He blinked as she shimmied a little again before saying, “You don’t have to decide right away. Take some time to think.” She raised a single long finger. “If you agree to my plan, come find me in two days. Third floor, second window from the back, midnight. We’re in Mayfair, not quite on Berkeley Square, but close. I’d use a small rock and work not to break anything.”
Before he could tell her that her wand was worse than her bite—and probably more useful—she’d slipped out, shutting the door behind her.
The bells of St. Botolph’s rang twice as Aaron stretched, cramped after pondering in his room for far too long after Isabelle Lira’s exit. Cracking his tense back, he readied himself for more scrubbing. All the banisters required his attention, not to mention the railings in the ladies’ section. And the rabbi and his students had probably finished their crumb-filled meal, leaving the remnants for him to sweep. He pushed open the door to his home, ready to enter the main part of the building from the alley.
Sunlight streamed in so bright he had to shield his brow. Yes, this was just the type of day he wanted to spend inside cleaning. Scowling a little, he stepped down from his raised doorway to the street, almost tripping on the cloaked figure kneeling in his path. A soft voice made chirping noises as a bony hand pushed bits of bread through the wooden slats of the small crate he’d secured to the backside of the building’s wastewater trough.
A home for his neighbors, to keep the mice free from prying eyes.
Well, from most eyes. But old Miriam wasn’t most. No, the mysterious widow was the Commission of Delegates’ most unlikely henchman, offering information only someone who haunted the night could provide. More than a touch odd, the woman had no past to speak of, a face always hidden beneath her cloak, and the uncanny ability to be about only when the community wanted something from him. He sighed before clearing his throat.
“You shouldn’t feed them,” he called down to her.
She didn’t turn around. “And you don’t?”
“Only when it’s cold.” He bypassed her and moved toward the back entrance. “And just a little, to make sure they stay in their home and out of mine.” Which was why he’d built their house. And occasionally engaged in one-sided conversation with them. Showed them a bit of kindness and respect to entice them to do the same.
Aaron’s lip twisted. If only people were more like mice.
“Hmm.” She continued feeding them, this time imitating their squeaks.
Aaron rolled his eyes. “They carry disease, you know?” He pursed his lips. “At your age—”
“Do you truly care to finish that sentence, Mr. Ellenberg?” The woman finished and stood, assisted by her gnarled wooden cane.
“Not really.” He grimaced. Oy. What was wrong with him today? Yes, he was often a dunce with small talk, but he usually didn’t insult his betters. Especially not Miriam, who had been the one to suggest his job at the synagogue as a way to reintegrate him into the community.
What was it about Isabelle Lira that got under his skin so easily? It wasn’t Miriam’s fault that he was likely going to get kicked on his schlemiel tuchus yet again after involving himself in her dangerous nonsense.
“I didn’t think so.” She turned to face him, her hood drawn so low it cast even her mouth in shadow. With a careful glide, she centered herself.
“I know what side my bread is buttered on,” he replied with probably more glumness than necessary. He toed a chipped stone with his boot, drawing a groove in the graying mud.
“Do you?” Her head tilted beneath the voluminous brown fabric.
A shiver ran down his spine, bringing with it a wave of tension that undid any and all benefits he’d received from his stretching and back cracking.
“I’m very grateful to the community for all they’ve done.” He threaded his fingers together and squeezed. “And I like my job.” Which was true. He did like it. He just wished for more. Especially when talking to someone like Isabelle Lira. He closed his eyes. Oy, he truly was the worst sort of schlemiel, wasn’t he?
The woman barked out a laugh so hard she wobbled. Aaron dashed out to catch her arm, but she pushed him away as she righted herself. “Never attempt the stage, Mr. Ellenberg. You would be better off becoming a shochet first.”
“I was an apprentice shochet. For three months,” he reminded her. “It almost cost me an arm.” And he’d cost his former employer enough money—especially from bleeding all over the meat—that he’d been out on his ear that night, injury or not.
“Exactly my point.” She tutted a little. “Spying, however, can be more easily accomplished with neither a silver tongue nor good aim with a cleaver. Depending on the strategy. As I’ve told you before, there are advantages to being old, invisibility being chief among them.”
Aaron bit back a gasp. How had she—
“What did you hear?” he asked, his throat dry. Or more importantly, what mistake had he made with Isabelle Lira, and how much would it cost him?
“Enough to know that you might have a new employer soon.” Though her face remained hidden, the wryness in her tone was unmistakable. “A young but rather formidable one.”
Soon? Did that mean that Miriam’s employers, the fourteen—well, thirteen, as Isabelle’s father’s seat was still vacant—most prominent and trusted men in the community, actually wanted him to do Miss Lira’s ridiculous bidding? And better, take her money?
“If she knew what she was doing, she’d hire you. You’re the much better spy,” he managed to reply.
“True, but her offer was for you and you alone.” Miriam hobbled closer.
“An offer I haven’t accepted.” Yet. He rubbed his temple. “Aren’t the delegates nervous I’ll muck it all up? This woman and the man she’ll marry and the children they’ll produce are the community’s hope for a successful future, and I’m the community’s shande.”
