place. “This is where you live?” he asked.
Gideon shrugged. “Seemed like the best place to bring you. Not many Gentlemen or coppers come here. We’re in the Rat’s Castle.”
The Rat’s Castle
. It was one of the roughest inns in London, yet just a knife’s throw from Lady Bentick’s house.
Wild Boy looked around the frigid room. The bed sheets were stiff with dried sweat, and the mound of empty bottles under the bed was so high that it raised the mattress. Surely Marcus had offered Gideon a home in the palace. Why did he choose to live here then, in squalor?
Gideon’s coat sleeves were rolled up, and Wild Boy spotted a faded Indian ink tattoo on his sinewy arm – crossed swords over a crown. He’d seen the symbol on soldiers that visited the fairground. Had Gideon been in the army? Wild Boy realized how little he knew about the man, even though they’d quarreled almost every day over the past four months.
A Bible sat on a chair beside the bed. He flicked it open where a crease on the spine suggested it had been read. A passage was circled on the page.
Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow…
Gideon snatched the book. “That ain’t none of your business either. You and I are friends as long as you’re saving Marcus. If you ain’t got a plan for that, you can take your chances on the streets. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Go get Clarissa. You need to eat.”
Wild Boy swung his legs from the chair, testing their strength. His head whirled as he walked to the door. The walls moved in crazy circles.
He turned back. “You ever heard of some place called Oberstein?” he asked.
Gideon looked up from the cooking pot. His face changed from rage to something like fear. “Why you asking that?”
“You know it or not?”
“Yeah I know it,” he said. “But it ain’t a place, it’s a person. Oberstein’s a jeweller, got a shop on Bond Street.”
A jeweller? Well, that answered something at least. Wild Boy went outside to find his friend.
14
W ild Boy stepped outside, squinting in the midday sun. He was on a wooden balcony that overlooked the courtyard of the coaching inn, a rickety rat trap of shedlike rooms and greasy doorways. Everything glistened with ice and grime.
Noise came from all around him, beery singing from a tavern below and grunts and cheers from the boxing match next door. The courtyard’s square of snow was speckled with colour. There were yellow holes where punters had relieved themselves, steaming brown dung, and flecks of red from fights. Wild Boy didn’t need his detective skills to tell that a snow-covered lump in the corner was a man, short and squat and buried by the snow where he had died.
A flurry of snow sprinkled from the tavern roof. Despite everything, Wild Boy smiled. He’d known where Clarissa was the moment he stepped outside.
Always up high.
Still shaky on his legs, he walked to where a barrel was collecting rainwater from a broken drainpipe. The barrel was full, the water frozen solid. He climbed on top of it and gripped the pipe, but his head whirled and his feet slipped on the ice. Just as he was about to fall, a hand shot out from above and grasped his wrist.
Clarissa hauled him onto the roof and wrapped him in a tight hug. Then she released him and shoved him in the chest. “It’s your fault!” she said. “You should’ve seen the clues. You should have saved Marcus.”
Wild Boy crouched, pressed a palm to the tiles to steady his balance.
Clarissa towered over him. Her dress was torn, and its sequined sleeve snapped in the wind. A bandage around her head was spotted with blood. A trickle had escaped from beneath; a red tear sliding down her face.
“What do we do now?” she asked. “We don’t have another plan, Wild Boy. Now the Gentlemen are after us and Marcus is gone. We only ever had him.”
A rush of wind swept across the rooftop, swirling up snow and dislodging tiles. It carried Clarissa’s rage
Gideon shrugged. “Seemed like the best place to bring you. Not many Gentlemen or coppers come here. We’re in the Rat’s Castle.”
The Rat’s Castle
. It was one of the roughest inns in London, yet just a knife’s throw from Lady Bentick’s house.
Wild Boy looked around the frigid room. The bed sheets were stiff with dried sweat, and the mound of empty bottles under the bed was so high that it raised the mattress. Surely Marcus had offered Gideon a home in the palace. Why did he choose to live here then, in squalor?
Gideon’s coat sleeves were rolled up, and Wild Boy spotted a faded Indian ink tattoo on his sinewy arm – crossed swords over a crown. He’d seen the symbol on soldiers that visited the fairground. Had Gideon been in the army? Wild Boy realized how little he knew about the man, even though they’d quarreled almost every day over the past four months.
A Bible sat on a chair beside the bed. He flicked it open where a crease on the spine suggested it had been read. A passage was circled on the page.
Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow…
Gideon snatched the book. “That ain’t none of your business either. You and I are friends as long as you’re saving Marcus. If you ain’t got a plan for that, you can take your chances on the streets. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Go get Clarissa. You need to eat.”
Wild Boy swung his legs from the chair, testing their strength. His head whirled as he walked to the door. The walls moved in crazy circles.
He turned back. “You ever heard of some place called Oberstein?” he asked.
Gideon looked up from the cooking pot. His face changed from rage to something like fear. “Why you asking that?”
“You know it or not?”
“Yeah I know it,” he said. “But it ain’t a place, it’s a person. Oberstein’s a jeweller, got a shop on Bond Street.”
A jeweller? Well, that answered something at least. Wild Boy went outside to find his friend.
14
W ild Boy stepped outside, squinting in the midday sun. He was on a wooden balcony that overlooked the courtyard of the coaching inn, a rickety rat trap of shedlike rooms and greasy doorways. Everything glistened with ice and grime.
Noise came from all around him, beery singing from a tavern below and grunts and cheers from the boxing match next door. The courtyard’s square of snow was speckled with colour. There were yellow holes where punters had relieved themselves, steaming brown dung, and flecks of red from fights. Wild Boy didn’t need his detective skills to tell that a snow-covered lump in the corner was a man, short and squat and buried by the snow where he had died.
A flurry of snow sprinkled from the tavern roof. Despite everything, Wild Boy smiled. He’d known where Clarissa was the moment he stepped outside.
Always up high.
Still shaky on his legs, he walked to where a barrel was collecting rainwater from a broken drainpipe. The barrel was full, the water frozen solid. He climbed on top of it and gripped the pipe, but his head whirled and his feet slipped on the ice. Just as he was about to fall, a hand shot out from above and grasped his wrist.
Clarissa hauled him onto the roof and wrapped him in a tight hug. Then she released him and shoved him in the chest. “It’s your fault!” she said. “You should’ve seen the clues. You should have saved Marcus.”
Wild Boy crouched, pressed a palm to the tiles to steady his balance.
Clarissa towered over him. Her dress was torn, and its sequined sleeve snapped in the wind. A bandage around her head was spotted with blood. A trickle had escaped from beneath; a red tear sliding down her face.
“What do we do now?” she asked. “We don’t have another plan, Wild Boy. Now the Gentlemen are after us and Marcus is gone. We only ever had him.”
A rush of wind swept across the rooftop, swirling up snow and dislodging tiles. It carried Clarissa’s rage
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