by C. J. Archer
"I used to wonder how you got here," he said. "You could read and write so I knew you weren't from round here."
"I wasn't the only one." How much did he want the others to know? How much did they already know, or had guessed? "What happened to Stringer?"
He blinked quickly at the change of topic. "He died."
"How?"
"Mutiny," Tick said. "He tried to sell Weasel here to a brothel keeper." He patted the blankets and the body—Weasel—wheezed.
"Weasel's a girl?"
"Not that kind of brothel," Mink said. "The kind that takes boys."
"Weasel's got a pretty face," Tick said with a shrug. "When it ain't all sickly like now. Pretty like a girl's, but he ain't. I seen his pizzle stick."
"So the rest of the gang rose up against Stringer?" Thank God I hadn't been around to witness the events, yet I wished I'd been there to help. Ousting a bigger, stronger lad like Stringer must have taken some courage.
"Aye," Tick said. "But Mink worked it all out. He led us coz he's smart."
"What did you do with the body?"
"Sold it to the resurrection man."
"Shut it," Mink hissed. "She'll tell the pigs."
"Your secret is safe with me," I assured him.
"Resurrection man were right glad he didn't have to dig one out of the graveyard," Tick went on.
"That was very brave of you, Mink. Brave and noble. You have a good heart." If one disregarded the murder of Stringer. "You're exactly the sort of person we need." When he didn't answer, I added, "My friend is a good man, too, also brave and noble." Perhaps noble wasn't the right word, but Mink didn't have to know that. "We're not asking you to do bad things."
Mink's lips flattened. He glanced at the two figures on the mattress. "I can't risk it. I can't risk their lives."
"You are, just by refusing my offer. Without our help, not all of you will survive the winter." My gaze settled on the body buried beneath the blankets as another coughing fit racked him. I remember being that sick once, but no one had bothered to take care of me. I'd coughed until I vomited up bile and snot, but no one had cleaned me up. I'd lain in my own filth for a week until I somehow got well enough to get up. I'd left that gang as soon as my legs were strong enough to take me away.
"Come on, Mink," Tick said. "Stringer would of done it, for the money and stuff."
"I'm not Stringer!" Mink snapped.
"Maybe that's why we're hungrier than we ever were," Tick retorted. "Maybe that's why Fleece talks about taking over this place and setting up his gang in here."
"Fleece?" I prompted. I remembered him. A nasty, violent boy of about sixteen who controlled the streets to the east. His gang had chased me many times when I ventured too close to their territory, but they never caught me. It was how I'd earned the name Fleet-foot Charlie.
"He tried to take this place from us," Tick told me, "but we fought him off. Stabbed him in the leg, good and proper like the pig he his, but he says he'll come back soon and kill us all if we don't leave."
"Then leave," I said rashly.
"And go where?"
"I know a place." Even as I said it, I knew it wouldn't be possible. Gus's great-aunt took in girls in need of shelter, but her house was already full and these boys were, well, boys.
"If you could help, why didn't you come back before now?" Mink asked, his top lip curled up. "Why wait?"
It was a good question, and the answer didn't make me feel proud of myself. "Because I didn't want to be reminded of what I became after my father threw me out of the house."
Tick's jaw flopped open. "You got a father?"
"He's dead now, but yes, I had one."
"What'd he throw you out for?"
"It's a long story for another day, Tick."
He pulled up his knees and hugged them fiercely. "I can't remember my father."
I looked to Mink. The sneer had vanished and he seemed uncertain. "Take my offer," I urged. "It's simply a matter of gathering information, reporting back things you hear. You'd be surprised at what you already know that could be useful to us. We must find a very bad man, someone who may harm the queen and her family."
"Bloody hell," Tick muttered. "Come on, Mink, we got to help Charlie if it'll save the queen's life. It ain't British to refuse."
"I'm in a position to help you now, Mink, and I will help you." I pushed the sack back to him with my foot. "I'll return tomorrow for your answer."
