His words echoed in her mind: “We’re not safe from it anywhere.” A lifetime of remembered fear surged up in her. She had no recollection of the years they’d lived in St. Petersburg. She remembered nothing before South London. But she’d heard her parents whisper of the threat they’d fled from. She’d heard “Petrashevsky” muttered often enough that its syllables were worryingly familiar.
But that Circle was a lifetime ago.
They had avoided writers, had even kept little company with their fellow Russian immigrants. Surely the threat was behind them.
“We’re not safe from it anywhere.”
No. She refused to believe that. They had to take care. They had to keep a safe distance from writers. But they didn’t need to live in the degree of fear Papa seemed to.
Peter dropped into the shop. He did so often, but not always in the middle of the day. “I’m liking that ‘Dead Zoo’ tale.”
“It’s a beaut, i’n’it?”
“Right plummy.” Peter eyed the display. “Got anything like it?”
“Dr. Milligan writes tales that are suspenseful like Mr. Donnelly’s.” She motioned for Olly to fetch a copy.
Peter nodded and accepted Olly’s offer.
Vera helped a few others choose stories. She sold a small handful of pen nibs. George, the bookkeeper’s clerk, turned up for his usual order. She filled it quickly with pen nibs and parchment, blotting paper and a bottle of black ink, and sent him on his way.
She was managing the shop, juggling the various areas of it. The children were helpful, in their own way. She should have been content with the day but, oddly enough, she wished Ganor was there. She’d not known him long, but she missed him when he was away. And not merely because he helped shoulder the burden.
She liked him. She liked having him around.
Upon returning to the counter after chatting over a penny dreadful, she found a note addressed to her. Though she wasn’t entirely certain, she thought the handwriting looked like the same that had been used on the mysterious letter she’d received the previous week.
This week’s quid will be collected in the morning.
—The Protector
This week’s quid? Nothing in the previous note had indicated the payment for extra eyes on the shop would be a weekly one. For how long would that be asked? She couldn’t afford £52 a year.
The previous payment had been collected by a brawny man she’d not seen before or since. He’d certainly not been in the shop that day. Who, then, had left the note? She’d liked to have asked for more information, but of whom?
Lowering herself onto the stool behind the counter, she set her mind to twigging the scheme. No one unusual had been in. No one had been the least out of place.
She rubbed at her temples. Someone had to have left the notes.
“Are you unwell, Miss Vera? You look stomped on.” Licorice’s voice managed to penetrate her thoughts.
“Only thinking,” she said.
“A person can get into trouble that way.”
Vera forced a bit of lightness. “Don’t I know it.”
Licorice shrugged a shoulder and made her way to the back.
The shop door chimed. Ganor O’Donnell stepped inside. Relief slid over her on the instant. He’d talk her through the mystery, help her think her way through it.
“Miss Vera.” He tipped his hat to her.
“I’d not figured on seeing you today,” she said.
“I brought some scarves for the children.” He held up two thick scarves. “Winter’s nearly upon us, and they’re needing a bit more protection from the cold.” He glanced around the shop. “Where are the wee saplings?”
“Olly’s hunched on the other side of the display table, sweeping up a bit of dust. Licorice is doing a bit of work in the back room,” Vera said.
Ganor dropped his voice. “Is having her here a burden to you? I dropped her on you without warning.”
Vera shook her head. “She’s a hard worker and well fit to the shop. These street children don’t tend to stay in one place for long. She’ll likely grow bored of the shop before too long and scout out something else more to her liking.”
“Smart as a whip, from what I saw of her,” Ganor said. “She’ll sort herself out as often as need be, I’d wager.”
So few had kind words for London’s street children. It reflected well on him. A lot of things did. His kindnesses. His friendliness. The more she knew of him, the more she liked.
“And if she doesn’t sort herself, Olly will,” Vera said. “The two snip at each other like brother and sister.”
He laughed. “I have an older sister. She’s been poking at me my entire life.”
Olly had spotted Ganor and rushed over to him. “I earned a penny and bought the next bit of the story.”
“And which story’s that?” Ganor hunched a bit, enough to talk more directly to the scamp. “We’ve discussed a few.”
“‘The Dead Zoo.’”
Ganor nodded solemnly. “What did you think of it, then?”
“I think Jonty’s the one stealing the animals. Do you?”
“I think it’s a possibility.” Ganor ruffled Olly’s hair as he stood tall once more.
Olly smoothed his hair with a disgruntled swipe of his hand. “Miss Vera does that too. Makes me wash my hands then messes my hair.”
Ganor’s eyes darted to her.
She shrugged. “I think I improve his look when I fuss with his hair.”
“I got a reputation.” Olly’s salute held more defiance than usual but hadn’t lost an ounce of its cheek. He spun about and marched off, resuming his work.
Vera rested her elbows on the counter and her chin against her hands. “He’s a handful. But he’s been here every day this week. Likely, he’ll disappear for a while now. Never do know what they get up to.”
“I’ve been a street urchin,” Ganor said. “’Tis likely for the best you don’t know what they do when they’re away from here.” He motioned toward Licorice. “I’m going to gab a bit with the girl. But I won’t keep her from her work. Swear to it.”
“I ain’t worried,” she said. “And it’ll do Licorice good to have a moment free of Olly’s pestering.”
Ganor laughed and crossed the shop. His laughter warmed her through and through. It was little wonder she missed him when he wasn’t at the shop.