Small shapes crouched on the dirt floor close to the fire; by its glow Peter saw that they were children, three boys and a girl, wearing clothes not much better than Peter’s rags. The girl and one of the boys turned toward him. They examined him for a moment, their expressions vacant, then turned back to the fire.
Peter felt Tinker Bell stirring, but before he could move his hand to stop her, the door closed behind him, and he heard a deep voice rumble, “Who have we here?”
Peter whirled and saw a tall, heavyset man with a thick black beard flecked with pieces of food, above which protruded a sharp, beaklike nose flanked by deep-set eyes.
“His name’s Peter,” said Trotter.
“Well then, Peter,” rumbled the man. “Here you are.” His tone was pleasant enough, but it was not matched by the intense look in his eyes.
Peter took a step toward the door, but the man casually sidestepped in front of it, blocking Peter’s path.
“Now then, Peter,” he said softly. “No need to leave when you just got here, is there? Why don’t you go over by the fire there and warm yourself?” He took a step forward. Peter took a step back.
“There’s a good lad,” said the man, giving Peter a shove that sent him staggering backward. “Sit down there, with them.”
Peter hesitated, and instantly felt the man’s hand grip his shoulder with painful force, shoving him hard to the floor.
“When I tell you to sit down,” the man said, “you sit down.” He turned to Trotter and said, “Fetch the supper.”
Trotter went to the corner of the room and came back with a filthy cloth sack, which he handed to the man. The man reached in and pulled out a dark loaf of bread. He raised it to his mouth and tore off a large hunk with his crooked brown teeth, chewing it openmouthed, swallowing loudly.
He ate another piece, then another, taking his time, while the children on the floor watched the loaf dwindle. The man finally tore off a large piece and handed it to Trotter, who began eating it greedily.
Less than half of the loaf remained. The man held it out toward the children on the floor.
“Now then,” he said. “Who wants supper?”
The children—Peter included—stared at the bread hungrily. Several reached out toward the man.
Slowly, deliberately, the man tore off a piece and tossed it to Peter.
“Company first,” he said.
Peter caught the bread and took a bite. It was hard and stale, but he didn’t care: it was the first food he’d had for days. He chewed slowly, meaning to make it last.
“Now you,” said the man, tossing a piece to one of the boys. “And you, and you,” he said, tossing pieces to another boy, and the girl.
That left one boy without bread. The boy, who was sitting next to Peter, looked at the man expectantly. The man tore off a piece of bread and held it toward the boy. The boy reached for it. The man laughed and stuffed the bread into his own mouth.
“None for you,” he said, chewing. “You didn’t bring me no push today, so you don’t get nothing from me.”
“But,” said the boy, “I was…OWW!”
The man’s heavy boot caught the boy on his ear, sending him sprawling on the floor.
“No back talk,” said the man. “I get nothing, you get nothing.” He turned to Peter. “Them’s the rules here,” he said. “You brings me push, I give you something to eat. You understand?”
Eyeing the man’s boot, Peter said, “No, sir. What is…push?”
“Push,” said the man, “is chink.”
Peter looked at him blankly.
“It’s money,” said the man. “You brings me money.”
“But,” said Peter, “how do I get money?”
“Same way this useless lot does,” said the man, gesturing at the other children. “You go griddling.”
Peter’s look remained puzzled.
“They’re mumpers,” said the man. “Lurkers. Gegors. Shivering Jemmys.”
Peter shook his head.
“They’re beggars,” said the man, growing impatient. “They ask for a copper or two, looking pitiful as can be, poor things. And they brings the coppers back to me, and I gives ’em this nice warm house and a nice supper. That’s the arrangement, you see? You takes care of me, and I takes care of you.”
“But,” said Peter, “I can’t. You see I have to get to—” he left the sentence unfinished, seeing the look in the man’s eye, the twitch of the man’s heavy boot.
