busier
than the streets they had been traveling. As the Viscount was
forced to slow the pace, Sera braced herself, ready to take action
at the first opportunity. Then a stately berlin rumbled around a
corner and pulled in front of them.
Lord Krogan hauled in on the reins, and Sera saw her
chance. She gathered up her skirts and leaped out of the carriage.
Landing badly, she twisted an ankle beneath her and dropped her
purse and her package. But she was up in a second, gathering up her
possessions and limping down the street as swiftly as she could
go.
Lord Krogan, declining to abandon his carriage, gave
her up for lost and did not give chase.
Chapter
9
Which finds Sera in no better circumstances than the
Former.
Sera looked around her, with considerable disfavor.
This was no part of Thornburg she knew, no place where she cared to
linger. The street was so narrow that the overhanging second
stories of the crooked old houses actually met in places, forming a
dim, winding tunnel between ugly, sooty buildings: tenements and
taverns and gin shops. An occasional lanthorn lit the way, swinging
from a rusty chain, but there was no room to accommodate even a
narrow sidewalk, forcing Sera to walk in the muddy, ill-paved
street.
The people were shabby and dirty; the neighborhood
reeked of garbage, poverty, and cheap spirits. Sera gathered her
flowered shawl more closely around her and set out briskly in what
she fervently hoped would prove to be the right direction.
Men like Lord Krogan should be
boiled in oil!
thought Sera, as she limped down the street.
They should be forced to swallow white-hot
iron. They should . . . Oh, I don’t know any punishment that is
harsh enough!
At first, she could not understand why she attracted
so much attention, why the women stared resentfully as she passed,
and the men made such rude remarks. Then she realized it was the
way she was dressed: the gown, gloves, and bonnet that appeared so
plain and old-fashioned among the Vorders and their intimates gave
a very different impression here. To these ragged and ill-fed
people she must appear the pampered daughter of a wealthy family,
who had never lacked for anything in her life.
Little wonder if they hate me
, thought Sera. She
lowered her eyes and walked on, as swiftly as she dared.
But when she passed a signpost, she glanced up,
hoping to gain some sense of direction. It was difficult to read
the faded lettering in the twilight between the overhanging
buildings, but she was just able to make out the name.
Capricorn Street
, said the
sign, and Sera felt a chill snake down her spine. Capricorn
Street—the name was certainly familiar. It had all the familiarity
of a recurring nightmare.
“
Don’t
you never go down Capricorn Street, for you’ll never return
again!”
The old warning came back to her, a memory of
childhood days in the old neighborhood. Spoken by the mothers and
fathers, or the older brothers and sisters of Sera’s friends, those
terrifying words prompted the younger children to imagine all kinds
of horrors. On Capricorn Street there were cannibal witches,
warlocks with wooden feet and staring glass eyes, feral dogs and
yellow demon cats—a whole collection of frights and bogey-beasts
designed to strike terror into childish hearts.
If Sera knew better than that by now, if she knew
that Capricorn Street was nothing more than a narrow dirty lane
leading from her own shabby-genteel neighborhood into a perfectly
ordinary slum . . . yet some of the old superstitious terror
remained.
And if there are no witches and
warlocks, there is crime and vice and every form of human
degradation—and that’s quite terrible enough.
But at least she knew for certain which direction to
go.
As Sera continued purposefully on her way, she passed
many groups of ragged children: dreadful little wraiths, with
pinched-in faces and knowing eyes, who conducted their games with a
sort of heartless, down-trodden weariness, that suggested a
than the streets they had been traveling. As the Viscount was
forced to slow the pace, Sera braced herself, ready to take action
at the first opportunity. Then a stately berlin rumbled around a
corner and pulled in front of them.
Lord Krogan hauled in on the reins, and Sera saw her
chance. She gathered up her skirts and leaped out of the carriage.
Landing badly, she twisted an ankle beneath her and dropped her
purse and her package. But she was up in a second, gathering up her
possessions and limping down the street as swiftly as she could
go.
Lord Krogan, declining to abandon his carriage, gave
her up for lost and did not give chase.
Chapter
9
Which finds Sera in no better circumstances than the
Former.
Sera looked around her, with considerable disfavor.
This was no part of Thornburg she knew, no place where she cared to
linger. The street was so narrow that the overhanging second
stories of the crooked old houses actually met in places, forming a
dim, winding tunnel between ugly, sooty buildings: tenements and
taverns and gin shops. An occasional lanthorn lit the way, swinging
from a rusty chain, but there was no room to accommodate even a
narrow sidewalk, forcing Sera to walk in the muddy, ill-paved
street.
The people were shabby and dirty; the neighborhood
reeked of garbage, poverty, and cheap spirits. Sera gathered her
flowered shawl more closely around her and set out briskly in what
she fervently hoped would prove to be the right direction.
Men like Lord Krogan should be
boiled in oil!
thought Sera, as she limped down the street.
They should be forced to swallow white-hot
iron. They should . . . Oh, I don’t know any punishment that is
harsh enough!
At first, she could not understand why she attracted
so much attention, why the women stared resentfully as she passed,
and the men made such rude remarks. Then she realized it was the
way she was dressed: the gown, gloves, and bonnet that appeared so
plain and old-fashioned among the Vorders and their intimates gave
a very different impression here. To these ragged and ill-fed
people she must appear the pampered daughter of a wealthy family,
who had never lacked for anything in her life.
Little wonder if they hate me
, thought Sera. She
lowered her eyes and walked on, as swiftly as she dared.
But when she passed a signpost, she glanced up,
hoping to gain some sense of direction. It was difficult to read
the faded lettering in the twilight between the overhanging
buildings, but she was just able to make out the name.
Capricorn Street
, said the
sign, and Sera felt a chill snake down her spine. Capricorn
Street—the name was certainly familiar. It had all the familiarity
of a recurring nightmare.
“
Don’t
you never go down Capricorn Street, for you’ll never return
again!”
The old warning came back to her, a memory of
childhood days in the old neighborhood. Spoken by the mothers and
fathers, or the older brothers and sisters of Sera’s friends, those
terrifying words prompted the younger children to imagine all kinds
of horrors. On Capricorn Street there were cannibal witches,
warlocks with wooden feet and staring glass eyes, feral dogs and
yellow demon cats—a whole collection of frights and bogey-beasts
designed to strike terror into childish hearts.
If Sera knew better than that by now, if she knew
that Capricorn Street was nothing more than a narrow dirty lane
leading from her own shabby-genteel neighborhood into a perfectly
ordinary slum . . . yet some of the old superstitious terror
remained.
And if there are no witches and
warlocks, there is crime and vice and every form of human
degradation—and that’s quite terrible enough.
But at least she knew for certain which direction to
go.
As Sera continued purposefully on her way, she passed
many groups of ragged children: dreadful little wraiths, with
pinched-in faces and knowing eyes, who conducted their games with a
sort of heartless, down-trodden weariness, that suggested a
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