Vera stepped onto the pavement out front. The place wasn’t overly busy, but the flow of customers into the shop was steady. Either of the children could nip out and grab her if she was needed. Peter was at his cart as usual, near enough for a quick gab.
She stood under the front overhang, watching the comings and goings on Old Compton Street. This was not the area of London where she’d grown up, but it had come to feel like home. She knew her neighbors and fellow merchants, knew the street sellers, knew the urchins who lingered in corners, and the workers who passed by on their way to and from employment, knew those many pretended not to see. The area was not the most affluent, but it was generally peaceful and calm. In this little corner of Soho, people felt a bit of hope, a bit of peace. She wanted it to stay that way. But £52 a year was more than she could pay.
Across the way, Mr. Overton stood outside the door of his barbershop.
“Mr. Overton seems burdened,” she said to Peter. He spent his days on the street, so hardly anything happened that he didn’t know about. “Is the barbershop struggling?”
Peter shook his head. “Plenty come in and out. But his shoulders are always slumped. His mouth ain’t ever nothing but a frown. Something’s fretting him.”
She understood that all too well.
“Something’s fretting a good many people,” Peter added.
“Including you?”
“Two merchants didn’t buy their usual bundles. Mr. Overton”—he motioned across the street— “said he’d an unexpected expense. Couldn’t spare even a quid.”
“I find myself struggling with that amount as well,” Vera said with a sigh.
“Seems the debt of the day. Mr. Bianchi mentioned needing an extra £1.”
Odd. “Anyone else toss out that as a sum?”
Peter’s brow dipped in thought. “Come to swirl on it, yeah. Been hearing that amount the last day or two from near everyone. And heard it a week ago as well.”
That couldn’t be a coincidence. “Do you remember all the locals who mentioned the £1 expense?”
“Aye.”
“How many would you say there was?”
His lips moved silently. Then, “At least a dozen. All right here in this stretch.”
A dozen. Someone in that group must have some idea who the Protector was and how often they were meant to be paying. A little more information would make a difference.
“If you dropped a word in their ears, do you suppose they’d come to the shop and help me sort this?”
Peter shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”
She didn’t mean to bother Papa with it all. He’d lived for years looking over his shoulder, expecting danger at every turn. The last thing he needed was to be alarmed at this business enterprise if there was no need. She’d sort it out, and he’d be none the wiser. If she asked, Ganor would help her.
“Ask those you know of to come by the shop at eight o’clock.”
“Will do, Miss Vera.” Peter pulled his cap.
With luck, they’d have some answers tonight. But she suspected those answers would prove more complicated than she’d prefer.
Vera stepped back inside the shop just as Ganor was approaching the door.
He dipped his head to her. “I’ll see you come Tuesday, Miss Vera.”
“Actually, do you have a minute more?”
He eyed her a moment, brows angled low. “Something amiss?”
The shop was full with customers milling about. That made for a whole heap of perked ears and open eyes.
“Why don’t I hover about the place for a time?” he suggested. “Then we can talk when the shop is quieter.”
“I’d appreciate it,” she said. “But I can’t pay you for an extra day of—”
“Vera.” He took her hand, sending a bolt of lightning straight through her. “I’m here today as a friend.”
A friend. That somehow weighed on her heart and brought a smile to her face all at the same time. “I can’t remember the last time I had a friend, unless you count the characters in Mr. King’s stories. They start to feel like friends by the time he finishes a tale.”
“What of the characters in Mr. Donnelly’s stories?”
“I’m usually terrified of them by the time I’m done.”
Ganor laughed quietly. He still held her hand, and he walked with her the rest of the way into the shop. Though she had work enough to do, she wished they could remain just as they were. “Why is it you think authors are so crooked?” he asked.
“We’ve known enough of them and suffered enough because of them.” Vera sighed. “Devious lot, the whole of them. But, then, they spend their days writing falsehoods; only stands to reason they’d have false lives as well.”
It was a damning evaluation, to be sure. Did she not see any redeeming value in writers?
“Their writing has given you friends,” he said. “That’s at least something in their favor.”
She regretfully slipped her hand from his, taking up a stack of papers that needed to be put away. “I don’t know how to make sense of it all. And I’ve a heap too much on my mind at the moment to try twigging so big a question.”
He motioned with his head toward the browsing customers. “You see to your work. When the shop’s not so busy, you can tell me a little of what’s weighing on you.”
Ganor was as good as his word. He wandered about the shop, talking with customers, teasing Olly, encouraging Licorice. And he smiled at her. Often. Beyond the way it flipped her heart about in her chest, it was a comforting connection she needed more than she’d realized.
She’d not been lying when she told him she had few friends. She couldn’t really say she had any since coming to Soho. The shop kept her too busy. Papa’s wariness of new people kept her too isolated.
But Ganor had found his way past all of that. He’d shown himself to be kind and thoughtful. He’d brought the children scarves and had more than once supplied her with roasted chestnuts simply because he knew she liked them. He was funny and personable. She enjoyed talking with him and was certain he felt the same way. If only he could be in the shop every day.
The afternoon passed. The children collected their day’s coins and went on their way, Olly with a salute and Licorice with a quiet word of parting. Soon enough, the shop was empty except for Vera and Ganor.
He joined her at the counter. “Why don’t you spill your thoughts while I help you close up?”