I don’t answer, my mind combing over the reasons why a boy might be out this late on a weeknight.
“How old are you?” he prods, taking a step toward me.
I dip my chin. “Four ... fourteen, sir.” I’m quietly grateful that I’ve always looked younger than my age.
“Does your mother know you’re out here alone?”
I could almost laugh at the irony of his question. “I don’t have a mother anymore, sir. I live with my aunt.”
“I see,” he says, giving me a calculating look. “Why are you out so late?”
“My cat. She’s been lost these three nights past, and I thought I heard her crying.” The lie is so quick and clever I can’t help but be proud of it.
“Well, best hurry home. There’s only trouble to be found this late. There was a murder just a few streets away.”
“Tonight?” I feel my skin blanch. “A ... a murder?” Another one?
“Yes. Now hurry along. And don’t let me see you out here again.”
“Yes, sir.” I stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. I must be deferential and walk on, and look as if I’m going home, lest the officer follow me and ask more questions I don’t want to answer. But if I truly did have a cat, I’d still be worried about her. “What about my cat, sir?”
The officer’s lips purse. He shifts his weight from side to side impatiently. “What does she look like, and where do you live? If I find her during my patrol, I’ll bring her home to you.”
“She’s a ginger cat,” I lie. “And I live there.” I wave my hand in the general vicinity of Guignard Street.
He gives me a curious look. “Well, run along now.”
I turn and walk away briskly, with purpose, as if I’ve somewhere to go. When I’m nearly to the corner, I turn to look. The guardsman has gone back to his patrol, pacing the riverfront with steady, long strides.
I sigh, my shoulders wilting. Another murder. Probably a lady of the night, like Sally, close as I am to Elliott Street’s brothels and taverns. I’m doing the right thing, leaving. These streets no longer feel safe. For many reasons.
I tuck into an unlocked stall in the market and rejoice at the sight of a shriveled orange the dock rats have yet to find. After eating its stringy, tough pulp, I collapse into myself, my grief over Papa and my fears of the future taking hold. When sleep finally claims me, I dream of Rebecca.
In the dream, we’re both young, and it is Christmastide. Mother sits in the background with her tatting as Rebecca and I play by the fire with new porcelain dollies. But something isn’t right. Rebecca’s doll looks just like her. But my doll has no eyes, no face. Her neatly parted brown hair is her only defining feature.
“What will you name her?” Rebecca asks. Her eyes are bright, and her color high—the perpetual roses in her cheeks even more florid, as if she’s feverish.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “What wouldyouname her?” I stroke my doll’s soft hair.
“Prudence . . . or perhaps Temperance.”
“She has good Christian values, does she?” I ask, slyly.
“It’s more that she’s plain. Like you. Those are good names for a plain girl.”
I bite my lip and turn to study the flames flickering in the grate. Tears bristle in my eyes. Rebecca doesn’t mean to be cruel. She’s only parroting the things Mother says: that she’s the pretty one, and I’m theclever one. Never mind how that makes the two of us feel. I ignore the hurt coursing through me, and smile at her. “What’s your doll’s name?”
“Caroline, like Mama.” She admires the doll’s long-lashed blue eyes, her red-gold locks. “Someday, she’ll marry a prince and have a kingdom full of riches.”
“That’s a lovely thought.”
Rebecca turns her head and coughs. It’s soft, at first, and then it overtakes her completely, shaking her slender frame. Her face reddens, her eyes bulging as she fights for each wheezing breath. Mother rushes over, lifts Rebecca by the elbow. “To bed now, Becca. I’ll fetch your syrup.”
Irritation floods through me. It’s always the same routine. Rebecca has a fit of coughing. Mother comes with the syrup. And no one ever investigateswhythe coughing happens in the first place. “This always happens in the winter. When there’s a fire,” I say. “And again, in the spring. Could it be the oak leaves?”
“What?” Mother asks, frowning.
“The leaves from the oak tree. Siobhan uses them for kindling.”
