May 1832
Whitechapel, London, England
Night was the best time to hunt—especially if you relied on stealth, not strength, to snare your prey. The few lamps flickered in the heavy fog, camouflaging Hannah Moses against sooty boards hastily nailed over a broken door. A sliver of light from an upstairs window made the cracked stones of the alley glitter.
A gust of unseasonably cold wind rippled through Hannah’s skirts as she moved toward the almost empty street, splashing damp debris through the moth holes in the bottom of her petticoats and the hem of her worn gray cloak. Her big toe, having burst through her hastily repaired stockings, burned as the chill seeped into her boots. With a grunt, she wedged herself between the slats of a rotting fence, the soggy wood high enough to conceal her presence.
Come on, come on.She tapped her half-numb foot against the ground and rubbed her hands together, her fingers still icy through her woolen gloves. Craning her neck, she peered onto the road just in time to see a weathered drunk toss up his supper. The manproceeded to keel over, face-first, giving the scavengers a good peek at his pockets.
They were upon him in a flash, mostly boys, with a few girls in the mix, jabbing and pulling at each other to get to the body fast enough. While some of the older ones shoved, a few smaller, cleverer ones slithered between the limbs, picking off buttons and laces—whatever could be sold the next day.
Probably to her shop or another of its ilk. Hannah’s lip twitched at the predictable cycle of London’s lesser neighborhoods, even as her boots pinched and another gust of wind rattled her bones. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her cloak tighter around her arms.
Where was he? She’d been waiting almost a quarter of an hour and she had better things to do than—
“Hello, Hannah.” The dark rumbling whisper came right in her ear, along with his hot, whiskey-scented breath.
“Oy, finally.” With a scowl, she turned back into the alley that had only just appeared to be a dead end to find Ned Phyppers, leaning against the fence next to her.
“What have you got for me?” he asked, reaching out and tracing a rough finger down her cheek.
Hannah rolled her eyes at the gesture. “It’s a bit cold for that, isn’t it?” But she didn’t resist as he moved his body over hers, blocking their faces from onlookers.
When he bent to kiss her ear, she told him, “He’s in the tavern, two streets down. The Speckled Toad.” She gasped as he nipped at the lobe. Closing her eyes, she gave her best impression of a besotted moan—a little show for the benefit of any onlookers.
“He’s there now?” he murmured, taking full advantage of his position to kiss her again, this time on her neck.
“Will be until at least two.” She nodded, grittingher teeth as he slid the sleeves of her gown down her shoulders, exposing her to the damned cold. “The barkeep is making sure he’s in good spirits.” Biting back a sigh, she pressed herself against him as both a continuance of their charade and because it was truly freezing. “He’ll be alone, in the left corner, facing the fire. Go in through the side door and don’t make too much of a fuss,” she added as he placed a hand on the small of her back, before sliding up her stays.
“Since when do you tell me how to do my job?” he asked as his fingers teased her nipple. She cursed under her breath, forcing herself not to slap his hand away, and instead focused on excising the twinges of guilt she still somehow felt, even after all these years, over what would happen to the hapless people she located for Ned and his customers. A foolish inclination, but one that somehow lingered no matter how hard she sought to squash it.
“I’m not telling you how to do anything. I’m just conveying the owner’s message.” Hannah closed her eyes once more, this time striving to lose herself in the pretense of being wanted and being able to want someone back.
“Keeping him happy is your concern, not mine.” Ned pushed off the fence and crept toward the mouth of the alley, leaving her cold as she readjusted her buttons and cloak.
“It’ll be yours, too, if you ruin my contacts and have to use someone not as reasonable nor agreeable for your information.” She straightened her hood, shielding her face.
“If my men get too rough, I’m sure there are ways you could smooth it over.” He reached back and stroked her cheek.
She rolled her eyes again, this time plucking his hand off, as they were done. “I think I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for that.” More than a little. Funny how quickly time marched on when one always fought to live day to day. Her thirtieth year had come and gone, bringing little lines at the corners of her eyes and thin whisps of gray between the dark brown hairs ensnared in her brush. Not that she’d ever been a great beauty in the first place. Ordinary at best, without much else to recommend her besides her now well-honed sense of self-preservation.
“You still have your charms.” In three quick steps Ned was before her once more, leaning in, hand back on her breast—as if to translate the actual meaning of her “charms”—before continuing. “And if this goes well…” His lip curled as he fiddled with her collar.
However, he did not meet her gaze. Did not look at her face. Not that she expected more. After all, they were both using each other. An honest arrangement between fellow creatures of the night. Thoughhehad all the power and needed to be handled with extreme care if she wanted to keep her other business open—and her heart still beating in her chest.
Another blast of icy wind swelled between the buildings, as if spring was just another promise the world would fail to keep.
“It’s late.” She drew back, before giving his arm a quick squeeze through his jacket. “And you need to be getting on with it. You have work to do.” Holding her head high, she brushed past him onto the street.
Leaving instead of being left.
“That I do. Next time, perhaps,” he called after her, and she forced herself not to turn around.
Next time.There would most certainly be a next time. And maybe, if she took a sip or two or three of whatever he’d been drinking, she could turn off her mind and just enjoy things. Something that had been a great deal easier when she was younger.
A drop of rain plunked on her head, and she pressed herself flush against the pavement beside closed shops and boardinghouses, avoiding the gutters as she traveled westward. Home. To the far edge of Whitechapel and the pawnshop her parents had built after fleeing Odessa, changing Moscovich to Moses. Before things had gotten worse—for all Jews, not just those of ill repute and poor girls whose parents had too many mouths to feed. To the shop they’d run together, as a family, until it was just her and her sister.
Only, unlike her, Tamar was made for something bigger. For the future that had nearly been hers once. With new gowns and fine food and pretty jewels. Not to mention respectability and reentrance into the Jewish community—a place that tolerated them when her parents donated enough money for a plaque on the synagogue wall, only to denounce them when they’d become the gentiles’ monsters to slay. Now they pretended the Moses sisters didn’t exist altogether.
