Vera dipped her head to a few neighbors she passed, all of whom were watching the proceedings outside the tobacco shop with worried curiosity. She reached the doorway in a matter of moments and eyed the scene.
The shop was a bit broken up. Mr. Bianchi sat atop an overturned crate with a wet rag pressed to one eye. Mr. Overton, the barber from across the way, stood beside him, a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“What happened?” Vera asked.
“A couple of roughs demanded money of him, then tossed the place around.”
“Because he wouldn’t pay?”
Mr. Bianchi shook his head.
Mr. Overton answered. “He gave them what they demanded. They tore the place to bits anyway.”
The damage didn’t look irreparable, but it was a full mess. “I’ve extra hands at my shop today. I’d bet Ganor’d be willing to come help you set the place to rights.”
“I’ll not take away your employee,” Mr. Bianchi said. “You’d be paying him and getting nothing for it.”
“Not a bit of truth to that. Having your shop running as it ought and showing anyone wishing to follow these roughs’ example that they’ll not manage much are both well worth doing.”
Whether Mr. Bianchi and Mr. Overton believed her, she couldn’t say, but she kept her word. Ganor was more than willing to head to the tobacconist’s and clean and sort things, though he too expressed concern about being paid by her for work he wasn’t doing for her. While she was grateful so many people were concerned for her, she was a little frustrated that no one seemed to take her at her word.
She was still considered new in the area, and she was younger than a lot of the local merchants. Papa’s gruff standoffishness likely didn’t help. And, though she sounded London, she was told often enough that she looked Russian that she wondered if that might also be considered by some people a mark against her. There were plenty enough immigrants in this corner of London; it ought not to have been a point of trouble.
In time, she would find a way of forging connections here. She would make a home of this bit of Soho.
She would stop being so painfully alone.
Brogan was stretched mighty thin. Between getting new installments to his publisher, the days he spent at the print shop, and his and Móirín’s ongoing efforts in the poor areas of London, he had hardly a moment to breathe. It was likely a good thing he no longer met with the DPS. He’d have run out of time to sleep.
And yet, he missed being part of that society. He missed his friends there. He missed the connection. He longed for the assurance he had when undertaking missions with them instead of the unshakable doubt he felt being the rogue animal in the herd.
Móirín was working extra hours as well, apparently having taken quite seriously his explanation that he was earning additional money to allow them both the independence of setting up their own homes. So he didn’t see her as often as he used to either.
As busy as he was, he was also horribly lonely. And exhausted. And far out of his depth.
He was making his way back home from Somers Town, a particularly poor and all-too-often violent corner of London, having brought some needed goods to the struggling families there, when his path unexpectedly crossed with two of his old associates.
More than a fortnight had passed since he had left the Dread Penny Society. Two weeks in which he’d not seen a single one of his friends from that organization. Seeing them again was a salve he hadn’t realized he needed. His heart lightened on the instant.
“Fancy seeing you in these parts,” Fletcher said to Brogan. “Where you off to?”
“Returning from a trip to Somers Town.”
Doc whistled low and long. “Struggling area, that,” he said. “I hope you had Móirín with you.”
Brogan shook his head.
“I don’t know that I’d want to spend time there without her along for protection.” Fletcher nudged Doc with his elbow, the two exchanging laughing glances. Even Brogan grinned.
Móirín’s fierceness was well known among the Dreadfuls. Brogan was mostly known for being good for a laugh. Life’s struggles had made her hard in many ways. He’d passed through many of the same things, but it hadn’t changed him in the same way.
Perhaps that was part of the reason why the Dread Master had trusted him with this secret mission. No one, including his fellow Dread Penny members, would ever peg him as capable of undertaking a dangerous investigation alone.
“Martin says he’s heard you’re working in a shop now,” Doc said.
Martin was another one of the Dreadfuls. The man was known for having eyes on near everything that happened around London. Brogan hadn’t realized the man had sniffed out his arrangements. That could make things mighty difficult.
“We can’t all have the sales Fletcher has.” He adopted the conspiratorial tone he’d often used when bantering with his friends. “I’m needing a bit more coin in m’pocket.”
“Is that why you actually left? You needed more time to take on more work?” Doc eyed him closely, with a look of suspicion Brogan wasn’t accustomed to seeing on the faces of his one-time comrades. It cut him deeply.
Money trouble would’ve been an easy excuse for leaving the DPS. But Brogan hadn’t realized at the time that the opportunity would present itself for a job at the very shop he was meant to be investigating. He’d seen the sign in the window and had jumped at the lucky turn.
He knew from years of investigating with the DPS that changing a story only made things more complicated. He’d have to stick to what they’d already been told. “I left for the reason I gave—couldn’t keep lying to m’ sister.”
Doc didn’t seem fully satisfied with that. Did the others feel the same way? Had Brogan managed to make a mull of even the simplest part of this assignment?
“With a bit more time, we might’ve managed to create that sister organization,” Fletcher said.
Though Brogan understood Fletcher had to play along, it still hurt hearing him criticize the decision he knew Brogan had made at the behest of the Dread Master.
“I couldn’t wait any longer,” Brogan said.
“But you didn’t give us any warning.” Doc shook his head. “If we’d had the least idea you were so close to crying off, we’d have moved faster.”
Mercy, this was getting complicated. “I couldn’t keep it up. Too many lies. Too many false stories. Móirín was bound to see through it sooner rather than later. I couldn’t keep risking accidentally spilling our secrets.”