The ground was soggy and my boots sank into the mud as I carefully searched among the crates.
I don’t know what I expected to find, yet Mikaela Forsythe had said there were often small details that might go overlooked, something small or insignificant to anyone else. Particularly in places such as the marketplace, where there were a great many people every day.
There were dozens of empty crates, stacked two and three high. As well as a half dozen more that were presently occupied by white and grey chickens who had not yet met their fate.
I then found one set apart covered with a square of canvas. I lifted the edge of the cover. The inside of the crate was covered with dried blood.
I made my way around the crate as the conversation continued at the front of the stall. The canvas protected it from the rain, but the bottom of the crate sat deep in mud.
It was just a glimpse, a bit of colour that poked up out of the muck. I took out the knife I carried and used the tip of the blade to pry that bit of colour from the mud. It was a dark blue feather!
It was soggy and caked with mud, but nonetheless a feather in a brilliant shade of blue.
I glanced at the crates all about that still held chickens that had not yet been sold. They were all a light shade of grey or white, and grey and white feathers covered the ground. There was not a blue one among them.
It had obviously gone unnoticed or was thought to be of no significance. I tucked the feather into my bag. With another look around, I left the stall, as Mr. Meeks and the woman exchanged the usual conversation found in a marketplace as they haggled over the price of a hen.
I heard the sound of raucous squawking as the sky overhead suddenly darkened, and a flock of crows burst into flight. They swept low, one near enough that I saw the flash of that dark eye as it winged past.
“Look out, miss!” a lanky boy cried out as a man in a long coat came at me.
He caught me at the shoulder. He was not large, but powerful, and reeked of some sharp pungent smell as he grabbed for my bag. I refused to let go.
A blow caught me on the cheek, sharp and painful. I slipped in the mud and almost went down as he attempted to wrench away my bag that contained the little money I had left and those bundles of letters Dory had sent me.
Heat exploded in my hand as I fought back. I was certain that it was no more than a glancing blow, yet it was enough as my attacker screamed in pain.
Anger and deadly purpose drained from the expression on his face as his hand loosened about my throat. He staggered back, then stumbled.
He stared at me, his expression stunned. The colour drained from sharp features partially hidden under the brim of his hat and the collar of the long coat he wore. He cursed as if he’d been struck as several people gathered, then turned and fled the marketplace.
“Jings! I ain’t never seen the like!”
The boy reached me, that impish gaze familiar. It was Kip, the streetwise grubby boy I had first encountered in the Close outside Dory’s flat.
“I never seen a woman do that! He musta outweighed ye by a good three stone. Are ye all right?”
I had no idea what he was chattering about. I had been attacked and fought back.
I would admit there was no time for more. I wasn’t able to retrieve the knife from my bag, and the man was too near for any of the defensive moves I had learned at the gymnasium in London.
He had come out of the shadows without warning and I had reacted instinctively.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Kip.
“I scrounge the market for food. There’s some that take pity on a poor child like meself and toss me a cabbage or bread.”
He didn’t seem at all bothered by how sad that sounded as he grinned up at me.
“If sales are thin, they might slip me a sausage at end of day.”
That was obviously the reason he was there.
“How did ye do it?” he asked again. “One minute I was certain the wanker would hurt ye, the next he was runnin’ like his arse was on fire.”
I didn’t know, I had simply fought back.
“He must have stumbled and then thought better of it with people still here.”
