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  He threw the last of the wood on the fire. It spat like a sick dog and billowed smoke into the freezing air. The Fixer mused over the idea of being needed. The darkie could snap both their necks, abandon the baby and slip into the trees. The journey over the ocean had eaten at his muscles, but enough strength remained, as had been demonstrated in the Fixer’s cabin.

  No, my friend, you also have demons to answer to. I suspected as much on the quayside and I’m more sure of it now. I’m banking on those to get us through this.

  They still had time. The port watchman would be well in his cups and the potboy seldom budged before cockcrow. The girl’s supposed brothers posed the biggest threat but the Fixer knew their sort. They’d whip up some men, likely from their own estate, to do their chasing for them.

  ‘How is the girl?’ the darkie asked. ‘She was speaking through much of the journey, saying things I did not understand.’

  ‘Sleeping, or as close as she can come to it. The straw is keeping them warm enough. I daren’t wake either. Noisy mouths will serve us ill.’

  ‘If not for them I would still be in that cage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I must be grateful to them if not to you. I know what you were thinking, that I could kill you all and take my chances in the forest. You are right to do so, because I am a murderer. I have killed or enslaved my entire people, and what would be three more among these dark trees? But that is not how my heart works. I am a stranger in this country and will take your offer of life, if only to remember what I have done.’

  ‘D’you have a name, darkie?’

  ‘You could not say it. Your tongue is too stiff. Your race has forgotten how to speak. You do not name your children after living creatures. You are given nonsense titles that cannot be found in the skies, the land or the forest. I cannot speak to you of names.’

  ‘Fine. No names. Not for now. But I’d like to know why my language is so familiar to you. You speak better than many English born.’

  ‘My village once traded with your kind, until you found a better use for us. So, do you have a plan, healer, or shall we wander like this and let fate decide what becomes of us?’

  ‘I’ve fooled myself for months that working those docks was the only choice open to me. But no, there’s another.’

  ‘Another?’

  The Fixer said nothing more and the darkie didn’t press it. Half an hour later they were back on the road, the fire kicked into ashes behind them. An orange smudge lined the horizon to the east. They had to pull onto the verge to let a post coach gallop past, but so far that remained the only traffic.

  The darkie had a haggard look. The Fixer sent him into the back of the cart and took over the driving. When the baby woke and started crying she was soothed with gentle songs never heard in this patch of the world. The miles rumbled by. Every sound caused the Fixer to flinch. The nag snorting. A crow flapping out of a hedge. Soon the land opened out into pasture and the grey-green fuzz of trees lay well behind them. Not much of a forest. Any pursuers could likely comb it within an hour.

  Another crossroads. The handpost marked eleven miles from the city. The right-hand road disappeared into the fields. Ahead, the lane rotted into a track. The brown husks of last summer’s weeds still poked out of the middle. Dead brambles encroached from either side.

  The Fixer snapped the reins across the Shire’s rump. All around them fences were broken, walls had stones missing, the land looked bare and neglected. No good for grazing or farming. The only house they passed had lost its roof. The garden was thick with gorse.

  The darkie was still awake. ‘Are we looking for something?’ he asked.

  ‘An acquaintance of mine. His home is tucked well off this track. We may have to walk part of the way.’

  The horse strained against its harness. Thorns scratched the wooden sides of the cart. Ahead, the lane ran beside a line of tall, untended hedges. The Fixer halted the cart next to the crumbled bones of a wall almost entirely swallowed by undergrowth. All that remained of an old drover’s cottage. Beside it sat a ragged hole in the brush, not much bigger than a man.

  It’s even worse than I remember, the Fixer thought. I’ve more chance of sprouting wings and flying than getting the horse down that.

  He slid off the driver’s perch. The nag snorted its relief. The Fixer tethered him to the branch of a stunted tree and let him chew the verge. If he was found, nothing could be done about it. The Fixer lacked the time or patience to hide him.

  ‘Get the girl. I’ll take the baby.’

  ‘We are going through here? What lies beyond?’

  ‘A house with many paths to its doors, not all of which are safe. This way we won’t be seen.’

  The darkie placed the child into the Fixer’s arms and scooped up the girl, again with no apparent effort. They had to duck through the undergrowth, but a few paces further on the bushes had been widened and the path cleared. Ahead lay a hunting lodge fashioned from stone and stout oak beams.

  ‘It suits my friend to keep a back route,’ the Fixer explained. He tucked the baby under his arm and banged his fist once, twice on the door. A crow clattered out of a nearby tree and flapped off, squawking.

  The glade settled back into silence. The Fixer thumped the door again, harder. The girl stirred a couple of times but didn’t wake. In a sense he envied her. His ears and his nose were turning numb. They had no money and no other place to go. Besides, the Shire needed proper feed and a long rest.

  If I’m wrong about this I’m taking the girl to an inn even if I have to sell the nag to pay for it, he thought. The darkie can take his chances.

  The door ghosted open. A man appeared on the step, his profile mottled orange and yellow by the fire behind him. An old army musket was clutched in both hands.

  ‘You know that’s as likely to blow up in your face as cause any hurt to us, Crabbe,’ the Fixer said.

  A lengthening silence. Even at this distance the Fixer could feel the heat spilling out of the parlour hearth. His bones sighed for want of it.

  The gun lowered. Crabbe spat into the dark. ‘On the run again, John? I thought you’d had your fill of trouble over women. Yet here you are, out of the night with a lass in tow and, cross my heart, a baby too. I hope that big fellow is your rightful slave and not something you stole.’

