Of Fates And Phantoms (The Ministry of Curiosities #7)(18)

We didn't speak as I led the way down lanes so narrow I could stretch out both arms to the sides and brush the slippery bricks with my fingertips. I stopped at a crumbling old house that looked as though a child had built it from blocks in the nursery. It felt abandoned, but the telltale signs of life were there for those who knew where to look-the shoe prints leading to and from the boards at knee height, the small marks on the wall where the boards scraped against it.



       
         
       
        

I hesitated, uncertain whether to knock. A knock might not be answered, so I simply slid the boards aside and crouched at the small opening.

A hand on my shoulder stopped me. I glanced back at Lincoln, at the same moment I heard a whistle inside and the sound of a door closing.

"I can't come in," Lincoln said quietly. He was too big, his shoulders too broad.

"You can be lookout."

Lincoln was never the lookout man. That job always fell to Gus or Seth. He must hate the suggestion, but he simply handed me the canvas sack he'd carried with him. "Be careful."

I nodded and crawled through, dragging the sack behind me. The gap was tighter than I remembered. A comfortable bed and regular meals had fattened me up. I may still be small and slender, but I wasn't a bag of bones anymore.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light filtering through the dirty window but my other senses told me the space was empty. The lookout stationed at the trapdoor had whistled a warning then dropped down to the cellar below. It was standard procedure when a stranger entered through the front door flap.

But I was no stranger. Crouching, I opened the trapdoor an inch. "It's all right," I called down. "It's me. Charlie. I've come back."

Whispers drifted up. I imagined the newcomers asking who Charlie was, the older members telling them about me. If any older members of my last gang remained, that is. It was possible they'd all moved on-or died. Winter was never kind to street children, even ones with a roof over their heads. I shivered and realized just how cold the house was. Not just cold but damp. The sort of damp that turned blood icy and numbed toes.

"I've brought blankets, clothes and food," I said through the gap. "There'll be money too if you agree to help me."

The whispers increased in volume and urgency, then suddenly ceased. I sat back on my haunches, away from the trapdoor. It opened, revealing a set of wary eyes that darted to me then around the space.

"I'm alone," I said. "Stringer, is that you?"

The trapdoor lifted higher. "Charlie? It really is you?"

I nodded and squinted at the face, familiar yet not. "Finley?"

He grinned, revealing a set of teeth, some of them missing, but most still white. "It is you!" The boy had changed in the months since I'd lived here. His face had angles where before it had sported the softness of childhood, and his hair was longer. So was mine.

"Is Stringer not here anymore?" I asked.

Another shake of his head. "You came back."

"I did. Are you the leader now?"

He shook his head. "Mink is. Oi!" he called down. "It's Charlie, all right." He opened the trapdoor wider, inviting me in. 

I hesitated then followed him through the door and down the ladder. If I wanted them to trust me, I had to show that I trusted them.

The cellar was just as I remembered, with the lumpy mattress pushed into the corner and some blankets piled high at one end. They'd be lice ridden and dirty, but the darkness hid the worst of the grime. The only light came from the glowing embers in the grate. The flames had gone out, the coal almost burned away, although smoke and a little warmth lingered. The pile of blankets coughed, a harsh, racking cough, before quieting again.

"Get back up there, Finley," ordered a reedy voice from the shadows. "Make sure no one followed him here."

"There's a man outside in the lane," I said. "He's my friend. He won't harm anyone, he's just my lookout."

"Why do you need a lookout?" The speaker with the reedy adolescent voice emerged from the shadows. It was Mink, the quietest member of the original gang, and the most serious. He could read, too, unlike the others, and I suspected he was whip smart, although he'd kept to himself so much that it was difficult to gauge how smart.

"He worried that I'd be in danger down here from you lot," I said as Finley disappeared through the trap door.

Mink peered at me through long strands of greasy hair, and for one moment I wondered if he was like me, female pretending to be a boy. But then I remembered seeing him piss once. He was definitely male. "Why would you be in danger from us?" he asked.

I counted three others in the cellar, including the person beneath the blankets. Finley and Mink made five. Their numbers were depleted, unless the rest were out scavenging and stealing. With my training, I could probably fight them off if I had to, particularly with the knife strapped to my ankle and another to my forearm.

"I'm not," I said. "But he worries about me."

Mink's gaze slipped down my length then slowly met mine again. "So you found yourself a husband."

The other lad gasped and the body on the mattress pushed back the blankets to peer at me.

"I'm not married," I said.

"But you are a woman."

"I am. How long have you known?"

The body on the bed swore softly. The other boy, Tick, if I recalled correctly, stared at my chest as if he'd never seen a woman before.

"Not at first," Mink admitted, "but the idea grew on me the longer I knew you. You never pissed or changed in front of us and you liked to be clean. In my experience, only girls like to be clean."

"I always knew you were the clever one." I handed him the sack and watched him open it.

Tick reached into the sack and pulled out a loaf of bread, baked the day before. He tore off the end and knelt on the mattress. A boney hand emerged from the folds and squirreled the bread away.

Mink pulled the blanket from the sack and, to my surprise, smelled it. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, burying his face in the wool. I knew it had been laundered with a lavender scent, but couldn't smell it from where I stood. The stench of urine and filth was too strong.

"How many are you now?" I asked softly.

He lowered the blanket but didn't let it go. "Just us five."

"There's more than enough food for five of you to eat well for a few days, at least." I nodded at the sack. "There are clothes, too."

He pulled out a shirt and smelled it. "You always did like clean shirts."

"And trousers."

"Dresses?"

"I'd almost forgotten what it was like to wear a dress," I said. "It took some getting used to again. They're no good for climbing, or running." Or fighting.



       
         
       
        

Mink's face softened and I thought he'd smile, but he didn't. I'd never seen him smile. When the others would howl with laughter over a childish joke, his lips would hardly lift. Sadness dogged him, so deep that he couldn't shake it. In my experience, sorrow like that haunted only those who'd once known love and safety and lost it, whereas those like Stringer could laugh and enjoy themselves because they knew nothing better than the life they lived in the cellar hovel. They were born in the slums and would die in the slums. I suspected Mink wasn't born to this class but had found himself entrenched in its mire at some point.

"You mentioned money," he said. When I listened really hard, I could hear the middle class tone in his voice. He hadn't learned to cover it completely. "How can we get some?"

"My friend and I need ears and eyes in the East End."

He shoved the sack away. "No. We're not dobbers. We ain't risking our lives for your fancy man."

"He's not my fancy man."

"He a pig?"

"No. He works for a secret organization that tries to keep the world safe from … " I sighed. There really was no way to describe what Lincoln and the ministry did without mentioning supernaturals, and he'd strictly forbidden me to tell them that. "Never mind. He's a spy, of sorts, but his network is a little fragmented in this part of the city." Although Lincoln had tavern keepers, police constables, shop keepers and prostitutes in his spy network, he didn't have anyone at the very bottom level. It was impossible to get lower than these child gangs.

"We can't help you," Mink said, folding thin arms over a thin chest. "Take your things and go." He signaled for Tick to give back the blanket. Tick clutched it tighter and watched his leader through narrowed eyes.

"Don't be a fool, Mink," I said. "You need what's in that sack, and you need regular money. My friend can offer you that. Look at me." I held out my arms. "I'm healthy and happy."

"You've definitely changed, and not just your … " He waved at my chest but didn't meet my gaze.

"Pups," Tick said with a grin.

"You used to be real skinny," Mink went on. "And quiet. I thought you were quiet so no one noticed you."