"Wait," he said. "Was it you who left us the coat a few weeks back?" He picked up one of the blankets on the mattress. No, it wasn't a blanket. It had arms and buttons. It was a familiar black woolen great coat. I hadn't seen Lincoln wear it since my return from the north. He must have left it here while I was away. "Not me," I said. "My friend outside."
I climbed the stairs and opened the trapdoor. Finley wasn't there. I bit the inside of my lip as I slid aside the boards leading to the street, hoping not to see the lad in Lincoln's grip. Lincoln wouldn't take kindly to being spied upon, and Finley was the bold, inquisitive sort.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I spotted Lincoln leaning one shoulder against the wall opposite, his ankles crossed as if he didn't have a care in the world. Only his sharp gaze gave away his alertness. Finley stood in a replica position beside him, his gaze on Lincoln, not me or the street. He copied Lincoln's pose, right down to the frown and slight nod in greeting as he spotted me. I bit back my smile.
"I see you've found yourself a friend," I said.
"He wouldn't leave." Lincoln pushed off from the wall and so did Finley. Lincoln stepped toward me, as did Finley. Lincoln stopped and turned a flinty glare at the lad. Finley tried to copy it but it lacked intensity.
"Mink's got food for you," I told him. "And warm clothes. Tomorrow, there'll be money too, if you can get him to agree to help us."
Finley's eyes grew wider with each word. The mention of money sent him sprinting across the lane and sliding open the boards. He slipped through like a rat into its hole.
Lincoln and I headed out of the lane side by side.
"Any trouble?" I asked.
"Just the lad."
"He's no trouble, just mischievous."
We walked a few steps in silence and I thought the matter dropped until he said, "Was he mocking me?"
"I think he was trying to be like you."
"Why?"
"Because you're big and powerful and have a commanding air about you. What boy wouldn't want to emulate that? Especially one in such a hopeless situation as he is." I glanced up at the sliver of sky visible between the roofs. It seemed so much grayer here, lower and heavier, even though it was the same sky over Lichfield.
Lincoln rested a hand on the back of my neck, under my hair. "Was coming here a mistake?"
"No. Not at all. I thought it would be horrible, but it wasn't. I'm glad I came."
He dropped his hand away but not before skimming his fingers against mine. "Did they agree to the plan?"
"Not yet, but I think they will. The old leader would have, but he's dead. I'm not sure how trustworthy he would have been anyway. He would have double crossed us as soon as someone flashed a coin in his face. Mink will be more reliable and loyal, if we can get him on board."
We exited the lane and walked through the streets. No one accosted us or tried to steal from us. We looked like two regular men—or a man and a lad—with nothing worth stealing. No toff wore clothes like we wore or kept hair this long.
Gus waited outside Kings Cross Station where we blended in with the crowd and a coach didn't look out of place. Lincoln settled the blanket across my lap. I drew it to my nose and breathed in the scent, as Mink had done. It didn't just smell of lavender, but of Lichfield itself, somehow.
"The memories pain you," Lincoln said gently.
I blinked, unaware until that moment that my eyes were full. "It's not that. I just wish I could do more for Mink and the others. They have no one, and they're just children. I doubt Mink is much more than fourteen, and he's
the eldest. And Weasel is sick."
"I'll send the doctor."
"They won't let him in, even if he could fit through."
He sat back and said nothing for the entire journey home.
At Lichfield, the new housekeeper, Mrs. Cotchin was in the process of putting things into order. She saw me before I managed to change out of my boy's clothes and lifted her brows, but thankfully made no comment.
"I think I'm going to like her," I said to Seth as I passed him on the landing.
"Alice?" He glanced back over his shoulder, looking for her.
"No, Mrs. Cotchin. Why did you think I spoke about Alice? And why are you gazing at her rooms like that?"
"No reason." He tried to move past me but I blocked his path.
