The Crimson Shard (15 page)

Sunni’s face fell, and he knew she was thinking of the boy who’d owned the stockings. “Do you think Throgmorton will punish the boys because we got away?”

“I hope not. Better not to dwell on it,” he said, packing his belongings into a worn leather satchel he’d gotten from Jenny. It blended in better than his twenty-first-century messenger bag. “You okay?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Stealing Old Slipper’s watch really got to me.”

“Look, I’ll do the lifting from now on, so you don’t have to. And I know it doesn’t make stealing right, but if it looks like we’re getting out of this place, we can give all the money to people here that really need it.”

Sunni tied her hair back. “Yeah, I guess.”

Blaise leaned over to push a stray lock from her face. At that moment, he felt his old feelings for her come rushing back, but two things kept him from acting on them: the worry that Sunni might push him away — and the fact that everyone around them thought she was a boy.

He pulled back quickly just as Sleek appeared, beckoning for them to come downstairs.

“Who are these magicians you talked about?” Sunni asked when they were seated in the tavern.

“Don’t know them to speak to,” Fleet said, tearing apart the carcass of a roast chicken. “They works their wonders in demonstrations to the public.”

“What are they called?”

“Various names. They comes and goes,” said Fleet. “Mysterious gents with unusual ways, often learned in foreign places. Perhaps one will have the knowledge you needs.”

Sunni asked a question that had been nagging at her. “How long have you known Throgmorton?”

“More than a year. ’Twas in spring, eh, Sleekie?” Fleet said. “That’s when he appeared and the Academy began.”

Sleek shrugged and nodded.

“The boys started in spring last year?”

“Aye.”

“And you’ve been working for Throgmorton all that time?”

“Aye.”

Blaise gnawed on his chicken drumstick and said, “What’s he going to do without you two?”

Fleet thought for a moment. “I suppose he shall find others to ‘borrow’ the paintings. Sleekie and I has been discussing this of late. Before Throggie informed upon us, we was already feeling a shift in the wind.”

Sleek narrowed his eyes. “A chill.”

“It
was
a chill wind, Sleekie. As if Throggie’s Academy business is winding down. For the last few weeks, we has felt uncertain of the future.”

“Did he say anything to make you think that?” Blaise asked.

The nightsneaks snorted and Fleet said, “Nay, why should he? We was but hired hands.”

“You know the real reason the boys copy the artworks, don’t you?” Sunni asked.

“Nothing to do with us. We borrows ’em and, after a time, we returns ’em to the owners’ houses as if they never left.”

She sniffed. “I think Throgmorton is selling the copies.”

“By heaven,” said Sleek, winking at Fleet.

“Imagine,” said his companion.

“The boys draw on old paper smoked to make it look older,” said Sunni, thinking back to the fire in the courtyard.

The pair offered no further information.

“Where do Throgmorton and Livia come from?” asked Blaise.

“That is a mystery,” said Fleet, sipping at his tankard of ale.

Sunni remembered overhearing the nightsneaks’ conversation in the kitchen. “They just appeared at Jeremiah’s, didn’t they?”

“Aye,” said Fleet. “Out of thin air, Mistress Biggins said.”

Out of thin air,
Sunni thought.
Did they arrive through the painted door, too?

Blaise let out a frustrated laugh. “And they act like they own Jeremiah’s house.”

“Perhaps they does,” said Sleek, loading up his pipe.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Blaise. “Jeremiah said his father built that house and no one would ever force him out.”

No one would force him out,
Sunni repeated to herself. But they knew something had forced Jeremiah out. Otherwise he would not have had to build another house to replace it, the one he later filled with his murals.

She remembered the blue plaque on the front of Starling House. It had said something about the house being rebuilt. There might have been a date but, to her annoyance, she couldn’t remember it.

Sleek’s hand waved in front of her face.

“Are you with us, Sunniver?” Fleet asked. “I was saying, let us hope Starling ain’t forced out. He has always been a gentleman to us.”

Sunni shook herself back into the present. “Yes, I hope he’ll be all right.”

“Sleekie, I think we must show them the way to the magicians now,” said Fleet, dusting crumbs off his coat.

Blaise grinned and pushed his empty plate away.

“We’re ready,” Sunni said, hugging her leather satchel. All the clothes and possessions belonging to her twenty-first-century life were hidden in it.

“Sleekie and I will disappear after we leaves you,” answered Fleet. “If we is taken, you will be, too.”

“And vicey-versey,” added Sleek, patting his hat onto his head.

“Wait. We’ll have to get back into Jeremiah’s workshop to go through the painted door,” said Blaise. “You came and went from his house as if it had no locks at all. How do we get in?”

“Aye, well. Sneak inside when Mary is taking in clean laundry or sending the dirty away with the washerwoman, just before sunrise,” said Fleet. “The girl is half-asleep and leaves the door hanging open. Or when Biggins arrives or goes, if you diverts her attention and slips in before she locks up. You is clever enough and shall think of a way.”

“What if there isn’t a way?” asked Sunni. “They’re bound to be on the lookout for us.”

Fleet put one hand on her shoulder. “You has had a bit of nightsneak learning. You will find one.”

“Aye,” agreed Sleek, puffing blue smoke rings toward the Green Dragon’s ceiling.

Sunni looked doubtful.

Fleet sighed and began fishing around in his waistcoat. “’Twill cost me dear to get another,” he said as he laid a key on the table. “Made by a crooked locksmith known only as Lucifer.” He pushed it toward Sunni. “This skeleton key will spring any door in Starling’s house.”

