Prologue
St. Mary Magdalen Workhouse, London
1813
The girl observedthe two boys from the other side of the dirt square that served as the airing court. Noon now, it was crowded with fifty other children out for their daily dose of sunlight, what little of it filtered through the dense blanket of clouds enshrouding London.
The one boy, she knew.Ned.He wasn’t much to think about. It was the boy on the other side of the crack in the wall who interested her.
The one with his freedom.
With a will of their own, her feet began moving, her scrawny form navigating the frenetic lot, careful not to make eye contact or engage with the other children. She wouldn’t get pulled into any of their scuffles or, worse, games.
Once she’d drawn near enough, the other boy said, “Well, if ye ain’t got the nerve fer it…” He shrugged indifferently.
“Ain’t got the nerve for what?” the girl asked.
Both sets of eyes swung around. Ned’s were wide with guilt, the other boy’s narrow with assessment. A fraught moment lapsed before he said, “The matron got a strongbox in ’er room. Flick Doyle wants it knicked.”
“Flick Doyle?” asked the girl, not one to be put off easily. “Who’s that?”
“Never ye mind,” he said.
The girl felt jittery and excitable, as if coins jangled through her veins. “What’s he want it for?”
“To see if ye got what it takes.”
“To do what?”
The boy sucked his teeth. “To join us.”
“And who isus?”
The boy expertly spat a gob, quick and efficient. “Ye’ll find out, or ye won’t.”
The boy was shifty, but she was determined. “When do you want it?”
“Midnight.”
“Tonight?”
“Now wait a minute,” said Ned. “Ye think ye can just come ’ere an’ take me chance?”
The girl, shorter than Ned by a foot and slimmer than a shadow, squared up to him, fists planted on her hips. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think. And no grassin’. You keep your mouth shut.”
With a neat pivot on her heel, she stalked away, only to return twelve hours later beneath a black sky, a faraway clock ready to strike midnight. As she lugged Mrs. Ditch’s strongbox across the dark, empty yard, it occurred to her that this could be a jape, for she detected no sign of the boy, or anyone for that matter.
Then she heard it, a hissing sound. She squinted into the night. A pale, squiggling hand appeared through the crack in the wall and caught her eye. She scurried toward it as fast as her legs could carry her beneath their heavy load. Upon reaching the wall, she shoved the strongbox through a freshly dug hole at its base and scrambled beneath in quick pursuit. The strongbox wasn’t leaving without her. She came up on the other side dirty, damp, and…
Free.
“That’ll make ye one o’ us, then,” said the boy.
“And who isus?” Maybe she would get an answer now.
“Eels.” The boy must have read confusion on her face, for he continued, “As in slip’ry as one.” His thumb dug into his chest, proud. “’Is lucky eels, that’s what Doyle calls us.”
“Lucky eels,” the girl repeated, testing the words in her mouth. They didn’t feel bad. Not at all. They felt like freedom.
