“Right! Bonfire night.Remember, remember, the fifth of November.Mostly by blowing things up. Including fireworks, in honor of foiling Fawkes’s plan to blow up parliament. When did that happen? About fifty years ago?”
“1605.”
“Huh. History. Really not my thing.”
“Evidently. Yes, we have Gunpowder Treason Day, which can be celebrated with bonfires and fireworks. In fact, until about ten years ago, it was illegal not to celebrate it.”
I peer at him.
“The Observance of Fifth November Act,” he says. “It was repealed in the past decade.”
I can’t tell whether he’s serious. Before I can ask more, we arrive at the pub. It’s a tavern in a middling area of the Old Town. Very small, very dark, very much a local watering hole. At this time of day—early afternoon—it’s only about half full.
Using the description Lewis’s sister gave, it’s easy enough to find the valet, being the only guy under forty. He’s deep in conversation with an older man, and unless his “job” involves chatting up customers while downing a pint himself, he is not working.
Here’s another interesting thing about Victorian life. When I see depictions of domestic staff, they look very proper, like poor relations of the family they serve. Diffident, polite, starched, even a little stuffy. If I could picture their home lives, I’d see them sitting by the fire stitching Bible verses into tea towels. The truth is, of course, that their work persona is an act. Or, more accurately, it’s Victorian code-switching. They act and talk in a manner that reflects well on their employers. Get them away from work, and it’s very different.
Gray doesn’t have a valet, but I’ve met a few, and they are very dapper and proper soft-spoken men. That is not the guy downing that pint. He’s loud, gesturing wildly, and unshaven in a way that suggests he just hasn’t bothered with it in a few days. He’s young—maybe midtwenties—and handsome, and I can tell he’d clean up well enough to present the very picture of a fashionable young valet. Right now, though, he’s off the clock. Permanently off the clock.
As we move toward Lewis, he glances over. Then he stops midsentence, stares at Gray for a moment, drops his pint and runs.
I look at Gray, who looks at me.
“That was... unexpected,” Gray says. “I suppose we should go after him.”
“Nah, we can just grab a drink. He’ll be back soon enough.” I smile at Gray’s obvious disappointment. “Yes, we’re going after him.”
I let Gray give chase out the back door as I head around front. It’s the Old Town, but it’s a decent neighborhood and midday. I’m not concerned about being alone—either for safety or propriety.
I slip out the front and look each way. Like many streets in the Old Town, it’s so narrow that two coaches can’t pass each other. These are medieval roads, meant for walking and riding horses and maybe pulling a cart. At midday, the street is crowded, and I scan for Lewis’s light hair. He hadn’t bothered to grab his outerwear when he ran, which should make him easier to spot. There’s no sign of him, though.
The rear door would likely exit into a close—an even narrower lane between buildings, similar to an alley. I hurry left, spot a close and pick up my pace. I swing into it to find an exceptionally narrow passage. Towering buildings on both sides plunge the alley into darkness. I break into a slow jog as I strain to listen. Somewhere ahead, I catch the pound of running feet.
A rickety wooden staircase blocks easy passage. That’s not unusual. Access to many apartment floors requires external stairs so decrepit they make me shudder. I duck past this set and?—
A figure grabs me from the shadows. I wheel, fists rising, only to stop when I catch a glimpse of a tall man in a fur-trimmed coat and top hat.
“Goddamn it,” I say. “How many times do I need to warn you not to sneak...”
I trail off as I squint up into the pale face of a stranger.
“Well, now, you have a tongue on you, don’t you, lass?”
The man is about Gray’s age and height, but otherwise, there’s no way to mistake one for the other. He’s missing half his teeth, and a dentist would insist on pulling the remainder. Even his coat only superficially resembles Gray’s. It’s shabby and tattered, and the smell of it is enough to have me backpedaling even as his grip tightens on my arm.
“What a fine little thing you are,” he says, with a wave of breath that smells worse than a week-old corpse. “So fancy. Surely you can spare a few coins for my supper, lass?”
I eye him, thinking fast. When he calls me “fine,” he means my clothing, which indicates I have a bit of money. That’s what he’s interested in. While I’m carrying a derringer in my cloak pocket and a knife in my boot, I’d rather not pull them if I can part with a few coins instead. The last time I stabbed a man who grabbed me in an alley, I spent the night in jail for assault.
“I am sorry, sir,” I say with a pretty half curtsy. “I mistook you for another. Yes, I believe I can spare a few pence to help a gentleman down on his luck. God tells us to be charitable.”
I cast my gaze up in what I hope is a pious expression as I fish a few coins from my pocket. When I extend my hand, I see I’m offering three pence and two shillings. More than I intended, but not more than I’m willing to give.
“If you will please remove your hand from my arm, sir,” I say. “Your grip is very tight.”
He tightens it enough to make me inhale sharply.
“Is that better?” he says.
