blood as she died.
As a moderate consolation, the Yellow Man shot the father with a gun before taking his own life with a blade, a sacrifice of love to his innocent White Blossom. There was no applause when the screen declared The End. The remaining audience had become statues in their seats, stunned and horrified. Robbed of true justice.
Shan knew this because he felt the same. He sank farther into his seat, weighted by knowledge that his own destiny would more likely resemble Lucy’s than that of the pauper. He would not become an adviser to a prince and live out his days in the lavishness of a royal court.
It was this thought, this acceptance of his fate, that dragged him down the dark tunnel of sleep—only to be jolted by a firm grip on his collar.
14
S han couldn’t say how long it had been since he’d drifted off. He had no knowledge of anything save the panic that now seized him while being yanked into the air and onto his feet. Squinting against the glare, he recognized the man’s uniform. An usher …
Shan was still in the theater, but the lights had been raised. The audience was gone.
“This ain’t a flophouse.” The usher gave him a shove. “It ain’t a free show neither.”
Shan stumbled into the aisle. He hurried from the balcony, vision clearing, and toward the main staircase. The occasional poke of a flashlight indicated he’d be escorted all the way out. When he made it through the lobby and onto the sidewalk, he heard the man’s voice over the thrum of the rain.
“Now, beat it or I’ll put the cops on ya!”
The door slammed shut, but eyes watched from inside.
Thick droplets ran down Shan’s face. He shuddered from the chill he had hoped to leave back in Ireland. Before the usher could make good on his threat, Shan left without thought of destination.
He raised his coat collar and rubbed at his sleeves. The evening sky remained just as gray as it had been that morning, only darker.
An automobile honked. Dapper couples traversed the avenue beneath umbrellas, clutching their tickets for the latest shows.
Several blocks passed before Shan registered something missing from his shoulder: his satchels! He’d forgotten them in the balcony. The clothes weren’t worth a shilling, but the books … his mam’s precious books …
Yet what was he to do?
In no position to recover them, he bridled the pang of loss, for he couldn’t bear to absorb it now. He trudged onward until a coughing fit, similar to those of Uncle Will, brought him to a halt. When it passed, Shan remained hunched, hands on his legs for support.
“Pal, you okay?”
Shan raised his eyes to find a man in a weathered hat and threadbare coat. No fewer than three buttons were missing, the same for his teeth.
“You got a home?”
Lacking energy for a front, Shan shook his head.
“Figured.” The fellow sighed. “Well, come on, then.”
Following him would be foolish; even decent people weren’t kind enough to take in a street urchin for nothing.
Aside, that was, from the Capellos.
The man peeked over his shoulder and shrugged. “No skin off my nose. Breadline’s a few blocks over if you’re wanting some soup.”
Faint memories of broth and chowder and stew caused Shan’s stomach to gurgle. When the man trekked away, Shan trailed at a distance. Even if he wanted to catch up, he wasn’t sure he could. He was so very tired, and the dampness of his trousers hampered every step.
It seemed an eternity before they traveled past several buildings and around the corner, into an open lot sprinkled with gravel. Downtrodden men stood in a line that led to a large canopy. There, three women in peaked white hats ladled steaming liquid into tin cups.
The man who’d led Shan here had disappeared into the crowd.
Shan tacked onto the end of the line, his hands in his pockets. His left fingers found his sixpence. He pulled it out and fiddled with the coin; the friction created a trace of warmth.
Gradually the line
As a moderate consolation, the Yellow Man shot the father with a gun before taking his own life with a blade, a sacrifice of love to his innocent White Blossom. There was no applause when the screen declared The End. The remaining audience had become statues in their seats, stunned and horrified. Robbed of true justice.
Shan knew this because he felt the same. He sank farther into his seat, weighted by knowledge that his own destiny would more likely resemble Lucy’s than that of the pauper. He would not become an adviser to a prince and live out his days in the lavishness of a royal court.
It was this thought, this acceptance of his fate, that dragged him down the dark tunnel of sleep—only to be jolted by a firm grip on his collar.
14
S han couldn’t say how long it had been since he’d drifted off. He had no knowledge of anything save the panic that now seized him while being yanked into the air and onto his feet. Squinting against the glare, he recognized the man’s uniform. An usher …
Shan was still in the theater, but the lights had been raised. The audience was gone.
“This ain’t a flophouse.” The usher gave him a shove. “It ain’t a free show neither.”
Shan stumbled into the aisle. He hurried from the balcony, vision clearing, and toward the main staircase. The occasional poke of a flashlight indicated he’d be escorted all the way out. When he made it through the lobby and onto the sidewalk, he heard the man’s voice over the thrum of the rain.
“Now, beat it or I’ll put the cops on ya!”
The door slammed shut, but eyes watched from inside.
Thick droplets ran down Shan’s face. He shuddered from the chill he had hoped to leave back in Ireland. Before the usher could make good on his threat, Shan left without thought of destination.
He raised his coat collar and rubbed at his sleeves. The evening sky remained just as gray as it had been that morning, only darker.
An automobile honked. Dapper couples traversed the avenue beneath umbrellas, clutching their tickets for the latest shows.
Several blocks passed before Shan registered something missing from his shoulder: his satchels! He’d forgotten them in the balcony. The clothes weren’t worth a shilling, but the books … his mam’s precious books …
Yet what was he to do?
In no position to recover them, he bridled the pang of loss, for he couldn’t bear to absorb it now. He trudged onward until a coughing fit, similar to those of Uncle Will, brought him to a halt. When it passed, Shan remained hunched, hands on his legs for support.
“Pal, you okay?”
Shan raised his eyes to find a man in a weathered hat and threadbare coat. No fewer than three buttons were missing, the same for his teeth.
“You got a home?”
Lacking energy for a front, Shan shook his head.
“Figured.” The fellow sighed. “Well, come on, then.”
Following him would be foolish; even decent people weren’t kind enough to take in a street urchin for nothing.
Aside, that was, from the Capellos.
The man peeked over his shoulder and shrugged. “No skin off my nose. Breadline’s a few blocks over if you’re wanting some soup.”
Faint memories of broth and chowder and stew caused Shan’s stomach to gurgle. When the man trekked away, Shan trailed at a distance. Even if he wanted to catch up, he wasn’t sure he could. He was so very tired, and the dampness of his trousers hampered every step.
It seemed an eternity before they traveled past several buildings and around the corner, into an open lot sprinkled with gravel. Downtrodden men stood in a line that led to a large canopy. There, three women in peaked white hats ladled steaming liquid into tin cups.
The man who’d led Shan here had disappeared into the crowd.
Shan tacked onto the end of the line, his hands in his pockets. His left fingers found his sixpence. He pulled it out and fiddled with the coin; the friction created a trace of warmth.
Gradually the line
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