Every Whispered Word by Karyn Monk Page B

hot sausage pies an’ mash when ye’re there?”
    Stanley frowned, considering. “They might. Lots o’ people like them.”
    â€œThey ain’t servin’ what people like in the coop,” Bert told him, rolling his eyes. “’Tis all runny gruel an’ sour soup with scarce more than a bone in it, an’ bread so dry it breaks yer teeth when ye bite into it. Ye’d starve to death in less than a week, ye would, an’ there’d be nothin’ I could do to help ye, on account of I’d be starvin’ as well—do ye understand?”
    Stanley smiled. “Sure, Bert. I understand.”
    Bert stared at him in frustration, positive he didn’t understand at all. How could he? The poor chub was too weak in the head to mind the ways of the world. Bert didn’t know whether he’d been born that way or whether he’d had the sense knocked out of him in a brawl. He supposed it didn’t really matter.
    Nearly five years they’d been thick, and in that time Bert had done his best to keep Stanley with a roof over his head most nights, and enough food in his belly most days. That wasn’t easy, given how much he could eat. Like feeding a bloody horse, it was. The minute Bert had a bit of brass in his pocket, Stanley’s belly started groaning. At this rate, they’d be working ’til doomsday and still have nothing to show for it but the rags on their backs and a cold sausage in their hands.
    Bitter frustration pulsed through him.
    â€œWhen I say ye ain’t to do somethin’, ye must mind me—got it? That means when I tell ye not to nick a pie, ye don’t, no matter what yer belly tells ye—right?” He licked his fingers.
    â€œRight, Bert,” Stanley said, anxious to please him. “Ye ain’t mad at me, are ye?”
    Bert sighed. “No, I ain’t mad at ye. I just want ye to mind what I say.”
    Stanley nodded. “What are we goin’ to do now, Bert? Are we goin’ to follow his carriage?”
    â€œToo late for that now, ain’t it? All this time I had to waste tellin’ ye to mind me, an’ now his carriage is bloody gone. We’ve no way of knowin’ what he’s about now.”
    â€œMaybe he’s gone home,” Stanley suggested.
    â€œOh, sure, Stanley, that’s a rare fine idea, that is. The only problem is, his home’s burned to a cinder, so he can’t go there now, can he?”
    â€œNot that home,” Stanley clarified. “His da’s home. That carriage had a fancy crest on it, which means ’tis his da’s carriage, most like. That’s where we should go. Unless ye think we should stay here an’ watch her ladyship. Whatever ye think is right, Bert. Ye’re the one with the brains.”
    â€œThat’s right, I am.” Bert knit his dark brows together, considering. “We’ll head over to Bond Street an’ ask about in some o’ the fancy shops if they know where Lord Redmond lives,” he decided. “We’ll explain we’ve a note to deliver, only we’re confused about which street his house is on. Once we got the street we’ll mention a number, an’ they’ll say ‘Here now, that’s wrong, it’s number such an’ such.’ An’ then we’ll know where to go.”
    â€œThat’s a rum bite, Bert,” enthused Stanley, impressed.
    â€œIt is that,” said Bert, pleased with himself. “Come on, then, Stanley. The old puff guts said there’d be some extra brass in it for us if we could give ’im a full report next time we see ’im. I’m thinkin’ if we can keep this job goin’ a while, we’ll soon have enough to get a bigger flat—an’ maybe get ye yer own bed, too.”
    â€œReally?” Stanley’s eyes widened. “With a feather pillow?”
    â€œWe’ll see,” Bert said, trying to manage