Thief of Shadows
Winter bent to scratch the old tom behind the ears. “On the watch, are you, Soot?”
Soot yawned and returned to his warm hearth. A lamp had been left burning for Winter and he lifted it, turning toward the back stairs that would lead to his rooms under the eaves. Only as the light hit the corner by the stairs did he realize that he wasn’t alone.
Joseph Tinbox sat slumped in a chair, his eyes closed, his breathing soft and regular.
Winter’s heart twisted at the sight. Had the boy waited up for him?
He laid a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Joseph.”
Joseph blinked, his eyes sleepy and confused. Winter was reminded suddenly of the two-year-old toddler he’d found on the old home’s front steps nearly ten years before. He’d been towheaded, his little face streaked with tears and with an empty tin box tied to his wrist. The little boy had sighed deeply when Winter had picked him up, and he’d laid his head against his shoulder with all the trust in the world.
Joseph Tinbox blinked again and sudden awareness came into his face. “Oh, sir, I was waitin’ up for you.”
“I can see that,” Winter said, “but it’s past your bedtime now.”
“But, sir, it’s important.”
Winter was well used to what boys considered “important”—squabbles with other boys, lost spinning tops, and the discovery of kittens in the alley.
“I’m sure it is,” he said soothingly, “but—”
“Peach talked!” Joseph interrupted urgently. “She told me where she came from.”
Winter, who’d been on the point of chastising Joseph Tinbox for interrupting, paused. “What did she say?”
“I think she should tell you for herself,” Joseph said with the solemnity of a lord in parliament.
“She’ll be asleep.”
“No, sir,” Joseph said. “She’s frightened. She said she’d wait for your return.”
Winter arched his eyebrows. “Very well.”
Joseph Tinbox turned and led the way up the back stairs.
Winter followed with the lamp and his bag, still over his shoulder.
The house was quiet this late at night, the lamp’s light flickering against the plain plaster walls of the staircase. Winter wondered what secret would keep a child from talking for over a week. He eyed Joseph’s narrow back. He had the feeling the boy had had to use all his considerable powers of persuasion to get Peach to talk to him tonight.
Joseph stepped out onto the dormitory floor. It was quiet here, too, but now and again faint sounds could be heard: a murmured word, a sigh, and the rustling of bedclothes. Joseph glanced over his shoulder at Winter as if to make sure he still followed, and then tiptoed down the hall to the sickroom.
Winter looked at the candle and then Joseph.
The boy reddened. “I knows you say that a candle left burning might start a fire, but—”
“I don’t like the dark,” Peach said quite clearly.
Winter looked at the girl. She stared back at him, frightened but defiant, her brown eyes so dark they were nearly black.
He nodded and dropped his bag to the floor before taking the chair by the bed. “Many dislike the night. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Pilar.”
“I likes Peach, if you please, sir.”
Winter nodded and watched as Joseph Tinbox went to the other side of the bed and took Peach’s hand. “Peach, then. Joseph tells me that you have something to say to me.”
Peach nodded once, her pointed little chin digging into the white covers. “ ’Twas the lassie snatchers what got me.”
Winter felt his pulse quicken, but he remained calm and casual, as if what the girl had said weren’t of great import. “Oh?”
Peach gulped and clenched a hand in Dodo’s wiry fur. The dog twitched, but otherwise showed no sign that the girl was pulling at her fur. “I… I was on a corner by th’ church.”
“St. Giles-in-the-Fields?” Winter murmured.
The girl scrunched up her forehead. “I guess. I was beggin’ there.”
Winter nodded. He didn’t want to interrupt the flow of Peach’s story, but there was something he needed to know. “Were your parents there, too, Peach?”
Peach hunched a shoulder and turned her face away. “They’re dead. Mama died of fever an’ Papa of the cough, an’ little Raquel, too. They all died.”
Winter felt his heart contract. He’d heard this story so many times before—families devastated by disease and poverty, leaving orphaned children forced to somehow make their way in an indifferent world. It didn’t make this hearing any easier.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Peach shrugged and chanced a peek at him. “Papa asked Mistress Calvo to take me in before ’e died. I stayed there a bit. But Mistress Calvo said she already ’ad too many mouths to feed an’ that I must leave.”
“Coldhearted witch,” Joseph muttered angrily.
The boy ducked his head, but he still scowled.
“Well, I tried to find work, really I did, but there weren’t any,” Peach said. “An’ beggin’ wasn’t much better. Kept ’avin’ to move so’s the bigger ones wouldn’t beat me.”
There were gangs who ran stables of beggars and others who preyed upon beggars by demanding a percentage of their daily take. A child alone like Peach wouldn’t have stood a chance against the gangs.
“Tell him what happened then, Peach,” Joseph Tinbox whispered.
The little girl stared up at the boy as if drawing courage from him, then took a deep breath and looked at Winter. “Th’ second night I were at th’ church, they got me. The lassie snatchers. Woke me up and carried me away. I thought”—the little girl gulped—“I thought they might kill me, but they didn’t.”
