The day passed slowly. Thorne had given me more work than ever before, and all over the manor, so I spent half the time cleaning, sweeping and dusting, and half the time tramping along drafty hallways, down spirals of servant’s back-stairs. By the time the last hearth was emptied of ash and dirt, and every mantelpiece, table and chair shining from lack of dust, the sun had long set. There I stood, trembling slightly from cold – none of the outlying rooms were consistently heated – and looking out a darkened window at the street beyond. I half-watched a sleek grey car pull up to the mansion next door, and at the same time half-wondered why someone so kind as Mr. Abrams would hire, keep on a man like Thorne. How could anyone possibly benefit from having a Chief Organizer who liked nothing more than to pick on small, inexperienced little girls?
I shook myself abruptly out of my moment of self-pity, and at the very same moment the back door of the grey car flashed open. There was a noise, a faraway sound much too familiar to me, and a small grey figure was thrown out onto the too-white concrete. The door slammed shut; the car smoothly eased away from the curb, turned the corner, and was gone.
The little grey figure did not move. There was something, I thought, very familiar about it, even from a distance. I stared, stared, wondered if the fall from the car had knocked the poor thing unconscious. Did I dare go and investigate? Maids weren’t allowed out-of-doors after nine at night, and it was eight-fifty-five. I didn’t want Thorne to have any more reason to torture me than he did already, but it looked so very cold out there, and the heap of grey wasn’t moving, not even a little…
Two minutes later I’d reached the entry-room, was tiptoeing towards the front door, and my stomach growling selfishly from lack of food. I frowned, knowing that I’d miss any chance of dinner if I didn’t go to the kitchen right then—but how would I sleep, with the image of that pathetic bundle of rags burned into my mind? My fingers wrapped around the door-handle, and I let out a long breath, as if I’d been expecting it to electrocute me at the smallest touch.
The door swung open, and I stepped out onto the stone-paved front step, pulling it shut very quietly behind me. Thorne’ll kill you, hissed a voice in my head. If he ever had an excuse to abuse a servant, it was never as good as this. And what’ll you do with that stupid lump of rags, if it turns out to be a person? Sneak it into your room? Oh don’t be a dimwitted little saint, Lav, you know that won’t work. Another person wouldn’t even fit in that broom-closet!
But I kept on along down the steps, slipped out the side-gate, and made my soft-stepped way along the street. Three, four feet away, I paused, my eyes picking up the faintest movement, my ears detecting that miserable sound once more, that sound I knew much too well.
It was the sound of despair. Misery. And worst, worst of all, shame. Because it was all your fault, all your problem. Nobody should’ve pitied you, they should’ve hated you. Because you were pathetic, worthless, beyond contempt.
I knelt down, whispered, “Excuse me,” and then felt horribly stupid, because who said ‘excuse me’ when someone was lying on the sidewalk sobbing uncontrollably? Who, really?
Sniff, sniff, sniff. A little, pinched white face peered out from the pile of rags, smeared with dirt and what I really hoped wasn’t blood. “What?” the little thing said. Sniff, sniff, sniff.
“Do you have any place to stay for the night?” It popped out of my mouth; I swear I hadn’t meant to say it. But the little creature was so small, so amazingly pathetic. And some nasty old rich jerk had just tossed him – her? – out onto the street—my heart ached at the very idea of just leaving him there, like a pile of garbage for the trash-men to take away.
“What’s it t’you?” He wrinkled his nose – there was, I reasoned, no way anyone would treat a girl like that – and wobbled to his feet, swaying slightly. Then I could see his ridiculous, tattered brown-grey poncho, could stare in utter disbelief at the state of what some people make call his ‘clothes’.
“Please, I have a room you can stay in, if you want. I don’t think my master’ll find out, but if I don’t go in now he most certainly will. Are you coming or not?” I knew any minute I’d hear the sound of the door slamming open, hear Thorne’s voice echoing down the street. And he would be furious, more than he’d ever been before.
The little boy snuffled again, wiped his nose with the back of one tiny, grimy hand, and then nodded. “Mm’kay. But no dogs.” He shook one small fist at me, making it very clear that if there were dogs, there wouldn’t be any more of him anywhere nearby.
“Right,” I said, slightly disconcerted by the vehement tone of his reedy little voice. “No dogs.” He brushed past me, marching down the street as if he owned it all, every bit, and I followed along after. Bad idea, very bad idea Lav. Do you have any idea what—
“Shut up!” I hissed under my breath. I was about to start thinking very angrily back at it when the little boy turned around, one hand on his hip and the other waving exasperatedly at me.
“You comin’ or not?” he called back, and grinned, proud of his impressionistic skills. Then, in case I hadn’t processed it the first time, he said, “No dogs.”
I took his small hand in mine, forgetting about the dirt, and led him up the front steps. “No dogs,” I said, and together, we stepped inside.
The cigar box shut with a snap. “Miss Darrow,” Mr. Abrams said, his voice as soft as always, “I must admit to being disappointed.”