"Seth, if you've compromised her, I'll pull out your guts myself and feed them to the horses."
"Horses don't eat human guts." He nodded past me, down the stairs. I turned to see Alice walking below, a book in hand, her attention on the page. "She wasn't in her rooms."
"No, but you were, weren't you?"
His cheeks blazed red. "I had to return something. Needle and thread."
"Then take it down to her. There's no need to sneak into her room."
"Downstairs was too far away." He didn't deny the sneaking part. "You may like Mrs. Cotchin already, but I don't think Doyle does."
"Don't change the subject." I looked down to the entrance hall where Doyle now crossed the tiled floor to answer the knock at the front door. "Why doesn't he like Mrs. Cotchin? He hardly knows her."
"Professional jealousy." He shrugged. "Either that, or he needs a woman, if you gather my meaning."
"Your meaning is crystal clear, particularly when you add a wink like that. Is it all you can think about?"
"No," he said, sounding distracted. "I can also spare a thought or two for our indomitable leader." He nodded at the door which now stood open, revealing the figure standing there in a long, black cloak, the hood pulled up. "For example, I wonder what he'll say to his mother now that she has come to visit him."
Leisl removed her hood and pitched her gaze directly at me. I felt like I'd been speared by it.
"If you'll wait here," Doyle intoned, "I'll fetch Mr. Fitzroy."
"No." Leisl lifted her crooked finger and pointed at me. "I come to see her."
Chapter 7
Lincoln had Leisl's eyes. I'd noticed their dark pitch the night of the ball, but now, in the light of day, I spotted the intelligence in their depths as she met my gaze.
"Come with me," I said, directing her to the informal parlor on the ground floor. "Doyle, please bring refreshments."
Leisl quickly took in the furnishings before choosing to sit on the sofa. She tucked her skirts close to her legs, as if afraid of taking up too much space. She clasped her brown hands in her lap and sat with her ankles together. The prim pose was utterly English.
I'd met a gypsy seer some months ago, when Lincoln and I visited a Romany camp at Mitcham Common. She'd been a lively presence, whereas Leisl had more reserve.
"I'm glad you came," I said to begin the conversation since she did not. She continued to glance around the room, her gaze settling on each vase or object before flicking to the next. If she were hoping to gain some measure of Lincoln by the way the room was decorated, she wouldn't learn much. Doyle and I had dressed it together without Lincoln's input.
"You are his woman," she said finally.
"Lincoln's? We're not married."
"You will be." She said it so off-handedly that it took me a moment to respond.
"Is that the seer talking or the mother?"
Her knuckles whitened. "I have not been a mother to him."
"No, but I'd wager the connection is still there between you."
"You think this? Why?"
"My mother gave me up soon after I was born, too. I called her spirit when I learned her name and…and a connection existed between us. She hadn't forgotten me."
Leisl leaned forward a little as I told my story. "Your mother…did she choose to give you up or were you taken?"
"She gave me up for my own safety, and to give me a happy future." I didn't tell her that it hadn't quite turned out as well as my birth mother hoped. That part of the story was for another day.
"I was forced to give up my son," Leisl said.
My breath hitched. I hadn't expected her candor so early in the conversation. A thousand questions swirled in my head, but I got none of them out before she spoke again.
"They came for him the day he was born and I never saw him again."
"My God," I murmured. It must be a mother's worst nightmare. "Did they tell you why?"
"No, but I know why. I see them in my visions. I knew they would come for him."
At least it wasn't a surprise, but still. "You must have been upset."
"Yes and no." Her angular features slackened, but only for a moment before they once again firmed. Unlike Lincoln, her face was easy to read, the creases folding or stretching according to the direction of her thoughts. "It was for the best. I saw his destiny and knew I could not keep him. He is special. Royal blood flows with Romany through him, but he is not royal or Romany. He was not mine to keep." Her gaze drilled into me. "And he is not yours, Charlie."
