Thief of Shadows
A small, black form darted away as he neared the other side of the cemetery—either a cat or a very large rat. The wall here was low, and Winter scrambled over it and into a narrow passageway, biting back an exclamation at a twinge from his leg. This let out into another alley next to a chandler’s shop. Overhead, the chandler’s wooden sign swung, squeaking, in the wind. It was in the crude shape of a candlestick, but whatever paint that once outlined the flame and stick had long since flaked away. A single lantern hung outside the little shop, the flame flickering uncertainly.
It was the last glimpse of civilization the alley could boast—farther on, no lantern lit the black shadows. Only the most courageous—or foolhardy—of St. Giles’s residents would brave the dark alley after nightfall.
But then he wasn’t an ordinary resident, was he?
His boots clattered on the remaining cobblestones in the alley as the grim shadows enveloped him. Most would bring a lantern out at night, but Winter had always been more comfortable making his way by moonlight.
A cat screeched with amorous intent nearby and was answered by an equally loud rival. Was he as mindless as the tomcats? Driven by the scent of a willing female and his own innate animal drive?
He shook his head as he entered a covered lane—more a tunnel, really. The walls dripped with slimy moisture and his footfalls echoed off the low arch. Up ahead, something—or someone—moved in the gloom.
Without breaking stride, Winter unsheathed the sword hidden in his greatcoat. As a commoner, he wasn’t technically allowed to carry either it or his short sword, but he’d long ago made peace with his necessary circumventions of the law.
Sometimes it was a matter of life or death, after all.
The lurker ahead made a sudden movement as if to rush him. Still advancing, Winter casually swung his sword up in front of his body. By boldness of attack you’ll seize the advantage, the old words of his mentor whispered across his mind.
The robber thought better of his action. There was a scuttling sound and then the way ahead was clear.
He should’ve felt relief at the lessening of danger—that the potential for conflict and the possible need to harm his fellow man had disappeared. Instead, Winter fought down a wave of irritation mixed with disappointment. He had the primitive urge to fight, to feel the pull and bunch of muscle, the thrill of peril, the satisfaction of victory over another.
Winter stopped dead, breathing quietly in the black night, listening to the drip of fetid water on the tunnel walls.
I am not an animal.
That was, in part, what the mask was for: to let loose some of his baser urges. Carefully. With great control. But he wasn’t wearing the mask tonight. Winter sheathed his sword.
The covered lane let out into a tiny courtyard that was hemmed in on all sides by tall buildings with overhanging balconies that seemed on the point of tumbling down to crush any so unlucky as to be standing beneath. Winter quickly crossed the courtyard and knocked twice on a low cellar door. He paused and then rapped once more.
Inside he could hear the scrape as a bolt was drawn back and then the door opened, revealing a face creased by time like the pages of a prayer book.
“Mistress Medina,” Winter murmured.
Winter bowed his head to clear the low lintel and stepped into the cozy room. A fire crackled on the hearth, gently steaming the clean laundry hung overhead on a wooden frame made accessible by a crude rope and pulley. Directly in front of the fire was a low stool and small table, set all about with lit tallow candles. And on the table were the tools of Mistress Medina’s trade: scissors, chalk, pins, needles, and thread.
“I’ve just finished it,” she said as she closed the door behind him and locked it. She limped over to the bed and held up the tunic that had been lying there.
Black and red diamonds paced across the fabric. People see only the surface, his mentor used to say. Give them a showy costume, a mask, and a bit of cape and they’ll swear to phantoms in the night and never notice the man beneath.
Winter crossed to the old woman and fingered the sleeve. “You’ve done excellent work as always, Mistress Medina.”
She scowled at his praise. “Best take care of it, then, ’adn’t you? I don’t know if I can ever make another. My eyes are going.” She jerked her chin at the smoking tallow candles. “Even with all them candles, I can’t see to place my stitches ’alf the time.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Winter said, and meant it. He could see now that her eyes were red-rimmed and watering. “Have you another means of making your way?”
She shrugged. “Might see if I can ’ire on as a cook. I made a fair pie in my day.”
“You did,” Winter said gently. “I can remember enjoying one of your apple pies.”
“Aye, and I remember making you the first one of these,” she said softly, caressing the new hose that went with the tunic. “You were but a shiverin’ lad. I never would’ve thought you could even ’old the swords were it not for Sir Stanley swearin’ you were the quickest learner ’e’d ever seen.”
There was a faint, nostalgic smile at the corner of her mouth. Winter wondered—not for the first time—if the little seamstress had been more to his mentor, Sir Stanley Gilpin, than merely a servant.
Her gaze suddenly sharpened. “You’ve filled out some since then, ’aven’t you? And become ’arder.”
Winter lifted his eyebrows. “That was nine years ago,” he said mildly. “Is a boy of seventeen ever the same as a man of six and twenty?”