“Oh, you can, all right,” said the man, very softly now. “You can, and you will. You’ll go out with them in the morning, and you’ll stay out there all day, and you’ll come back at night with some coppers for me, or you’ll feel me belt on your back. Show him, Trotter.”
Trotter went to the boy sitting next to Peter—the one who’d received no bread—and yanked up the boy’s shirt. Peter saw that the boy’s back was covered with dark red welts, some oozing blood. Peter looked down.
“And if you’re thinking of running away,” said the man—correctly guessing what Peter was thinking—“you’d best think again. Trotter and me will be out there keeping an eye on you.”
Peter looked up at Trotter, once so friendly, now staring down at him with a look of easy contempt. Peter remembered Old Trumpy’s words: You can’t trust nobody out there.
“If you tries to run,” continued the man, “Trotter and me will find you. There’s nowhere you can go on these streets where we won’t find you, understand? Nowhere. And when we finds you, you’ll wish you hadn’t run. Ask these others, if you don’t believe it.”
Peter glanced at the other children; their expressions—a blend of terror and hopelessness—confirmed the man’s words.
Peter considered his situation. He could escape from Trotter on the streets tomorrow, but he’d have to fly, and he very much wanted to avoid that. He also couldn’t afford to waste any more time, not with the men from the ship looking for Molly.
No, the best thing would be to escape from this place now, tonight, after the man and Trotter were asleep. The door was only across the room. He’d open it quietly, and…
“Bedtime, then,” said the man, breaking into Peter’s thoughts. “You wants to get your rest, because you’ll be working hard for me tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And to make sure you don’t get restless in the night…”
The man went to the corner, where Peter saw a filthy straw mat. The man grabbed it and dragged it in front of the door. He lay down on it and, looking directly at Peter, said: “There. Now we can all sleep nice and sound.”
Then he lay down, his body completely blocking the door, and almost immediately fell asleep. Trotter went to another mattress and did the same. Without saying a word, the other children lay down where they were, curled up on the dirt floor.
In a few minutes, Peter was the only person awake. He stared at the glowing coals, listening to the man’s loud, irregular snores, berating himself for being such a fool, wondering if the men had reached Molly’s house, and trying desperately to think of a way out of this room.
CHAPTER 34
A VISITOR
IT WAS VERY LATE NOW— more morning than night—and Molly had given up on even the hope of sleep.
She’d tried reading by the light of an oil lamp, but she couldn’t concentrate. Most of the time she stood looking out her window, watching Mr. Jarvis standing guard in front, under the gas streetlight.
She was watching him when a tap at her door made her jump.
Molly went to the door, expecting to be reprimanded by her mother for being awake at this late hour. When she opened the door she was quite surprised to see the new maid, still in uniform.
“Yes, Jenna?” Molly said. “What is it?”
“I was just wondering if the young lady needed anything,” said Jenna.
“No, thank you,” said Molly. She started to close the door, but Jenna remained in the doorway, motionless, the intensity of her gaze disconcerting to Molly.
“Is there anything else?” said Molly.
“I was just thinking that, as it’s quite late, perhaps the young lady should go to bed.”
“Thank you, Jenna,” Molly answered stiffly, “but I’m fine.”
Jenna stepped forward a half step—almost menacingly, Molly thought.
“But the young lady should go to bed,” said Jenna, her tone insistent. “To get her rest. I don’t think Lady Aster would want to know the young lady was up at this hour.”
Molly was shocked by this impertinence, and the implied threat. She allowed her ire to overcome her breeding as she responded with an impertinent question of her own.
“How did you know I was awake?” she said. “And why are you up at this hour?”
If Jenna was intimidated—if she felt any emotion at all—she did not betray it in her cool and steady gaze.
“I heard the young lady moving about, and came up to see if the young lady needed anything,” she said, ignoring Molly’s second question.
“As I told you,” Molly said icily, “I do not.”
Jenna appeared to be about to say something more, but was apparently dissuaded by Molly’s expression.
