Alias Dragonfly by Jane Singer Page B

shabby door front, every face I’d seen. That, as you know, was easy for me.
    We walked further, at least another mile. At last, we came to a street. It was clean, almost serene, with a small park and a grove of leafy oak trees.
    A few children played, spinning tops, pitching horseshoes. Their mothers or governesses sat knitting or chattering close by.
    “I’ll leave you now,” Mr. Webster said.
    “Why?”
    Would he leave me alone? Here, in the middle of a strange city that crackled and smelled, and hummed and unnerved me?
    “Stay right here on this bench. Someone will contact you very shortly. You’ll be addressed by the name of Fiona. Remember that. Wait for that.” He looked at the children and sighed deeply. “That little tyke with the brown hair and gap-toothed smile,” he said softly. “My only son . . . there is, was, a resemblance. I’ve missed out, you see. He’s a man now, and has no idea what I do.” I saw a mist of tears forming in his eyes. But not for long. He blinked and drew up straight, alert like a hunting dog waiting for a quail to fly out of a bush. “Remember to stay right here, Miss Bradford.”
    As Mr. Webster was leaving, he stopped to pick a bunch of buttercups. He held them to his nose, then disappeared into the grove of trees.
    I too watched the children, their faces like flowers as they darted about, singing, tussling in the sunlight. I was never that carefree, I thought. Never.
    What would happen next?
    An elderly woman carrying a cloth bag lowered herself with some difficulty onto the bench next to me. She had sparse, silver hair that peeked from a wide-brimmed straw hat.
    “I’ve none of my own,” she said. “Little ones, that is. I could watch them all day.” She rummaged in her bag, her hands stiff and gnarled.
    “My knitting needles, might you help me get them out, dear? I’m making a sweater for one of those girl-children, any one of the bunch. I’ve named them all Amy after my dear sister who left this earth sixty-seven years ago. Or was it last week?”
    She looked at me with milky, clouded-over blue eyes.
    “Amy, is that you?”
    I found her needles and put them in her hands. “No, ma’am. I’m not Amy.” Was this the woman who would call me Fiona?
    “Yes, you are Amy!” she shouted, holding her hands over her ears.
    Just then, a rubber ball hit me square on my arm. I caught it, looking for the child who might have thrown it.
    He was next to me in a wink: A tiny boy wearing a black slouch cap pulled down to his nose grabbed the ball from me.
    “You’ll get a spanking surely for that, Mikey!” a woman called out, coming straight toward us. She was red haired, slender, and small, not young or old, wearing a blue bonnet and a simple gray dress. “You scared me silly. Come along, now, Fiona, Mikey, the both of you!”
    Fiona! The name Webster told me someone would use. Fiona.
    The boy trotted obediently to the woman’s side. “Sorry, Mama,” he piped in a high squeaky voice.
    “You foolish girl.” She pointed at me. “You were supposed to be watching over him!” she snapped. “Come with me, Fiona.” I hesitated. “Now!” she said. I got up to follow her.
    When we were just outside the park, she reached into her pocket and pulled out several coins. She dropped them into the boy’s hand. He picked one up and bit down hard on it. “They’re beauties!” he said, smiling broadly, showing a set of uneven, stained teeth. He pulled up his pant leg and shoved the coins into his sock. Only then did I see he was not a true boy at all. He was a young man, no more than three feet tall, with hairy legs and tiny, and calloused hands. “Thanks, Mike,” the woman said. He doffed his hat to her.
    “You got distracted, rummaging into that old woman’s bag,” she said sharply to me. “She was no threat, but you didn’t know that. Listen well, girl. You will never, never know if someone is a true danger. You must be alert and on guard at all times. Expect