the soulless gaze of a man who would do anything for success, and probably had. A man amongst a sea of boys. He couldn’t have been more than five and twenty, but he had the look in his eyes of someone who had lived a long, long time. The sort of man who had done unthinkable things to survive.
A shiver raced down my spine. If I was going to find a protector, I would sleep with a man like him. A man who would pay well, but keep his distance. At times it was tempting…so damn tempting, to forget the misery of life in a kiss. To lay in bed with a warm, clean male. To have enough money to fill my belly and forget the cramps of hunger. And I only had to sell my innocence. Not that he’d asked…
“Good.” He turned and swept away, like a storm cloud off the harbor. How very peculiar he was. Then again, the rich could afford to be odd. Even the rich who had clawed their way up from the Dublin slums, or so the rumor went.
Bemused, I searched for Mr. Fought. The courtyard of ice and crates stood empty. The world outside quieted as the next shift started. The bastard had managed to escape. A soft rain began to fall. The sort of mist that always seemed to hover near St. Giles, making icy puddles and mold.
I clutched the money in my hand, growling in annoyance. As Aunt Helen used to say, what was done was done, no use in crying about it. I would survive, as I had before. I left the factory courtyard, under the arch of the brick fence that kept us here like glorified prisoners, and headed down the lane.
“No problem,” I muttered to myself, shoving the money into my bodice where it would be safe. “I’ll merely not eat this week.”
Avoiding a pile of frozen horse manure, I found the footpath and headed toward home. Fishmongers stood at the corner, trying to sell their wares before the fish went bad, or the rain turned to sleet. The entire lane smelled of the sea and rubbish. Thinking back to the quaint two bedrooms I shared with Aunt Helen was almost too much to bear. It had been small, but cozy and clean. She’d always made sure we had enough to eat, my gowns were pressed, and my face washed. But that was in the past.
Bleedin short with my wages. If only…
“Ginny, Ginny!” a golden-haired moppet pounced around the corner. “Mummy is ill again.”
“Franny, I told you not to jump out at people! Gah, you’re likely to get a knife to the gut one of these days.” She stared up at me with wide, unblinking eyes. Too pretty for her own good. She was only twelve, but I’d already noticed men glancing her way.
She clutched at her belly, her arms thin and smudged with dirt. “She’s ill, Ginny, and we’re ever so hungry.”
I sighed. Ill? More like bleedin drunk. Wastrel. “Did you try waking her?”
Two men stood on the street corner, watching us. I sent them a glare, before gripping Franny’s arm and escorting her into the small alley that led to our rooms. “Aye, I tried waking her. She just mutters. It’s been two days, Ginny, since we’ve eaten.”
As if she’d willed it on purpose, her stomach growled. I slipped my hand into my bodice and dropped a couple coins into her dirty palm. “Go then, run to the bakery and grab a couple buns.”
She grinned, her eyes alight with life and anticipation. “Thank you.”
“Mind you, get the day-old buns and you can buy more. And no talking to anyone!” She raced around me, her hungry stomach urging her on. “Go directly there and back.”
“Yes, Ginny.”
She scurried off, disappearing around the corner, leaving me in the dark alley, where the buildings were too tall and the dreariness too thick to allow much sunlight. Not that anyone truly wanted to see what lurked in the corners. The squeak of a rat scurrying through a pile of rotten food startled me from my reverie.
“You’re too kind, gurl,” an old crone in rags muttered. She’d been huddled there the last few days but had rarely spoken a word. I’d thought her mute. “Can’t be kind here.”
I tugged the handkerchief from my head, letting the evening breeze cool my sweaty neck. “I don’t know. My auntie said that kindness is all we have here. We certainly don’t have anything else. We