“Pamphlets are written by writers,” Ganor pointed out.
“I know it’s a contradiction, but I don’t press him on it. If he limited his jobs even more, we’d be in the suds for sure and certain.”
“Money remains tight, does it?”
“Always.”
His ginger brow pulled as he focused more closely on her. “You’re certain you’ve the funds for paying me? Don’t misunderstand, it’s grateful I am for the income as I’d not care to live with m’sister for the rest of m’life. But I don’t want to be the reason your shop sinks beneath the waves.”
“With how many penny dreadfuls you sold today alone, I’d wager you’ll more than pay for yourself.”
He grinned broadly. The man had a shockingly beautiful smile. “I’ve a fondness for the tales.”
“I twigged that.”
Still looking as amused as ever, he asked, “You ‘twigged’ it?”
“Sorted it out,” she explained. “South London shows up in my words still.”
He nodded. “Ireland wriggles its way into mine now and then.”
She snorted. “‘Now and then.’”
“What is it you’re trying to say, lass?” he asked, eyes twinkling with laughter.
“That I’m not sure you know what the phrase ‘now and then’ means, that’s what I’m saying.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled so much chatting with someone. “It’d be like me saying I crave hot roasted chestnuts ‘now and then.’”
“Fond of roasted chestnuts, are you?”
“Desperately fond.”
Papa’s voice echoed from beyond the back door, raised in a way that told her he was talking as he approached rather than being present already. “Have you read the paper, kotik?”
Vera lowered her voice and said to Ganor, “Another product of writers he’s willing to endure.”
Ganor nodded solemnly.
“I haven’t, papishka,” she called back just as Papa stepped through the doorway.
He didn’t come all the way inside. She’d wager his distance was part of his ongoing protest over the presence of the penny serials. Vera rose from her seat and crossed to him. Ganor, thank the heavens, set himself to tasks on the other side of the shop. Papa had accepted his presence there, but he’d not seemed overly pleased at the need for hiring someone.
“It’s about von Brunnow.” Papa pointed to an article on the page he’d folded back.
“And what does the paper have to say about Russia’s ambassador?”
“Rumors of a falling out with Lord Chelmsford.” More curiosity sat in Papa’s tone than alarm.
“Odd, that. They’ve something of a friendship between them.” She took the paper from him.
Papa scratched at his beard. “I’ve heard whispers he’s been acting strange.”
“Which one? The baron or the ambassador?”
“The ambassador,” Papa said as he pushed back his spectacles.
Vera scanned the article, looking for indications of oddity in Russia’s representative. “Where’ve you heard these whispers? You haven’t much contact with the Russian community here.”
He stiffened. He always did when talk turned to his countrymen. She ought to have known better after so many years. But his bringing up the ambassador had lulled her into thinking the topic wasn’t as forbidden as it usually was.
“I suppose von Brunnow will sort things with the baron soon enough,” Vera said, hoping to end the discussion before Papa worked himself into a huff. “We’ve done a vast deal of business today. One of our most profitable.”
“We’ll have more print business soon enough, you’ll see. Then you can get rid of all those—” He looked over at the display of penny dreadfuls. His nose scrunched as if he’d come across a putrid smell, sending his spectacles slipping once more.
“They’re only stories, Papa. None of the people who write them are here, and they never will be. We’re a small shop in Soho. We’re too far below any of their notice.”
But Papa was shaking his head in that mechanical way he did when dismissing an argument even as it was being made.
Little Olly hopped into the shop in the very next moment, offering a much needed distraction. “What’ve you got new today, Miss Vera?”
“Piles and piles, Olly.” She stepped away from her papa, knowing he’d disappear downstairs. “You remember Mr. O’Donnell.” She directed the boy’s attention that way.
“You bought us a story last time.” Olly popped Ganor one of his cheeky salutes.
“What’d you think of it, lad?” Ganor asked, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his thick arms folded across his chest, light falling on the thick scars on his knuckles.
“It’ll be frightening, I know it. All them dead animals.”
Ganor nodded. “I suspect it will be.”
Olly dropped his voice to a whisper. “Who do you think’s taking the missing animals?”
Ganor matched the boy’s volume. “If I knew, I’d not tell you, lad. ’Twould ruin the story.”
That brought Olly’s eyes to Vera. “Have you sorted it?”
She shook her head. “It’s a mystery to me.”
Raised voices echoed outside, pulling all their attention. Ganor stood nearest the door and was the first outside. Vera was there an instant later. A bit of commotion had broken out in front of the tobacconist’s shop a few doors down.
Peter, the costermonger who worked on the street, stood in his usual spot just outside the print shop.
“Any notion what’s happened?” Vera asked.
“I heard shouts of ‘thief.’ I’m guessing Mr. Bianchi’s been robbed,” Peter said.
“A common thing on this street?” Ganor asked.
She shook her head. “We’ve crime, sure enough. But thievery ain’t much heard of.” Vera hooked a thumb in the direction of her own shop. “Keep an eye on the place, will you? I mean to go learn what’s happened.”
“Surely will, Miss Vera,” Ganor said.
No objection to being asked to remain behind while a woman investigated the danger. There weren’t many men who’d accept that arrangement, especially those with a brawler’s history.