“Was there anything else?” Molly said, her hand on the door.
“No, ma’am,” said Jenna.
“Good night, then,” said Molly, closing the door. She stood there, listening, feeling the presence of Jenna twelve inches away on the other side of the door. Finally, after a very long minute, she heard the maid’s footsteps leaving.
What cheek, thought Molly. She sat on her bed, stewing for a bit, and as her anger subsided, troubling thoughts arose. How could Jenna have heard her moving about? She was sure she hadn’t made much noise, and her room, in one of the towers at the top of the house, was a full three floors away from the maids’ quarters.
Why was Jenna awake? Why had she come up? Why was she so insistent that I go to bed?
She sat there thinking for a few more minutes.
Then she rose and blew out the oil lamp.
Then she went back to the window and resumed watching the street.
CHAPTER 35
A WALK IN THE DARK
THE FIVE MEN RODE inside the cab of a black, horse-drawn taxi, Ombra and Nerezza on a bouncy bench facing Gerch, “Constable” Hampton, and Slank, the three crammed shoulder to shoulder, facing backward. The sound of the horse hooves clippity-clopping on the cobblestones kept their voices from being overheard by the driver.
Nerezza pulled back the small window curtains. They had ordered the cabbie to take the long way around to the Aster house, avoiding the busier Uxbridge Road in favor of Silver Street and Church Lane. But peering out the window, Nerezza had no idea where they were; he saw only darkness. He took a deep breath; his wooden nose whistled.
Gerch and Hampton tried not to stare at Ombra, but they couldn’t help themselves. Ever since the dark shape had appeared on the deck of Le Fantome, oozing from below more like a cloud than a man, the two had kept eyes on him, the way the fox never loses track of the hounds.
Both men jumped when the groaning voice spoke, coming from somewhere in the dark-hooded void where Ombra’s face should have been: “Describe the situation at the house.”
Gerch cleared his throat and straightened his posture. His voice cracked as he said, “Hampton?”
Hampton, not eager to be the object of attention of the dark thing across from him, spoke nervously in a thick Cockney accent. “One out front, name of Jarvis. ’Nother around back called Cadigan. And a third man, Hodge, inside the house.”
“The location of the man inside?”
“That there varies night to night, sir,” Hampton said. “But we’ve got a housemaid inside, keeping track for when the time comes.”
“The time has come,” Ombra said. “Stop the cab.”
Nerezza banged his fist on the wall. Immediately the clippity-clop slowed, then stopped. Nerezza peered through the curtain. Nerezza saw that they were stopped now near the south end of Kensington Palace Gardens, within walking distance of the Aster mansion. He wondered how Ombra had known, with the curtains drawn, where they were, but he did not intend to ask. He opened the cab door and stepped out, followed by the others.
Nerezza paid the driver, then pressed an extra coin into his hand and told him to await their return. The cabbie agreed somewhat reluctantly. Something about these passengers made him nervous, and his horse was acting skittish, nearly bolting when the cloaked one had approached the cab.
Church Lane was pitch black and quiet. The chilly air smelled of smoke. With Ombra gliding ahead, the group moved away from the cab, into the night. They turned left onto a broad street, holding to the side away from the string of gas streetlamps.
Halfway up the street, Ombra stopped; the others caught up.
“Mister Slank,” groaned Ombra, “you will stay here and keep watch.”
Slank nodded and stepped behind a tree, now invisible from the street.
Ombra resumed gliding up the street, passing several more mansions, then stopped as the light in front of the Aster house loomed in the distance. Barely discernible at the edge of its wan glow was the figure of Jarvis, standing guard.
“Mister Gerch,” Ombra groaned quietly as the others reached him, “you and Captain Nerezza will remain here, out of sight. I shall signal you when Mister Jarvis is no longer a concern. Constable Hampton, you will lead the way. We’ll cross the street here. Don’t bother about me. You will walk past and engage Mister Jarvis in conversation. You must make sure that he stands in the light. Do you understand?”
