university before he was fully fit, he might make himself so ill that continuing his studies would be rendered impossible.
It would be less of a strain on the household when she married and moved out, but George said that he wanted to wait until he’d been promoted, so they could afford to rent in a better area of London than where he lived now. She knew she’d receive royalties on the Other Magicks collection, but that wouldn’t be for months and now, Father only had days. The thought of him in debtor’s prison made her feel nauseous.
She couldn’t talk to Mother about it all; she hated any hints that the real world was harsher than she liked to believe, and besides, any suggestion that their earnings were inadequate was always met with shrill protestations. No. Charlotte knew she had to find a solution, and the only way that was going to happen was speaking to the lenders of the loan. She wasn’t sure whether they could be reasoned with, but if she could only find out the amount, she might be able to dash off a quick commission to cover an instalment at least.
Charlotte dashed off a quick note for Ben to find when he woke up, put her coat back on and went off in search of the address, the letter tucked deep in a pocket where it could do no harm.
Chapter 3
CHARLOTTE REGRETTED her hasty decision to find the debt collector’s office when she reached New Road, Whitechapel. It was not the sort of area she would normally choose to visit alone.
The houses were crammed in tight together, the street between them dark even at noon, and a mangy-looking dog was sniffing a pile of rubbish at the far end of the street. Old newspapers rendered down to little more than drifts of dark grey pulp smudged the places where the houses met the pavement. She could hear a man and a woman shouting obscenities at each other in one of the houses to the left, whilst another dog barked almost constantly in a house to the right.
Hesitating at the end of the street, Charlotte was just about to leave when she spotted a dirty brass plaque fixed to the wall of one of the houses, next to the front door. Number six—the one she recalled from the letter. Charlotte lifted the hem of her crinoline as best she could and went closer. The brass was dull and smeared with grime, the words only visible thanks to the dirt the engraving had collected.
ANCHOR FINANCIAL SERVICES
She drew back and looked at the house. She was well aware that some businesses operated in residential areas—her agent’s office was next door to a townhouse in Bloomsbury—but this? It looked just as run down as all the other properties in the street. What could have possessed her father to trust anyone conducting business here in matters of money?
There were greyed lace curtains in the only window at ground level and no glass in the front door. It looked as though no one had been inside for months. Trying hard not to let herself be swayed by outward appearances—perhaps there was a perfectly reasonab
le explanation—Charlotte rapped on the door as loudly as she could.
There was no answer. She was momentarily relieved, but then realised that it would mean having to return and she didn’t want to step foot in this street ever again. A narrow, smelly alleyway ran down the side of the house with an arched brickwork facade that joined to the house on the other side of the cut through. An old cat sat staring at her from beneath the arch. She took once last look up and down the street, just in case the man who delivered the letter was on his way back, and then went down the alleyway to see if there was a yard behind the house. Perhaps the business owner was taking a break, sitting on the back step like she did sometimes.
There was a small backyard, surrounded by a brick wall that she had no hope of scaling and a sturdy-looking back gate that was taller than her. But at the end of the alleyway there was an abandoned perambulator with only three wheels. When Charlotte stood on top of it, she could see over the wall and into the small yard covered by cracked flagstones. There was a back door and a window, through which she could see someone inside. Perhaps they simply hadn’t heard her knock?
Charlotte jumped down, went to the gate and tried the latch. It didn’t lift. Frustrated, she banged the flat of her hand against it and heard a pin clatter to the ground on the other side. When she tried the latch again, it opened. Grinning, she went inside, closed the gate behind her and knocked on the back door.
Still no response. Charlotte moved over to the window and cupped her hands to the glass to peer inside. There was definitely a man in there, standing next to an iron-barred cell that made her twitch with surprise. It looked like something from London Zoo, designed to hold an animal, and seemed totally incongruous with the very normal room it sat within. Then it occurred to her that it could be a place to hold debtors before they were brought before a magistrate. She shivered. Was this her father’s fate?
Mustering the last of her courage, Charlotte rapped on the glass. It was so dirty, perhaps the man inside hadn’t noticed her.