“Thank you.” Blaise put two shillings on the table. “It’s probably not enough, but it’s all we can spare.”

“Special costs,” Sunni quoted with a melancholy smile.

“Aye, well . . .” Fleet stared at the coins, then shoved them back at Blaise. “Keeps your money. You shall need every farthing of it.”

Rain pelted down upon Bandy Lane, turning it into a sea of rubbish floating along the gutters. A few feeble candles blinked from the upper floors of the houses, but except for the Green Dragon’s glow, the lane was dark. None of the residents had bothered to light the lamps above their doors.

Fleet led the way, loping across streaming puddles and kicking dead rats out of their path.

Sunni scanned doors and windows as they went along, unable to shake the feeling that hidden eyes were following them. She kept looking over her shoulder but saw nothing. When they crossed the junction, she looked back one last time, assuming the street would still be deserted. It was not.

The dark shape of a man stood in the gloom. He was still, like an animal sensing prey nearby. Sunni couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was watching them.

“Someone’s behind us,” she hissed to the others.

“Do not run!” said Fleet. “Go swift, but calm. And follow close.”

He quickened his pace and made a sharp turn into a back lane. Once they were out of the man’s view, he whispered, “Good eyes, Sunniver. It may be something, or it may be nothing. Make haste now, boys.”

They moved stealthily from alleys to streets, aiming to outrun the man tailing them. Sunni glanced at every face they passed, looking for inquisitive eyes intent upon tracking them. But the people hurrying past took no interest in anything or anyone except escape from the lashing rain.

The nightsneaks finally pulled Sunni and Blaise into a quiet corner.

“This is as far as we goes. ’Tis no use being seen together,” said Fleet. “You carry on through the back streets: next right, second left, and first right again until you comes into Piccadilly. Find the theater at number 24, where magicians conjure wonders for ladies and gentlemen at three pence a ticket.”

“Thanks for everything,” Sunni said, panting, still watching for the dark figure who had followed them.

“Maybe we’ll see you again at the Green Dragon,” said Blaise.

“Not if oglers is nearby watching for us — and for you. Best not to return there. Sleekie and I will disappear now.”

They shook hands all around and Blaise checked that neither of the nightsneaks had picked his pocket at the same time.

With a grin, Fleet turned away. “To the top of the dung heap, Sleekie.”

Sleek raised one black-gloved finger to the brim of his hat before the pair slipped away into the night.

S
unni and Blaise stood for a few moments, saying nothing.

Then Sunni shivered, her jacket sodden with rainwater. “I know they’re thieves and everything, but they did look after us. Now there’s no one.”

“I know.”

“I feel like they’ve dumped us.” Sunni wiped a drip from the end of her nose. “Though I know they didn’t.”

“But that was the deal. No use crying over it now.”

“I’m not crying. It’s the stupid rain!” She kicked at a stone, and her wet shoe flew off into a deep puddle.

Blaise turned away, his mouth hidden behind his hand, which made things even worse.

“Stop laughing,” Sunni said, outraged.

“Your shoe . . . The way it flew off . . .”

She limped to the puddle and fished out the shoe. Water drained from the inside, and she shoved it back on her foot with a squelching sound.

“Hilarious.”

“Sorry.” Blaise snorted into his fist. “I can’t help it.”

“Give me a break. You look as ridiculous as I do.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m glad no one at home can see us.”

“You’re glad they can’t see your stick-insect legs in tights,” said Sunni. “I’m glad they can’t smell us.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Yeah, I stink. And so does everyone else.”

“I’d kill for some toothpaste.” Blaise stuck out his tongue and then his serious face returned. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They threaded through the back streets Fleet had directed them to, keeping their hats lowered and satchels safe. Every time someone bumped into them, they hastened away. Just before reaching the dark expanse of Saint James’s Park, they turned into Piccadilly and found number 24, which housed a shabby theater.

Blaise looked around. “Is the coast clear?”

“I think so.”

A few well-dressed people struggled out of carriages and sedan chairs, adjusting their wigs before entering the theater, but most people were on foot. Sunni and Blaise joined the queue and paid their coins to a man who looked unimpressed with their streaming wet clothes leaking onto the floor. When they stepped into the small theater, another man pointed them toward the cheapest benches.

The room was heady with the smell of humanity, tobacco, and candle wax. No one seemed in a hurry to sit down. Ladies wandered about to speak with one another, and men smoked together in clusters.

“‘Monsieur Farlowe’s Spectacle, presented by Monsieur Farlowe himself, Celebrated Magician, including Neptune’s Grotto, Mister Jollity’s High-Wire Walkers, and Madame Morency’s Menagerie,’” Sunni read aloud from the playbill. “It says here that Neptune’s Grotto presents a tableau of living mermaids, centaurs, and other monsters thought previously to be mythical. This ought to be interesting.”

“Sounds like a freak show,” Blaise said.

He bought them two small pies, and they jammed them into their mouths, then wiped their fingers on their breeches like the men around them.

There was still a dull chatter of voices as lamps were extinguished and the theater went dim. Torches danced beside a bloodred curtain. At last the audience grew quiet, until there was only a hush of whispers. A small orchestra fired up its violins and horns, sending a strange lullaby soaring into the smoky air.

“Look,” whispered Blaise. “There are empty spaces in front. Let’s go.”

“What if they chuck us out?”