then,” Robbie rumbled. He shoved away from the table and opened the door. Smite felt a breath of cool air against his face. “Charge him double. After all, he brought company.”
“Where are you going? You haven’t eaten.”
Smite turned his face toward the draft, but his head throbbed and he shut his eyes, dizzy once more.
“Going to smoke with Joey,” Robbie said. “And don’t give me that look—at least smoking’s healthful. Everyone says so.”
The door slammed, and the reverberation echoed through Smite’s throbbing head. But pain or no, he could reconstruct what had happened. Robbie had come upon Smite accosting Miss Darling, and had struck him a blow from behind. Presumably, the two of them had brought him up here, rather than leaving him facedown in the streets. Whoever Robbie was, he was looking for trouble…and dragging Miss Darling into it, right alongside him.
A mess, and Smite had landed himself squarely in the middle of it. He exhaled covertly.
Miss Darling was alone now. Her hair caught the last rays of the sun through what appeared to be a garret window. It seemed to catch into a brilliant orange—like a stack of foolscap thrown on the fire, bursting into flame.
She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God,” she moaned. “What am I going to do?” Her body curled in on itself. She brought her knees up on the seat beside her and hugged them close, rocking back and forth. It was still impossible to judge her age. She looked young now. Alone and unprotected.
Not a comfortable realization, that. She hid her vulnerability so well that his discovery felt curiously intrusive. As if he’d seen her stripped to her chemise, and she hadn’t yet realized he was looking. He shut his eyes, giving her the privacy she thought she had.
He didn’t think she would want him to watch her weep.
Instead, she sighed and he heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of steam being released, and the dull clank of wood on metal. Stirring the pot on the hob, he guessed.
“No,” she said aloud. “You can’t have any. I’ve already got laundry to send out because of you.”
Another poor choice on her part. She had to eat. It was a foolish economy to skimp on her own meals to feed her surly charge; if she wasn’t eating, it was hardly surprising that she made bad decisions.
“You really don’t want any,” she continued. “Don’t give me that look. Dogs don’t eat gruel.”
Dogs?
His eyes flew all the way open and he half sat up. From this new vantage point, he could see everything: the carpets on the floor, so worn he could see the wood beneath them; the whitewash flaking from the walls. What furniture there was consisted of old trunks and barrels with blankets tossed over them. Miss Darling stood at the hob, spooning something white and porridge-looking into a bowl.
And yes, a dog sat next to her, watching with a hopeful expression that Smite knew all too well. Not that he could see it at this distance. But he recognized that expectant quiver in the dog’s haunches.
Of course, it was not just a dog; it was his dog. Suddenly Robbie’s line about bringing company made sense. Ghost had tracked him down. Smite’s eyesight blurred, and then focused on the creature’s silhouette. Gray muzzle. Gray chest. Paws… Damn. No longer white and pristine.
That smell he’d dismissed as a consequence of living in the slums? It wasn’t caused by poor sanitation. It was his dog. His own disgustingly filthy animal. Ghost appeared to have found every pile of horse manure between here and the Council House.
“Ghost!” Smite said sharply. “Get away from there. Stop your begging this instant.” His own voice sent a pulse of pain through his head.
Ghost turned, saw Smite sitting up on his elbow, and launched across the room. His paws were positively black, his chest spattered with drying mud—yes, Smite was going to call that dark filth mud out of grim optimism. Ghost, of course, had no idea that he was
“Where are you going? You haven’t eaten.”
Smite turned his face toward the draft, but his head throbbed and he shut his eyes, dizzy once more.
“Going to smoke with Joey,” Robbie said. “And don’t give me that look—at least smoking’s healthful. Everyone says so.”
The door slammed, and the reverberation echoed through Smite’s throbbing head. But pain or no, he could reconstruct what had happened. Robbie had come upon Smite accosting Miss Darling, and had struck him a blow from behind. Presumably, the two of them had brought him up here, rather than leaving him facedown in the streets. Whoever Robbie was, he was looking for trouble…and dragging Miss Darling into it, right alongside him.
A mess, and Smite had landed himself squarely in the middle of it. He exhaled covertly.
Miss Darling was alone now. Her hair caught the last rays of the sun through what appeared to be a garret window. It seemed to catch into a brilliant orange—like a stack of foolscap thrown on the fire, bursting into flame.
She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God,” she moaned. “What am I going to do?” Her body curled in on itself. She brought her knees up on the seat beside her and hugged them close, rocking back and forth. It was still impossible to judge her age. She looked young now. Alone and unprotected.
Not a comfortable realization, that. She hid her vulnerability so well that his discovery felt curiously intrusive. As if he’d seen her stripped to her chemise, and she hadn’t yet realized he was looking. He shut his eyes, giving her the privacy she thought she had.
He didn’t think she would want him to watch her weep.
Instead, she sighed and he heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of steam being released, and the dull clank of wood on metal. Stirring the pot on the hob, he guessed.
“No,” she said aloud. “You can’t have any. I’ve already got laundry to send out because of you.”
Another poor choice on her part. She had to eat. It was a foolish economy to skimp on her own meals to feed her surly charge; if she wasn’t eating, it was hardly surprising that she made bad decisions.
“You really don’t want any,” she continued. “Don’t give me that look. Dogs don’t eat gruel.”
Dogs?
His eyes flew all the way open and he half sat up. From this new vantage point, he could see everything: the carpets on the floor, so worn he could see the wood beneath them; the whitewash flaking from the walls. What furniture there was consisted of old trunks and barrels with blankets tossed over them. Miss Darling stood at the hob, spooning something white and porridge-looking into a bowl.
And yes, a dog sat next to her, watching with a hopeful expression that Smite knew all too well. Not that he could see it at this distance. But he recognized that expectant quiver in the dog’s haunches.
Of course, it was not just a dog; it was his dog. Suddenly Robbie’s line about bringing company made sense. Ghost had tracked him down. Smite’s eyesight blurred, and then focused on the creature’s silhouette. Gray muzzle. Gray chest. Paws… Damn. No longer white and pristine.
That smell he’d dismissed as a consequence of living in the slums? It wasn’t caused by poor sanitation. It was his dog. His own disgustingly filthy animal. Ghost appeared to have found every pile of horse manure between here and the Council House.
“Ghost!” Smite said sharply. “Get away from there. Stop your begging this instant.” His own voice sent a pulse of pain through his head.
Ghost turned, saw Smite sitting up on his elbow, and launched across the room. His paws were positively black, his chest spattered with drying mud—yes, Smite was going to call that dark filth mud out of grim optimism. Ghost, of course, had no idea that he was
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