don’t touch ’em till I give you the signal, like this—”
“The Black Thorn?” he asked.
She grimaced. She was so adorable when she was embarrassed. “It’s a stupid nickname. I think it was a joke originally, because it sounded frightening and I was trying to be frightening and wasn’t yet. The only thing intimidating about me was my father’s title. By now it’s just what people call me.”
He wondered suddenly what it had been like for her when she was still learning how to be intimidating. What had she done then when someone pinched one of her waitresses or told her they’d liked her better as a whore? She used to have the most expressive eyes, Sophy had said. He hated the idea of everyone being able to see how scared she was. He hated the idea of her having to destroy that part of herself to become what she was. “What exactly did you tell people you would do to them if they hurt me?”
“You’re too squeamish to know.”
He looked back at Mo. “I’m too squeamish?”
Serena looked back at Mo, too. Her eyes were still expressive, when she wasn’t thinking about it. That made him feel better. “I’m sure she’s heard worse.”
As they walked down to Fleet Market, occasionally stopping to talk to a strolling receiver, Solomon listened to the cries of the vendors with a new ear. “Fine silver eels!” and “Sweet china oranges! Scarlet strawberries!” and “Fresh hot!” How many of them had watches hidden in the bottom of their baskets? How many of them had grubby little apprentices? What could Mo really do if anyone touched her? He wished she’d stolen a shilling.
By the time they reached Fleet Street, he also wished he had four hands. Two pies, an orange, a pitcher of hot tea, and a twist of newspaper with oysters and butter bread inside was a lot to carry even for two people. Luckily, the next man Serena stopped was a basket man.
Dina Levy had heard of his earrings. “Decker has them, unless he is breaking them down already,” she said in heavily accented English, pocketing the half-crown Doyle had refused. “He is a closemouthed old courva, but his client was down at the Blue Ruin last week. Everybody is a gossip with that much gin in them.”
Serena smiled brilliantly. If anything could cheer her up, this would. She was in her element. Solomon tried not to think that if they found the earrings, he’d have no excuse to remain at the Arms. “Thank you, Dina,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”
“Anything I can do for you, Thorn.”
Serena smiled wider. “I’m glad you say that. I owe Pat Doyle a favor, you see, and I know his wife would kill for Abby’s apple fritter recipe.”
Solomon looked at the basket of food with hopeless longing. “Do we have time to eat, do you think, or ought we to go and find Decker now?”
Serena cut her eyes at him. “We aren’t going to Decker’s. I’m going to Decker’s. Alone.”
He frowned. “Is it dangerous? Surely it’s better if we go together.”
“It’s not dangerous. You just can’t go.”
“But he’s got my earrings!”
“And he won’t sell them between now and tomorrow morning. I’ll send him a message directly to hold them for me. He owes me a favor.”
“Why can’t I go?”
She looked away, but he saw her eyes crinkle in amusement. “You’re too squeamish to know.”
When they were finally settled under the mulberry trees in St. James’s Park with their lunch, Serena came out of a brown study to see that Solomon looked dejected, too. “I’ll get the earrings.”
He smiled at her. “I know.”
She looked away.
“I really am sorry about my uncle.”
“Why do you let him treat you like that?” She couldn’t have borne it, but then, maybe that explained why he had a large family that were at least fond of him and she didn’t. She took a bite of her pie.
Solomon looked surprised. “Isn’t that how family is?”
“Endlessly belittling? That’s certainly been my experience.”
Solomon snorted. “It’s different when it’s Uncle Hathaway. When Uncle Dewington tells me it’s time I put all this chemical dye nonsense behind me—deuced bad ton, don’t you know—I just want his guts for garters. Uncle Hathaway has my best interests at heart, at least.” He knotted his fingers and neatly cracked a walnut by snapping his palms together. It shouldn’t have been erotic, but it was. It was getting to the point where nearly everything he did was