But he was damned if he was going to let that one freak get away and show the rest of them that Broderick Loveless was a man easily swindled.
“We did what we always do, Boss,” the strong man spoke up, his freshly shaven face gleaming against the fire. “We put on a show, like you asked of us.”
“Then, why do I ‘ave less money in me pocket!?”
Broderick suddenly felt rage overtake him, and he lunged at the strong man, grabbing him by the shirt collar. The man, however, did nothing. The rest of the wonders knew that Hercules could easily push Broderick away, and do with him whatever he wished. He had more strength in his single finger than Broderick had in his both hands.
But that would only lead to more punishment. They’d learned that lesson the hard way. So, Hercules endured the hold of cold, claw-like fingers, just waiting for it to subside.
“Argh!” Broderick growled loudly, himself realizing that there was no point in this.
He couldn’t kill him, even if he wanted to. He couldn’t afford to lose another freak. Not now when the most important one was gone. He could also never intimidate them with brute force. They’d witnessed it. They’d been victim of it all their lives. And, what one already endured, was no longer frightening.
Finally, he let go of Hercules, and pushed him away as hard as he could. Hercules stumbled, but remained on his feet.
“If I find out any of ya had anythin’ to do with Rosalie escapin’, I’ll make ye give up the ghost myself!”
He turned, kicking the same bucket once more, mumbling something to himself. He didn’t care one bit about the change that still lay on the table in his wagon. Usually, Broderick was unyielding about locking his doors. He trusted no one. To him, everyone was a thief in disguise, and he didn’t want to risk being robbed.
This time, he couldn’t care less whether anyone would take that money. It was pity money. Money that wouldn’t last a single day, let alone a few days or even a week.
He knew that he needed another solution to this problem, at least until he found Rosalie, and everything went back to normal. His normal. The way he always saw things between him and Rosalie developing. Only she was too stupid to realize that she was actually being handed a blessing.
* * *
It was a dark alley Ewing found himself in, even though evening hadn’t come yet. There were no streetlights there, and no late afternoon sunlight oozed through the tightly squeezed ale houses and taverns. It was perfect, because he needed to conduct his business far away from the prying eyes of London streets.
He leaned onto his cane, one that he had needed for the last few years. But he was still able to give someone a good whippin’. That much he had already proved.
Suddenly, a sound of scurrying feet was heard. Some chuckles.
“Ova here!” Ewing heard one voice shout, and the scampering feet rushed into the alley.
It was a small group of dirty, ragged boys, some with their hats on, others with their hair ruffled and black as coal. One of them had only one shoe, and his other foot was protected by a sock alone. He was smaller than the others. Probably younger, too. Ewing doubted that he ever got a good portion of whatever it was the boys pickpocketed.
“Mr. Ewing, Mr. Ewing, we found out where she is!” one of the boys shouted louder than all the others. He was the tallest, with a few hairs already on his upper lip.
“All right, settle down, lads,” Ewing knocked onto the ground with his cane, trying to establish order. “I got a shillin’ ‘ere, for the one that tells me what I need ta know.”
Again, the boys started shouting all at once, and it was impossible to make anything of it. Their little hands reached out to him, desperate to be chosen. Ewing knew how to handle this situation. He simply turned to the other side and started walking away. The noise immediately ceased.
Grinning to himself, he waited a few moments more. Then, he turned to them.
“You.” He pointed at the boy with only one shoe. His face was slightly greasy, hiding a few orange freckles. His eyes were alert. Hungry. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Jonathan, sir,” the boy replied, taking off his hat and twisting it in his hands.
“Where is the woman I’m lookin’ fer?”
“She is a governess at Hudson Estate,” Jonathan spoke, his voice trembling before the man who was responsible for whether or not he and the rest of the boys would have any dinner that night.
“How do you know this?” Ewing inquired. “You need to be sure. I don’t want no hear ‘n say, lad.”
“It’s not, sir, honest!” Jonathan whined nasally. He was barely seven years old. Maybe not even seven, and already out in the streets, fighting for survival.
Ewing knew that the street allowed only the toughest to survive. That small, still humane part inside of him wished this boy to learn how to toughen. And quickly. Otherwise, the darkness of the streets would swallow him alive.
“Their cook told Mrs. Harris, over at the butcher’s that they got a white governess, as white as a ghost! I heard ‘er myself!” Jonathan explained, and the rest of the boys just nodded. “It has to be her!”
