“Did some of your sense burn in the fire? I’m not going anywhere, man,” you tell Mac. “I’m fully involved with…with the fate of the orphans. I’m sticking this out, come hell, high water, or Constantina.”
Mac flinches at the name, but his clear eyes blaze with admiration. They also can’t help but follow the trajectory of the parchment as you tuck it into your straining bosom for safekeeping.
You watch as the firefighters finally arrive. They do their best to put out the blaze, but the home has been demolished. Mac’s spirits, too, seem to be sagging.
“Aye,” he says sadly. “Before, I had a home for the orphans that was missing the comforts of such. Now I have the orphans, and nothing else.”
“Not so fast, m’lad!” Abercrombie returns from whatever business he was conducting during the fire. “I just sent word to my people back home in Scotland. I own a ramshackle old place in the Highlands, and it’s yours for the using. Now, a large part of the walls and roof need mending, not to mention that it is far from the only home the orphans know, but—”
“It’ll do!” you and Mac respond in cheerful unison. You beam at each other, and at Abercrombie, and as a result the children respond with wild, happy confusion.
“It’s settled, then!” Abercrombie roars. “I need to stay behind while I sort out a few things, but I suggest you take the orphans to the Highlands straightaway.”
Abercrombie says his farewells, and you and Mac set about arranging travel. “I’m sure Madam Crosby could lend a hand,” you say.
“Or a few other body parts,” says a sweet, thin voice. You turn and see two ladies hovering by you who are, by the looks of them, “professionals” from the nearby Rose & the Smoke. The smaller of the two nods at you and continues speaking.
“The name’s Jane, and this is Gertie.” She gestures to her friend, who has a sumptuous crop of strawberry-blonde hair. “We was wondering…well, you see, I have been wanting to get out of London for quite some time now. But it is hard, miss, when you have been in our line of work, to move on.”
“People don’t like giving girls like us second chances,” Gertie says, nodding in agreement. “And when I heard that you was leaving town, I thought to meself, well what if we went with you?”
“We’d help with the ankle biters, miss!” says Jane. “I’m the oldest of eighteen brothers and sisters. I know how to handle a group of screaming brats!”
“Not that we think your wards are screaming brats,” Gertie says harshly, glaring at her friend. “But we could help look after them…Not being funny, love, but you do seem rushed off your feet.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Timmy screaming as Dodger charges headfirst into an oyster girl, sending shellfish flying across the cobblestones and into several passersby. You and Mac exchange glances and sigh.
“That would be wonderful,” says Mac.
“Oh, thank you, Captain!” exclaim Jane and Gertie.
“No, thank you,” you say vehemently. “However, we do still have the problem of how to get twenty children from London to Scotland. You wouldn’t know where I could procure a wagon or cart of some sort at a reasonable price?”
“We can do you one better than that, love,” says Gertie. “Give us a couple of hours and a chance to call in a few favors, and we will find you one for free!”
A few hours later, a solid, if humble, cart lined with soft straw is ready to be filled with the children.
“You are marvels!” you say to Jane and Gertie.
“We also brought you something else,” says Jane, offering a bundle of sensible but high-quality fabric. “Seeing as your dress got ruined.” You look down and see the smoke- and mud-stained wreck you are wearing. They are not wrong.
You hastily go to change into the dress, made of a rich forest-green fabric. Clearly designed as simple everyday wear for the ladies of the Rose & the Smoke, it is still finer and more revealing than anything else you have previously owned. You awkwardly cross your arms over your chest, but it only seems to add to the effect.
Something, or someone, is adding to the heat of your embarrassment. You look up to catch Mac, entranced, taking in the newly revealed curves of your body. He snaps his gaze away as soon as you look, but as you load the orphans into the wagon, you are gratified to see that Mac is unable to keep his eyes from you. Your satisfaction is of course foolish—you are here to work, not expose your bosoms to handsome Scotsmen. You continue your work as primly as possible and try to concentrate.
As you do, a dark blur tugs at the edge of your vision. You turn to make out just what it is, but the figure suddenly melts into the depths of the murky shadows of the street like a soul of the damned sent to wander this earth, never finding salvation.
You dismiss it as nothing.
Get ye to the Great North Road! And Scotland! Turn to .