revealed that Cadge must be the procurer
among them, the most adept with his fingers. He seemed also to know where every item in the old shelter
had been stored.
"Come, come," Harry urged, gesturing for them to move in closer.
The United Kingdom formed a circle, seated on the cold ground. Somewhere a train rumbled past,
and Jazz remembered where they were, how deep, with the whole of modern London looming over their
heads and only the echoes of the past around them. She studied Harry's face, searching for guile or cruelty,
but saw only a gleaming pride in his tribe, a love for them that seemed simultaneously out of place and all
too natural there in the forgotten cellar of the city.
Harry settled down, leaving Jazz the only one standing. He gestured for her to take a place beside
him in the circle.
"Small comforts in our kingdom, love, and chairs not among them. Do join us, please."
For a moment, Jazz was struck by the upturned faces of Harry's followers. The word urchins
would not leave her head, though surely many of those nine children were far too old to bear the word
comfortably. Still, urchins they were. Lost and dirty children, far from whatever homes they might once
have had. They looked to her like schoolchild-ren waiting for the teacher to begin reading, eyes alight with
the eager anticipation of story time.
I'm Wendy Darling, she thought. But Jazz understood her foolishness instantly, and a tremor passed
through her. Neverland did not exist in the rotting belly of London, un-der the feet of the world, and these
were not the Lost Boys. Wendy Darling had run off on a girlish whim, heart aflutter with the allure of Peter
Pan, and when she'd gotten over her crush, her parents were waiting for her with open arms, ready to
whisper happily-ever-afters as they tucked her into bed.
There'd be no fairy-tale ending for her. Not with those words her mother had written in blood.
"Thank you," Jazz said, her voice quavering only a little.
She sat down beside Harry, and a collective sigh of relief seemed to sweep over the tribe of urchins
—the United Kingdom. Did that make Harry the king? she wondered.
"The circle is for sharing stories," Harry began a bit cer-emoniously, though his eyes were gentle.
"Whether it be the day's adventures, or the nightmares that wake us in the night, or the longings for times
gone by, what's spoken here is never judged, never questioned. We bring only truth to the circle."
The nine apostles nodded their assent and Jazz followed suit.
"A time for proper introductions, then," Harry said, turning to Jazz. "Harold Pilkington Fowler, at your
service."
He made a bow of his head and spoke the words with a courtly flourish of his hand. Jazz gnawed her
lower lip for a moment, glancing nervously about. Shouldn't she still be running? Or was there simply
nowhere left to run? She had no reason to trust this odd band, save that they seemed the utter opposite of
the Uncles and their BMW men. Harry Fowler's tribe was the opposite of everything, really. Oppo-site of
the world as she'd always known it.
A twitch of a smile touched her lips. Their oppositeness suddenly seemed more than enough reason
to trust them. Thieves, ruffians, and scoundrels they might be, but she sensed the nobility in them and a
sense of honor she'd rarely encountered among the tidier folk aboveground.
Jazz returned Harry's bow and offered her hand. "Jasmine Ellen Towne, Mr. Fowler. And she's
grateful for your hospitality."
Harry beamed. He shook her hand and then adjusted the lapels of his coat as though chairing a
meeting of the board of a brokerage or similarly snooty enterprise.
"Now then, my compatriots, my fine filchers, do like-wise please and make yourselves known to our
Jasmine —"
"Jazz," she interrupted. "Just Jazz, please."
Hattie sighed, rolling her eyes. "'Course it's just Jazz. I said as much, didn't I? We don't care much
for proper names down in the kingdom. No use for 'em."
She wore a pale peach bonnet with faux flowers on the brim and a smear of black grease along one
ragged side. Jazz wondered how many hats she had hidden about the shelter.
"Jazz it is, then, and a fitting name. Improvisation is vi-tal to our little enterprise, so I hope you shall
earn the appel-lation," Harry said. "But back to our introductions. Round the circle, if you please."
And they began. The boy to Jazz's left had small dark eyes set back in his face above a long thin
nose that had been broken more than once. She'd thought his name would be Rat, or some synonym, but he
went by Bill, an ordinary enough name.
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