suited to. Have you ever seen a child refusing to be fed? It turns its face away –
no, no, no. That was how I felt about joining the Church. It didn’t matter how many times my father lifted the spoon to my lips. How many times he tried to force-feed duty and honour and decency down my throat.
No, no, no.I was so caught up in my thoughts that I took little notice as we crossed Long Acre. The streets were quiet – too late an hour for some, too early for others. We turned, then I suppose we must have turned again a few times, into a dark, narrow alley. Old timber houses sagged wearily against one another, their top storeys leaning out and almost touching across the street. One had collapsed entirely. Most of the wood had been scavenged, leaving just a rotting frame like a skeleton poking up into the night sky.
A sharp breeze blew down the alley, and a butcher’s sign creaked on its hinges. I stopped, startled, then cursed softly. I didn’t recognise this street. There was a scent of turpentine in the air – the sharp tang of a nearby gin still. A burst of drunken laughter sounded in the distance. St Giles. We had reached St Giles.
I spun about wildly, panic flaring in my chest. Somehow, instead of heading west for Soho, we’d blundered into the most infamous slum in London. Only a fool walked alone here at night. I pulled my dagger from my belt; thank God I’d had the sense not to pawn it.
The link boy had run on ahead but now he stuttered to a halt, and shot me a curious look.
‘What’s your name, boy?’ I called.
He cupped his hand over the torch, shielding it from the wind. ‘Sam.’
‘You a moon-curser, Sam?’ Moll had warned me about them when I’d first arrived in town – link boys who lured their victims away from the safe streets to be set upon in the shadows.
He smiled. ‘Do I look like one?’ he mimicked.
The little bastard. I strode towards him, footsteps loud in my ears, a thousand eyes on my back.
‘We must leave here. At once.’
I was just five paces from him now. He was standing quite still and silent; a stone cherub on a tomb. And then he glanced over my shoulder – a quick, furtive look.
The light tread of footsteps close behind me. Too close – much too close. An arm around my neck. My dagger was ripped from my hand and pressed to my throat.
‘Don’t move.’
My gambler’s mind whirled and raced. Should I fight? Run?
The blade bit deeper. ‘Your purse.’
Sam held up his torch, illuminating the scene as if we were on the stage.