“Sir, I—”
“I invited you into my home, did I not? Paid you, fed you, and with no references at all. Not even a history! Some mystery girl, found on the Darkside by a kind passerby, and hardly old enough to be out of the first order at school. How am I supposed to react, Miss Darrow? What do you expect me to do?” He collapsed into his leather chair, swiveling aimlessly around, and then came abruptly to stop, his eyes catching mine. I saw his cigar, lying forgotten on the papers to one side of his desk. It was a good sign he wasn’t smoking it—he only smoked when he was terribly anxious.
Did I mention his eyes before? Mr. Abrams had eyes like the greenest grass in spring, bright as gems and soft as sunlight. When he was angry about something, as he was when he looked at me then, it seemed a shadow had passed over those sparkling eyes, and the green went dark, melancholy. I hated seeing them like that. “I can only say I’m sorry so many times, Mr. Abrams. He was so small! So…so alone! I watched some rich man’s bodyguard throw him out onto the street, right there in front of Mr. Glasgow’s house. He was covered in dirt and blood, maybe his, I don’t know, but it was so terrible, Mr. Abrams. I only wanted to keep him somewhere safe and warm one night, just ‘til my day off. I thought I’d take him to—to the orphanage, or that maybe one of the other maids would have a place for him to go.” A hopeful glance in his direction told me Mr. Abrams was not at all pleased by my story, and I sighed, looking back down at my feet. Didn’t he understand sympathy? Lord, but the man could be so cold sometimes.
“A young boy is not like a cat, girl. You can’t just find him a home and drop him off there in a box filled with straw. There are procedures, and laws, and protocol for the adoption of any child. I understand that you wanted to help, but it was really none of your business,” he said. I wanted to jump up and down at the unfairness, at the utter lack of sympathy in his voice. Hadn’t he seen the little kid? Hadn’t he seen the cuts and the bruises, the dirt, the months-cultivated grime? And here he was preaching to me about laws and protocol.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, “I don’t care. You can throw me out if you want, and I’m sure you wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it, but I’m not mean like that, Mr. Abrams. I saw the way you ‘took care’ of him! And you let Thorne take him away, and, and…well, it was terrible. You’ve no idea the sort of things Thorne does when you’re not looking, and no idea he would probably do them to that poor kid without a second thought.” I’d stood up, and was trembling there before his desk, partly with anger, partly with fear. What if he really does fire me? What’ll I do? Where’ll I go? Oh Brendan, if you could see how stupid I’m being you’d either laugh or cry, and Lord, I wish I knew which.
“Miss Darrow,” Mr. Abrams sighed, “I would very much like to fire you, after this. There is nothing I despise more”—here he stood as well, setting his hands down flat on the desk with a wham!—“than ingratitude. But…I owe my sister a favor. No need to ask, no need to ask, I shan’t tell servants of my personal affairs, whatever the situation. Violet is much too sweet for her own good, but it would break her heart if she heard I’d dismissed you, and I can’t have that. So! You may stay on, but no more of this ‘saving lost puppies’ business, understand? I will not be so lenient the next time.”
Before he could send me away, I said quickly, “What about Ian?”
Mr. Abrams sat back down, sighing distractedly, and then glanced back up. A thin strand of papery-blonde hair had fallen almost into his eyes, and I swallowed my heart back down my throat, pretending it hadn’t jumped up in the first place. “Is that the child’s name, then? Hah, strange you never told me before. Ian is going to the police station with Mr. Thorne, to make certain no one’s missing him. While they investigate – Lord save us – he will be cleaned up and set to work here. Just little tasks, nothing too strenuous, but I was a boy once, and I remember rather too clearly how very inventive I could become when left with nothing better to do.” He grinned, just for a moment, as if recalling some fond memory.
“Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you, thank you!” I cried, all my anger washed away in a second. “And here I thought you were some awful robot from outer-space.” At this, he looked up, eyebrows raised, and I curtsied hurriedly, knowing his patience would only stretch so far. “Begging your pardon, sir. Sorta, slipped out.”
He waved his hand, sighing again, but this time with a hint of amusement. “All’s well that will hopefully end well, that’s what I always say. Now off you go—I’m certain there’s some work left for you to do, Miss Darrow.”
“Yes sir,” I said, backing out of the room. Unfortunately I was so busy admiring the way his hair shone in the light, I forgot the door was shut, and I hit the thick oak with the back of my head, hard. Sweet Lord, but it just had to make a horrific noise, and I just had to half-fall to the floor. In a second Mr. Abrams was at my side, helping me up, and obviously trying not to laugh. I could feel my face burning like a full-out bonfire, and it was all I could do not to go running from the room.
And, after he’d gone back to his desk and I was about to shut the door, I heard his voice, soft as soft could be. “Miss Darrow?” he said, and there was a smile in his tone.
“Yes, sir?” I said, poking my head around the door. He sat back in his chair, and slowly shook his head, lips just slightly twitching up.
“Try not to hurt yourself, going down the stairs.”
I blushed. “Yessir.”