I bristled. "I know that. People don't belong to other people." I sounded defensive, but I didn't know why. Of course Lincoln wasn't mine. He wasn't anybody's, just like I wasn't his. We were both free individuals. And yet… "Is that why you came here? To tell me I can't have him?"
Doyle entered with a tray and set it on the table. I poured as he left and handed a cup to Leisl.
"You do not understand," she said. "You will have him as a wife has a husband."
My face heated and I concentrated on pouring my tea. When I looked up, Leisl smiled back with a wicked gleam in her eye.
"You will have his heart," she went on, "but not his soul."
"Nor do I expect to. Souls belong to us alone. I know that much from speaking to the dead."
She gave a firm nod. "Good. I see you are not a silly English girl."
"You thought I would be?"
She lifted one shoulder and muttered something that sounded like, "Eh."
"Now I know why you came here. To see if I was a suitable woman for your son." I laughed softly. I wondered what Lincoln would say if he knew his mother worried about his choice of a wife just as much as Lady Vickers worried about Seth's.
"A little," she said, smiling. "But also, I want you to tell him that I didn't want to give him away, but I knew it had to be so. Tell him the general would not say where he took him so I could not visit."
"General Eastbrooke?"
She shrugged. "I did not know his name, only that he is general. Did he—Lincoln—live with the general?"
I nodded.
"Was he a good father to him?"
Hell. How to tell a mother that the son she gave up endured a terrible childhood? "The general was often absent, but Lincoln grew up to become a good man despite the loneliness."
"You choose your words carefully," she hedged.
"You're very observant." I set down my teacup. "Leisl, you should be telling Lincoln these things, not me. Let me fetch him."
"He will not listen."
"He will if we make him sit here."
She smiled sadly. "He will hear, but he will not listen. Not with this." She tapped her chest over her heart. "Not to me. But to you, perhaps."
"Perhaps."
She put down her teacup. "Thank you, Charlie. You are good girl. You will be good wife."
"Wait, you can't go yet. I still know nothing about you." I handed back her teacup and picked up my own. "Where are you living?"
"A cottage in Enfield."
"Not in a gypsy camp on one of the commons?"
"No. That life is hard, and the general gave me money. I am comfortable."
She was paid to give up her son! How could financial compensation ever be enough? I wasn't s
ure how the arrangement sat with me. On the one hand, money couldn't replace what she'd lost, but on the other I was glad she had a home and was not roaming the streets trying to sell rags or flowers like the other Romany folk.
"The general died recently," I said. "I'll make sure Lincoln continues the payments to you. What of your family? Do you have a husband? Other children?"
"I married but he died eight years ago. We had two children, a boy and girl."
"Lincoln has a brother and sister!" I pressed a hand to my rapidly beating heart. What would it take to get him to meet them?
"They know nothing about him, and I do not wish them to know."
"Oh."
"My past with the prince…it is painful." She tapped her chest again and her face fell.
Painful because he'd forced himself on her or painful because she still loved him? "How did you meet him?" I asked gently.
"At a fair." She smiled wistfully. "He was so young, so handsome and charming. I tell him his future."
"You can tell someone's future at will? Did you read the lines on his palm?"
"No. I need to have vision." She held up a gnarled finger. "Do not trust gypsies at the fair, Charlie. They cannot read your palm or your tea leaves. Understand?"
"Thank you for the warning. So did you have a vision about the prince?"
She nodded, smiling again. "I knew that we would be together as soon as he walk into my tent. I saw our child when I touched him. I knew our baby would grow up to be an important man, but a troubled one, too."
"Did you tell the prince any of that?"
"No. He would think me mad, or using him for money." Her smile turned sad. "I tell him what he want to hear—that he will be king one day, he will be a good king, and have children and many mistresses."
"How did he take that?"
"He laughed and said I wasn't reading his future but his present. I laughed too. It was enough."
"Enough?"
"To catch his eye. I was beautiful then, Charlie. Men liked me."