“Yes…Yes, sir…m’lord,” stammered Hampton.
“Not in the shadow, but the light,” repeated Ombra. “And when I approach, you make sure his attention is elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere,” echoed Hampton, twitching his nose like a nervous rat. “Yes, m’lord.”
“Go,” groaned Ombra.
Hampton stepped into the street, crossing toward the mansion. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Ombra was following him. But he saw only Gerch and Nerezza in the distance; there was no sign of Ombra.
“Go!”
Hampton jumped at the voice, which came from…where?
Quickly he turned back and resumed walking, feeling the unseen presence behind him, looking ahead at the streetlight and the dark figure of Jarvis. Hampton did not know what was about to happen, but he did know this: he was glad he wasn’t Jarvis.
CHAPTER 36
A FEW SECONDS
A HALF HOUR AFTER the troubling visit from Jenna, Molly was still at her window. On the street below, Mr. Jarvis stood under the lamppost, his thick form casting a thick shadow in the gas streetlight.
It happened in a few seconds, and although Molly was watching, her mind could not be certain of what her eyes had seen.
First there was movement to the right, a form emerging from the darkness.
The bobby. The same one Molly had seen twice before, the one with the ill-fitting uniform.
But this time the bobby did not walk past. This time he stopped directly in front of Mr. Jarvis and said something to him. Mr. Jarvis said something back. The bobby took another few steps toward Molly’s left, as though walking away, but then he stopped and said something else.
Mr. Jarvis turned toward the bobby to respond. Thus he didn’t see the other man emerge from the fog to the right.
Molly didn’t see the man clearly, either: even under the gaslight, he was strangely featureless, dark as the night itself. He moved swiftly, fluidly, to within two feet of Mr. Jarvis, who apparently did not hear anything, his eyes still on the bobby.
The dark man paused only for an instant before flowing back into the night, but in that instant something happened. Mr. Jarvis’s shoulders slumped—that much Molly saw clearly. But there was something else, something that she sensed but couldn’t quite see—something about the light, and the night. It wasn’t right, Molly was certain of that, but she didn’t know exactly why.
/> A second later it was over: the bobby turned and disappeared into the fog. Now Mr. Jarvis again stood alone in the circle of gaslight. Slowly he raised his head, and in a moment, he—and the scene outside—appeared just as it had before.
But Molly, watching from her window, felt a deep unease.
Something had happened. Something was wrong.
CHAPTER 37
“I’LL FIND YOU”
THE ROOM WAS NEARLY dark now, the coal fire casting only a dull reddish glow. Peter stared at the dying embers, trying to think of a plan.
Tink stuck her head out of the top of Peter’s shirt. She looked around, her gaze taking in the sleeping forms of the man and the children. She eased herself out and stood on Peter’s shoulder, close to his right ear. In very soft tones, she said: We’re going to go now.
Peter looked at the man sleeping in front of the door.
“How?” he whispered.
Listen, said Tink, and, leaning close to Peter’s ear, she explained her plan. Peter frowned at first, then began to nod. When she was done, he couldn’t help but smile; it amazed him sometimes, the amount of thinking that went on inside Tink’s tiny head.
Ready? said Tink.
Peter nodded again and stood up quietly. Tinker Bell fluttered to the low ceiling and grabbed a wooden beam just above Peter’s head, pressing herself flat against it. Peter took a deep breath.
Then he began to shout at the top of his lungs.
“OWWWWW!” he yelled. “MY HAIR IS ON FIRE!”
Immediately the sleeping man was awake.
“What?” he bellowed, getting to his feet. “What is it?”
“MY HAIR!” yelled Peter. “YOWWW!”
The man blinked, his eyes seeking Peter in the gloom. Now Trotter was on his feet as well. They began moving toward him. Peter waited until he was sure they were both looking at him, noted their positions, then spun around, facing away from them, and closed his eyes tightly.
“NOW!” he shouted.
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