She snorted and began bundling his new costume. “That I don’t know, but I wonder sometimes if Sir Stanley knew exactly what ’e was about when ’e gave you them swords and mask.”
“Do you disapprove of my actions?”
She waved an impatient hand. “Don’t try to trap me with your arguments. All I know is that ’tisn’t natural for a man to spend all ’is time roamin’ the streets of St. Giles, making other people’s troubles ’is own business.”
“Would you have me ignore people in trouble?” he asked in simple interest.
He shook his head, amused. “I’m young and strong. I heal fast.”
“This time.” She pushed the bundled costume into his chest. “What’ll you do when the wound is deeper? Longer? You ain’t immortal no matter what Sir Stanley might’ve told you, Winter Makepeace.”
“Thank you, Mistress Medina.” He took the clothes and retrieved a small purse from his pocket—most of the money he’d saved since the home had had the fortune to gain patronesses. “Call around at the home tomorrow morning. We’re in need of a cook, I think, now that we’ve new quarters. In the meantime, I’ll keep your admonitions in mind.”
“Humph.” She took the purse and unlocked the door for him, scowling. But as he passed by her, he heard her say gruffly, “Take care, Mr. Makepeace. St. Giles needs you.”
“Good night.”
He pulled his greatcoat more securely about himself as he headed into the chilly dark. If he were wearing his harlequin motley, he could go in search of other people’s troubles right now and lose himself in the night and danger. Winter shrugged irritably at the thought. His shoulders itched to swing a sword or throw a blow. He’d lain abed for almost a week, letting his leg heal, and now he was almost ready to charge the filthy walls of the little courtyard.
Tomorrow night, he promised himself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to find someone to help. To find someone to fight.
The thought pulled him up short. He’d always regarded himself as a man of peace—despite his nocturnal wanderings. He went out as the Ghost of St. Giles to right wrongs. To help those unable to help themselves.
Didn’t he?
He shook his head at himself. Of course he did. St. Giles was a weeping wound of humanity. Those too poor to live elsewhere came here. The prostitutes, the thieves, the ones enslaved to gin. All the dregs of London. And with them came their problems: rape and thievery, starvation and want, abandonment and despair. He’d long ago learned that there weren’t enough hours in the daytime to help the destitute of St. Giles, so he’d taken to the night. Some wrongs needed more than good intentions and prayer to correct.
Some could only be helped with the point of a sword.
Winter walked around a corner and into a slightly wider street, startling a skeletally thin, small mongrel that looked like a terrier of some kind. The dog yipped once and cowered back into the pile of rags it lay on. Winter passed the animal, but something made him pause. Perhaps he sensed movement or the scent of something else besides the dog.
Or perhaps it was Providence.
In any case, he turned and took another look. A pale thing lay among the dog’s dark fur, like an exotic starfish lost from the sea: a child’s hand. Winter bent and lifted away a rag, ignoring the uncertain rumbling coming from the dog’s thin chest. A frightened face cringed away from him, the eyes wide and staring, the mouth stretched in a rictus of terror.
He crouched to make himself less intimidating. “I’ll not hurt you, child. Are you all alone?”
But the little creature seemed too petrified to speak.
The dog tumbled from the rags, falling to the street with a yelp.
The child whispered something and held out a pleading hand to the mongrel.
Winter lifted his chin to the dog. “Best you come along, too, then.”
And without looking back to the mongrel, he turned to continue toward the home. The dog would follow or not, but in either case the animal was not his main concern.
The child was.
He could feel the little body shaking against his chest, whether from fear or cold, he couldn’t tell.
Half an hour later, the new Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children loomed ahead. The building was utilitarian brick, but it still stood out from its surroundings, a shining beacon of hope. Winter stumbled at the thought. What would he do if Lady Beckinhall was correct and he was driven from the home? He had no idea—the home and helping the children within it were all he’d ever wanted to do in his life. Without it—without them—he was less than nothing.
He shook away the thought and continued walking. The child needed to get inside. There was a rather grand front entrance with a set of wide stairs, but Winter chose the more accessible servant’s entrance at the back.
“Lord love you, sir!” Alice, one of the maids, exclaimed as Winter came in. The servant’s entrance opened into the kitchen, and Alice appeared to be enjoying a before-bed cup of tea at the kitchen table. “I didn’t know you were out this late, Mr. Makepeace.”
“Pour a cup of tea with lots of milk and sugar, please, Alice,” Winter ordered as he brought the child to the hearth.
“Shoo, you!”
Winter turned at Alice’s angry words and saw she was attempting to wave the mongrel back out the door.
The child whimpered in distress.
“That’s all right, Alice,” he said. “Let the dog stay.”
“ ’Tis a smelly, filthy beast,” Alice muttered, sounding scandalized.
“Yes, I can see that,” Winter said drily. The mutt had crept to the fireplace, apparently torn between staying close to the child and fleeing before strangers, and the odor of rotten fish drifted from its matted fur.