“What’ve you learned?” Her voice emerged a bit shaky.
“That you blush a very pretty shade of pink.”
No one had ever flirted with her before, but she was certain that’s what he was doing now. Bless her, she was enjoying it. Deeply enjoying it.
Olly emerged from the back room, holding up his newly washed hands. “Scrubbed raw, Miss Vera.”
“You’ve piles of dust waiting to be wiped up.” She waved the boy over. “Hop to it, zaychik.”
Olly grinned, the gap in his front teeth making him all the more darling. The child was a delight, a right nutty little fella, and she adored him.
“What does zaychik mean?” Ganor asked, doing a fine job pronouncing the Russian word.
“‘Little rabbit,’” Vera answered. “Can’t say when I started calling him that.”
“My da called me sicín beag, when I was wee thing.”
“What’s that mean?”
He straightened the display of pen nibs. “‘Little Chicken.’”
Though Ganor wasn’t a tall man, it was difficult to imagine him so small he’d be compared to a tiny chick. He had the hands of a fighter and the muscular build of one as well. She probably should have found his thick arms and broad shoulders intimidating instead of undeniably intriguing.
“Sicín beag.” She tested out the feel of the Irish words, not having ever attempted anything in that tongue.
“Not terrible,” Ganor said. “Likely better than my attempt at zaychik.”
With a shrug of dismissal no one could possibly have mistaken for sincere, she said, “Not terrible.”
He grinned at her teasing repetition of his exact evaluation.
Customers were wandering in, pulling them both back to work. They often had moments like that. Quick conversations scattered throughout the day. She’d worried at first about all the questions he asked, but she’d come to suspect he simply liked to gab. And, since they were nothing more than strangers when he’d begun working, questions were needed or they’d’ve had nothing to talk about. That would be a blasted shame.
“Oi, Miss Vera.” Peter held up a copy of Mr. Donnelly’s latest. “You’ve read the newest chapter, ya?”
“I have. A fine tale is unfolding, though Mr. Donnelly shows in it an odd interest in magpies.”
“Magpies?” Peter whistled slow and low. “Bad omen, magpies. Depending.”
“An English superstition,” Vera acknowledged, having learned of it growing up in London. “But who’s to say if it’s an Irish one as well?”
“He’d know.” Peter motioned with his head toward Ganor.
A good idea, that. And it’d give her a welcome excuse to chat with him again.
Peter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two ha’pennies. “Thinkin’ I’ll pick this’n. I liked his last one.”
She took up his coins. “Drop in and tell me how you like it.”
“Will do, Miss Vera.” He tipped his hat without taking it off. “Always fine seeing you. Offer your father my greetings.”
“Will do, Peter.”
Many of the other customers bid him a farewell.
“Have you read Mr. King’s newest?” Clare asked. She lived somewhere nearby and tended to knock about the place, though she seldom had money to spend.
Vera suspected she was avoiding wherever she called home. This was Soho; Clare was hardly the only woman in the area wishing to avoid a bad situation. Vera would let her lark about all she wanted.
“I’ve read Mr. King’s,” Vera said. “There’s the start of a bang-up tale in that one.”
Clare nodded and returned to her perusal. A younger girl asked her a question. Two other customers talked in low but excited whispers about Mr. King’s stories. Olly was wiping down the windowsills. All her customers seemed content.
She returned to the counter to put the ink bottles back in the nearby cupboard. A folded piece of paper sat atop the counter, with her name scrawled across the parchment.
Odd. It hadn’t been there a moment earlier.
She caught Ganor’s eye and held up the note, pointing to it. “From you?” she mouthed.
He shook his head. That was unexpectedly disappointing.
She slipped a finger under the top fold and pushed the paper open.
I have heard of the violence on this street. I’m able to safeguard your business. Only £1. If you’re interested, someone’ll come collect tomorrow.
It was signed “The Protector.”
“Did you sort out what it was?” Ganor had approached while she was reading.
“The oddest note.” She handed it over to him. “What do you make of it?”
His eyes scanned the paper. She watched him as he read. Ganor O’Donnell was a handsome man, and that was a little distracting.
“Someone’s found a way to make a bit of money,” he said.
She nodded. “Odd, though, that this bloke didn’t sign his real name.”
Ganor shrugged. “I’ve heard any number of odd names on the streets of London. Dublin too. ’Tisn’t necessarily proof of poor character.”
“It ain’t exactly proof of good character either,” she said.
“And strange that the offer was made in a note rather than simply asking you. You’ve been here all day.” He flipped the paper over. “No marks. ’Twasn’t sent through the penny post.”
“Someone was here and delivered this note without saying a word.” Criminy, she didn’t like that. “And who’s to say if I pay what’s being asked that I’ll get any protection at all? Could be the entire thing’s nothing but a cheat.”
“I wish I had answers for you.” His usual teasing expression turned to sincere concern. “What do you mean to do?”
That he was confused by the note too didn’t bode well. “We could use extra eyes and ears on the street. No matter that the chap went about it in a curious manner, if the offer is a true one, it’d be helpful.”
“And if the offer isn’t aboveboard?” He handed the note back to her.
She took it, but reluctantly. “Then not paying it might be a danger itself.” Vera sighed, her body still tense. “The character of ‘The Protector’ ain’t the only thing I have to worry over in this matter.”
“What else, then?”