material she’d bought from the rag man. Her “drapes” were colorful; like an artist’s palette tipped on its side so that the colors ran together. She’d done the same for a bedcover, painstakingly sewing together pieces of red and blue and yellow fabric until she had a quilt of sorts, one tiny square that she prized above all others made of velvet. She grabbed that quilt now and headed out the tiny door nestled beneath the V of the rafters.
Tiny droplets of moisture did battle with warmer air currents from the attic as she slid beneath a dusk sky, fog having rolled in early that afternoon, as so often happened in London. The exit to the attic wasn’t really a door, but more of a hatch that dropped down. She had to slide her legs through first, then her body. For a second she dangled her brown skirts before she dropped with a thud and a crunch of dried leaves beneath her bare feet. It always amazed her how leaves got all the way up to the third story roof.
She’d discovered her hidden world when she was twelve, though at first she’d hoped the hatch would lead to a storybook kingdom, a land that might take her away from the drudgery of her life. Unfortunately, it hadn’t. Fortunately, she’d found a private haven. On the right day, a body could see clear to the green edges of London. On an evening like tonight, however, fog pressed down and kept sound from escaping. It would be dark before its time, the sun descending behind the rookery with a last gasp of color. Down below, a coal porter sang his song, carts and carriages sloshing and clanking through the mud and muck; like a well-made timepiece, London never stopped.
She settled herself on the bench she’d made out of scraps of wood as one of the many chimney plumes that sprouted up like mushroom caps from the tar and gravel roof spilled a murky black smoke that didn’t have the energy to climb. She sat near enough to the edge of the roof that if she craned her neck just right, she could watch all that smoke fall, swirling and spiraling on its way to pollute the street below. But she didn’t. Instead she lifted her feet onto the bench, throwing the cover around her shoulders and resting her elbows on her knees as she tried to summon the energy to get started on her sails, and to forget about Mr. Hemplewilt.
“Miss Brooks.”
Anna screamed. And for a moment silence reigned over St. Giles. Or so it seemed.
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”
She turned on her bench. “What the blazes are you doin’ up here?” The blanket she clutched around her neck slipped a bit. Anna jerked it back up.
“I came to ask of supper.”
“There’s a pot of stew on the hearth just like there is every night.”
“Is there?” he asked, and the look in his eyes, the way they seemed to turn darker—though how that could be when nothing but a dismal evening sky shone down on them, Anna didn’t know—made her wonder if perhaps he felt the same sort of pull, the same current of energy that she’d felt for him all afternoon.
“There is,” she said.
Leave, leave, leave.
But he didn’t, just continued to stare down at her in a way that made her heart beat harder with each passing second.
“I had a splendid time at market today.”
“Oh, aye, it’s a jolly parcel of fun to stand on your feet day in, day out.”
He frowned. She realized she was being too contrary. He’d helped her double her profits this day. She should be polite.
“Is that your room I just came through?” he asked.
“It is,” she answered, suddenly as jumpy as a flea on the alley cat she’d befriended down below.
Silence, Anna mentally asking him to leave, her hands clutching her coverlet so tight, she felt the fabric digging into her palms.
“My, that’s a long way down,” he said, very obvious attempt at conversation.
“Mr. Hemplewilt—”
“One moment, please, Anna. I am observing the view.”
Anna.
He’d called her Anna.
She opened her mouth to
Tiny droplets of moisture did battle with warmer air currents from the attic as she slid beneath a dusk sky, fog having rolled in early that afternoon, as so often happened in London. The exit to the attic wasn’t really a door, but more of a hatch that dropped down. She had to slide her legs through first, then her body. For a second she dangled her brown skirts before she dropped with a thud and a crunch of dried leaves beneath her bare feet. It always amazed her how leaves got all the way up to the third story roof.
She’d discovered her hidden world when she was twelve, though at first she’d hoped the hatch would lead to a storybook kingdom, a land that might take her away from the drudgery of her life. Unfortunately, it hadn’t. Fortunately, she’d found a private haven. On the right day, a body could see clear to the green edges of London. On an evening like tonight, however, fog pressed down and kept sound from escaping. It would be dark before its time, the sun descending behind the rookery with a last gasp of color. Down below, a coal porter sang his song, carts and carriages sloshing and clanking through the mud and muck; like a well-made timepiece, London never stopped.
She settled herself on the bench she’d made out of scraps of wood as one of the many chimney plumes that sprouted up like mushroom caps from the tar and gravel roof spilled a murky black smoke that didn’t have the energy to climb. She sat near enough to the edge of the roof that if she craned her neck just right, she could watch all that smoke fall, swirling and spiraling on its way to pollute the street below. But she didn’t. Instead she lifted her feet onto the bench, throwing the cover around her shoulders and resting her elbows on her knees as she tried to summon the energy to get started on her sails, and to forget about Mr. Hemplewilt.
“Miss Brooks.”
Anna screamed. And for a moment silence reigned over St. Giles. Or so it seemed.
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”
She turned on her bench. “What the blazes are you doin’ up here?” The blanket she clutched around her neck slipped a bit. Anna jerked it back up.
“I came to ask of supper.”
“There’s a pot of stew on the hearth just like there is every night.”
“Is there?” he asked, and the look in his eyes, the way they seemed to turn darker—though how that could be when nothing but a dismal evening sky shone down on them, Anna didn’t know—made her wonder if perhaps he felt the same sort of pull, the same current of energy that she’d felt for him all afternoon.
“There is,” she said.
Leave, leave, leave.
But he didn’t, just continued to stare down at her in a way that made her heart beat harder with each passing second.
“I had a splendid time at market today.”
“Oh, aye, it’s a jolly parcel of fun to stand on your feet day in, day out.”
He frowned. She realized she was being too contrary. He’d helped her double her profits this day. She should be polite.
“Is that your room I just came through?” he asked.
“It is,” she answered, suddenly as jumpy as a flea on the alley cat she’d befriended down below.
Silence, Anna mentally asking him to leave, her hands clutching her coverlet so tight, she felt the fabric digging into her palms.
“My, that’s a long way down,” he said, very obvious attempt at conversation.
“Mr. Hemplewilt—”
“One moment, please, Anna. I am observing the view.”
Anna.
He’d called her Anna.
She opened her mouth to
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