“I’ve told you about this, pápochka. The money for protection. The fire. All of it is connected.”
“I didn’t—” He scratched at his beard. His eyes scanned the wreckage, then shifted to the ashes of the barbershop across the street. “I thought I was keeping us safe.”
“How were you keeping us safe?” she asked.
But he only shook his head and wandered off.
The business owners, street vendors, and locals were there, picking through the piles of broken wood and finding, to Vera’s relief, some salvageable fruits and veg. Even with that unforeseen bit of good luck, their faces made clear how quickly they were losing hope.
She couldn’t fail them again. She wouldn’t.
“Neighbors,” she called out to them. “This is no time to abandon ship. The men what did this were victims of extortion, just as we are. They didn’t want to be part of this. But the Protector, I’m full certain, required it of them.”
“How does that give us hope?” Mrs. Bianchi asked.
“All of this—all of it—depends on the strong-arming and threats working. We loosen even a few links in that chain, and the scheme falls to bits.”
“It’s too big,” Mr. Overton said. “There’re too many links.”
“But most of those links are us.” She spoke with as much firmness and confidence as she could. They needed to be reassured. She needed to find the strength to offer them that. “We can break the chain.”
“Not if they break us first,” Mr. Okeke said.
“If we don’t fight back,” Peter said from where he sat on the pavement, “then they’ve broken us already.” He took an audible breath and stood. “We can’t abandon each other.”
“But we’re just small folks.” Burnt Ricky’s little voice trembled. He crushed the sides of his coat in his tight fists. Few things fretted a child of the streets.
“These big men, with their notes and their threats, cain’t follow through without us,” she said.
Interest flickered.
“If enough of us refuse, their schemes fail.”
“She’s bang up to the mark on this.” Brogan emerged from the crowd and stood beside her. “Breaking the chain is the best chance we have.”
Heaven help her, that we warmed her through. He’d helped with Papa’s trouble. He was still helping her neighbors. He was standing beside her.
“How do we do it?” Mr. Bianchi asked.
Brogan, rather than seizing the reins as so many men would do, deferred to her as naturally as if they’d decided on the arrangement ahead of time. She hadn’t a plan but was formulating one as she spoke. Still, she weren’t entirely without ideas.
“London is a large city,” she said, “and, yet, its boroughs and corners are connected by the people. I was brought up in Southwark and know people there still. We’ve customers in Charing Cross and Westminster I could call on. Peter, I’m certain you know other street vendors who sell in other areas.”
“I do,” he confirmed.
She looked to Brogan. “You and your sister know a few vendors in Covent Garden.”
“That we do.”
Turning back to the crowd, she continued. “Our Olly knows urchins who know every corner and seemingly every person in London. Licorice, Bob’s Your Knuckle, and Burnt Ricky likely know all the rest.”
“We know people in Clerkenwell,” Mr. Bianchi said.
“And I’ve plenty of friends and family in the Rookery,” Mrs. Murphy said.
Mrs. Okeke added her voice. “I’ve people in Bethnal Green and Wapping.”
“We’ve connections,” Vera said. “Those connections have connections. If everyone—or at least enough of everyone—stands their ground against our tormentor, he’ll lose his footing.”
“We can do this,” Brogan said. “I’ve watched as you’ve helped each other. I’ve seen this strength in other corners of London. This challenge can be met. I know it can.”
“We’re fit to this purpose,” Peter said to them all. “I don’t want this”—he motioned to his shattered cart—“to happen again. But if we don’t do something, it will for certain.”
“We all know people outside of Soho,” Mr. Overton said. “If we begin today, we can gather people to the cause in the parishes of London, the poor, the tradesmen, the merchants. We can free ourselves.”
Discussions immediately began among them, comparisons of who they knew and where, decisions about going together or dividing the efforts. They were focused and determined and convinced. They weren’t giving up.
“Do you think we can truly do this?” she asked Brogan out of the side of her mouth.
“You won’t be doing it alone,” he said. “All your neighbors are rallying. And I’ve a few friends who’ll help as well. I’d actually hoped they’d be watching this street already, but organizing takes time.”
“And experience.” Vera sighed. “I haven’t got much of either.”
“You’ve spread hope here today. That’s a powerful thing.”
A familiar and unexpected voice replied, “Not powerful enough.”
She turned at the sound. For the length of a breath, she couldn’t speak. Clare. The one likely delivering the notes. The only undeniable link they had to the Protector.
Clare held out a folded bit of paper. “You might stop this part of his plan, but it’s bigger than you know. It’s bigger than anyone knows.”
“Help us stop him,” Vera pleaded.
She shook her head, still holding out the paper. “I ain’t got a death wish.”
“But you said we could stop this part,” Brogan said. “How?”
“Please take the note. I’m risking too much even talking to you. If he finds out—”
“He?” Brogan repeated. “The Mastiff?”
The Mastiff? Vera thought they’d been talking about the Protector.
“He times me. If I return late—” Clare visibly shuttered. “Take the note. Please.”
“We can protect you,” Vera said.
Clare shook her head. “No one can be protected from a storm this large.” Apparently giving up on Vera taking the note, she shoved it awkwardly into Brogan’s outercoat pocket, and rushed off.
“Who is the Mastiff?” Vera asked.