“What did they do, Peach?” Winter asked.
“They took me to a cellar. An’ it were full of girls, it were, all sewin’. At first I thought it weren’t too bad. I don’t mind work, really I don’t. Mama said I was a good ’elper. An’ Dodo was there, though no one ’ad named her and they kept trying to chase ’er away.”
The little girl hid her face in Dodo’s neck as the terrier licked her ear. She whispered so low that Winter had to lean forward to catch her next words. “But they didn’t feed us ’ardly anything at all. Jus’ gruel and water and there was bugs in the gruel.” Peach began to sob.
Joseph Tinbox bit his lip, looking worried and anxious. He hesitantly reached out a hand to the girl, but then stopped, his fingers hovering over her thin shoulder. He glanced at Winter.
Winter nodded at the boy.
Joseph awkwardly patted Peach’s back.
Peach shuddered and lifted her head. “An’ that weren’t the worst. They beat us, too, if’n we didn’t work fast enough. There was a girl called Tilly. They beat her so long she fainted, an’ the next morning she weren’t there no more.”
Peach looked at Winter, her eyes huge and haunted. She didn’t say the words, but somewhere in her childish mind she knew that her friend Tilly must be dead.
“You were very brave,” Winter said to the little girl. “How did you escape?”
“One night,” Peach whispered, “the lassie snatchers came with a new girl. They argued with Mistress Cook—she was the one who made us all work. But they left the door unlocked behind them. I saw it was open a crack. So me an’ Dodo, we ran—ran as fast as we could, until they weren’t shouting behind us no more.”
Peach panted as if she were reliving the terror of running through the night, chased by people without mercy.
“Brave, brave girl,” Winter murmured, and Joseph nodded fiercely. “Do you know where the cellar was, Peach?”
The girl shook her head. “No, sir. But I know it’s under a chandler’s shop.”
“Ah,” Winter said, trying to beat down his disappointment. There were dozens of tiny chandler’s shops in St. Giles. Still, it was better than nothing. “What a smart girl you are, Peach, to make note of such a thing.”
Peach blushed shyly.
“Now, I think it’s to bed for the both of you,” Winter said as he stood. He watched as Joseph gave Peach one last reassuring pat before following Winter to the door. Winter opened the door, but then paused at a thought. “Peach?”
“What were you and the other girls making in the cellar?”
“Stockings.” Peach said the word as if it tasted foul. “Clocked lace stockings.”
WINTER YAWNED WIDELY the next afternoon as Isabel’s butler let him into her town house.
The butler raised a disapproving eyebrow a fraction of an inch. “Lady Beckinhall is waiting for you in the small sitting room, sir.”
Winter nodded wearily and fell into step behind the butler. He’d been on the streets of St. Giles at first daylight, searching for a chandler shop with a workshop in the cellar beneath, but so far he hadn’t been able to find the place. Nor had anyone heard of a Mistress Cook. Peach may’ve been mistaken about the chandler’s shop—she’d been terrified, after all, when she’d fled Mistress Cook and the lassie snatchers—or Mistress Cook may’ve moved her illegal workshop.
Of course, there was a third—more disturbing—possibility. Several of his usual sources of information had been quite nervous and cagey. Perhaps the denizens of St. Giles were too afraid of the lassie snatchers and Mistress Cook to give away their location.
The butler opened a yellow painted door, and Winter braced himself as he entered the small sitting room. Isabel was standing by one of a series of tall windows on the far side of the room, her face in delicate profile, the sunlight glinting off her dark glossy hair.
His chest squeezed hard, the first glimpse of her almost a physical blow. Usually repeated exposure to an irritant dulled the shock after a time. Yet with Isabel, each sight quaked him anew, seized both limbs and mind. He very much feared that repeated exposure to her merely made him crave her more intensely.
“Mr. Makepeace,” she said as she turned toward him. She was silhouetted now against the bright frame of the window, her face in shadow. “I had wondered if you would come at all today.”
Ah. She had not forgiven him for his tardiness the night before.
“Indeed, ma’am?” he said, cautiously advancing. “But I see that you already have tea laid.” He indicated the service spread on a low table. “I did say I would arrive at four of the clock and it is, by the clock on your mantel, exactly that.”
She stepped away from the window, and he saw by the look on her face that she was hardly pacified by his words. “A new—dare I say unique—circumstance for you, Mr. Makepeace.”
“Isn’t it time you call me Winter?” he murmured, trying another tack—he certainly wouldn’t win any arguments on his punctuality.
“Is it?”
“It is.” He smiled hard. “Isabel.”
She frowned. “I don’t—”
Just then, a tiny sob came from the direction of an ornately carved sideboard.
Both he and Isabel looked at the piece of furniture, and oddly her expression turned from anger to uncertainty. She started forward, but then stopped.
She made no further move, so Winter strode to the sideboard, crouched with one knee on the floor, and opened the door to the cupboard underneath.