feelings of the artist toward his subject were, indeed, apparent to a ten-year-old. It didn’t aid my flusterment much. Meanwhile, Bird’s brooding face slipped into another—agreeable, pliant, erasing the trail of her mistake. “Not everyone likes kissing. Maybe you don’t? Anyhow, if you like her, I’ll go on and like her too. Since you brought me inside and all.”
“You won’t be seeing her. She’s a very … admirable lady, though.”
“She’s your mistress?”
“She is not. No. Listen, part of what we need to talk about is where you lived before. Because they’ll be wanting you back, and if they don’t deserve to have you back, well, we must find you a fresh start.”
Bird blinked. Then she smiled again, it having been safe the first time.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she admitted. “But I’ll try if you want me to, Mr. Wilde. I think I’ll cap in with you from now on, you see. So I’ll try.”
“You will tell me,” Mrs. Boehm said in a very kind voice, “what last night happened to your nightdress.”
Bird, sitting at the wide bakery table with a cup of heated currant wine mixed with water and a lump of sugar held prettily in her small hands, looked down at a wisp of steam. Her face colored hotly, then faded again. I was reminded of being asked by my father long ago whether I’d finished polishing the tack in the stables with whale oil, being suddenly terrified because I hadn’t, and then catching Val winking at me reassuringly from the corner of the room in a rare moment of rescue. It was the same quick flash of panic I’d just seen in Bird’s eyes, the sort that steals your breath.
“It’s a very pretty nightdress,” I mentioned from my seat on a chair in the corner.
The compliment rolled right over Bird, pulling her eyebrows up a fraction. I was grotesquely reminded that, while some children gobble encouraging remarks like gingerbread, Bird Daly had probably been subjected to
flattery
. And far worse obscenities.
“It did suit me, but it’s probably ruined now. I like your hat,” Bird said shrewdly. “It suits you too.”
When I perceived that she spoke like an adult because ninety percent of her interactions had been with grown men spending coin on her company, I felt my face darken before I could prevent myself. I made the decision then and there that I wasn’t going to be able to talk with Bird as if she were a kinchin and I a former star policeman of twenty-seven. Being outflanked because I’m not smart enough to drive the conversation is almost exhilarating. But being outflanked because I’ve read the opposition wrong is an outrageous embarrassment.
“I know you’re frightened,” I said, “because anyone could seethat something terrible happened last night. But if you don’t tell us what it was about, we can’t help anyone.”
“Where do you live, Bird?” Mrs. Boehm put in quietly.
Bird’s generous lips twitched, reluctant. It occurred to me in a distant way, like looking at a rosebush, that she was beautiful. Then I had to fight my stomach back down from my gullet again, which was getting very tiresome.
“In a house west of Broadway with my family,” she said simply. “But I’ll never see it again.”
“Go on,” I said. “We won’t lay into you, so long as you tell us the truth.”
The somber budlike lips convulsed again, and then words began gushing out of them. Wetly, as if she was crying. Though she wasn’t, not in a visible way.
“I can’t. I can’t. My father arrived, and he cut her with a shiv. He would have gotten me too, but I ran away, though I’d already dressed for bed.”
I exchanged a look with Mrs. Boehm, or I tried to, but her faded blue eyes were fastened to Bird.
“Who did he cut?” I asked gravely.
“My mother,” Bird whispered. “My mother was cut right across the face. She was carrying me up to bed, and there was blood everywhere. He’s mad when he’s been at the lush, but before he’d only used
“You won’t be seeing her. She’s a very … admirable lady, though.”
“She’s your mistress?”
“She is not. No. Listen, part of what we need to talk about is where you lived before. Because they’ll be wanting you back, and if they don’t deserve to have you back, well, we must find you a fresh start.”
Bird blinked. Then she smiled again, it having been safe the first time.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she admitted. “But I’ll try if you want me to, Mr. Wilde. I think I’ll cap in with you from now on, you see. So I’ll try.”
“You will tell me,” Mrs. Boehm said in a very kind voice, “what last night happened to your nightdress.”
Bird, sitting at the wide bakery table with a cup of heated currant wine mixed with water and a lump of sugar held prettily in her small hands, looked down at a wisp of steam. Her face colored hotly, then faded again. I was reminded of being asked by my father long ago whether I’d finished polishing the tack in the stables with whale oil, being suddenly terrified because I hadn’t, and then catching Val winking at me reassuringly from the corner of the room in a rare moment of rescue. It was the same quick flash of panic I’d just seen in Bird’s eyes, the sort that steals your breath.
“It’s a very pretty nightdress,” I mentioned from my seat on a chair in the corner.
The compliment rolled right over Bird, pulling her eyebrows up a fraction. I was grotesquely reminded that, while some children gobble encouraging remarks like gingerbread, Bird Daly had probably been subjected to
flattery
. And far worse obscenities.
“It did suit me, but it’s probably ruined now. I like your hat,” Bird said shrewdly. “It suits you too.”
When I perceived that she spoke like an adult because ninety percent of her interactions had been with grown men spending coin on her company, I felt my face darken before I could prevent myself. I made the decision then and there that I wasn’t going to be able to talk with Bird as if she were a kinchin and I a former star policeman of twenty-seven. Being outflanked because I’m not smart enough to drive the conversation is almost exhilarating. But being outflanked because I’ve read the opposition wrong is an outrageous embarrassment.
“I know you’re frightened,” I said, “because anyone could seethat something terrible happened last night. But if you don’t tell us what it was about, we can’t help anyone.”
“Where do you live, Bird?” Mrs. Boehm put in quietly.
Bird’s generous lips twitched, reluctant. It occurred to me in a distant way, like looking at a rosebush, that she was beautiful. Then I had to fight my stomach back down from my gullet again, which was getting very tiresome.
“In a house west of Broadway with my family,” she said simply. “But I’ll never see it again.”
“Go on,” I said. “We won’t lay into you, so long as you tell us the truth.”
The somber budlike lips convulsed again, and then words began gushing out of them. Wetly, as if she was crying. Though she wasn’t, not in a visible way.
“I can’t. I can’t. My father arrived, and he cut her with a shiv. He would have gotten me too, but I ran away, though I’d already dressed for bed.”
I exchanged a look with Mrs. Boehm, or I tried to, but her faded blue eyes were fastened to Bird.
“Who did he cut?” I asked gravely.
“My mother,” Bird whispered. “My mother was cut right across the face. She was carrying me up to bed, and there was blood everywhere. He’s mad when he’s been at the lush, but before he’d only used
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