  He studied the darkie in the light from the door. ‘Cross my heart, the tar’s barely dry on this one. He’s fresh off the boat and not even sold, I’d wager. And what about you, John? Someone’s cut you up pretty fine by the looks of it. What trouble are you bringing to my door?’

  ‘We got a good start. Nobody knows we’re here.’

  ‘Not yet, they don’t. But you know what these Mango buggers are like when they’re sniffing out a blackie’s trail.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Bless your luck, I’ve no other visitors tonight. Now get inside. I near broke my back feeding logs to that fire and I don’t want its heat leaking into the hedgerows.’

  Crabbe stepped aside. A leather armchair hugged the hearth and, without being asked, the darkie sat the girl down. Her eyes opened, took in the orange-flooded walls, the stoic furniture, the animal trophies peering gawk-mouthed from their mountings.

  ‘That baby’s only hours old,’ Crabbe said, gesturing at the bundle in the Fixer’s arms. ‘You delivered it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I never thought you’d have the courage. You took a fine chance bringing the mite and its mother out on such a night. When it comes to certain things you’ve got dust floating between your ears, John.’

  ‘D’you have milk for the child?’

  ‘Yes, fresh from the cow this very morning.’

  ‘And something for the mother?’

  ‘A pot of stew. Might still be warm.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Don’t ask. I did you a big favour last time, John. My charity don’t stretch every which way.’

  ‘You’ll get a fat enough purse on
the girl.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s your notion? You’re right, I shall, but the baby won’t get past their doorstep. House rules. Besides, I’m retiring.’

  ‘You? I thought they’d have to shoot you first.’

  ‘Age is creaking my bones, and I can’t go chasing over the country like I used to.’

  ‘Maybe I could help there.’

  ‘What, do my job? You’re too bad with women. No subtlety. No discretion. You’d leave a trail wide enough for a boatman to sail his barge up. Tell you what, though. The House might be looking for a quack. You’re good enough at that, despite your other failings.’

  ‘We can find someone to take the child.’

  ‘That we could. But I’m no baby farmer. If you want it gone you’ll have to sort it yourself. I doubt the mother will stop you. From the look of her she’d not notice if her head rolled off her shoulders. So what’s the tale behind that?’

  ‘Some kind of opium and she’ll want more of it soon enough. There are places in the city.’

  Crabbe nodded. ‘Indeed there are.’

  ‘Are you going to take us to the House?’

  ‘I shall. That’s the prettiest lass I’ve e’er laid eyes on and she’ll line my pockets well, even if fairies are flitting around inside her head. Where’d you get her? From the cut of her cloth she’s no milkmaid. I thought you’d learned not to go dipping your fingers in this particular pot, John, so don’t tell me she’s your sweetheart.’

  ‘She fell out of the night and landed in my lap. I believe she’s from one of the big estates upriver.’

  ‘Baby’s a bastard, I take it.’

  ‘I believe so. Those that brought her to me would gladly be rid of it at my expense, but this isn’t just about my misfortune. The child’s life is in our hands.’

  ‘Your hands, you mean. You don’t so much get dogged by ill luck as throw yourself into its embrace. Did you see any sign of pursuit on the way here?’

  ‘Not so far, but these are men who won’t let the matter lie. You can cover our tracks, Crabbe. Making girls disappear, both high and low-born, is your trade.’

  ‘True enough. I don’t care for the darkie, though. He can get his rump back on the road.’

  ‘He comes with us.’

  ‘Done you a favour too, has he? Must have been a bloody big one to run this risk . . . So be it. The Abbess might have work for him.’

  ‘We have a bargain then?’

  ‘We do. But I take the whole purse, and if things go sour don’t come troubling my peace again.’

  Crabbe leaned over the girl, who sat, hands spread in front of the fire, humming a pretty melody. Such a contrast between them, he with a face boiled by the seasons and curly hair that defied any wig to keep it contained. But he possessed a vain streak as wide as the Bristol channel. His fingers, fat with rings, embraced the girl’s head and drew her eyes towards him. ‘What’s your name, lass?’

  ‘I can sing,’ she said, ‘pretty as a nightingale. Everyone says so.’

  ‘That you can. And what might this songbird be called?’

  ‘Anna.’

  ‘Well, Anna, you’re going to have to travel some more. But first we’ll get you rested and some food in your belly. Then, when your wits have cleared a mite, we’ll talk about what needs to be done.’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled, and this time there was no slackness in it.

  Crabbe looked up. ‘Clean yourself up, John, and pick a coat. You know where they are. They never did much fit me anyways.’

  ‘I’ve got a nag and cart in the lane.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘They belong to the docks.’

  ‘Right. I’ll leave ’em somewhere that’ll knock the pack off the trail.’

  ‘Just like the old days.’

  ‘Too much like the old days.’

  Crabbe’s bedchamber also boasted a hot fire and the Fixer stole a few minutes to warm himself. The laudanum was wearing off and his cuts were beginning to hurt again. He couldn’t risk taking anything else. The darkie was right, the pain would keep him alert. He checked his brow, his neck, running surgeon’s fingers into his armpits and down his groin. No fever, he thought, exhausted is all.

  The wounds had stopped bleeding. His ointments had done their job, but he was coated in a dirty brown rime. He crossed to the wardrobe, shoes soft on Crabbe’s thick rugs, and gave the ewer a shake. Water sloshed inside. He poured some into the basin and splashed his face and hands. Refreshing. He peeled off jerkin, breeches and shoes. Beside the wardrobe was an empty drawstring sack and he bundled the clothes inside. After retying his dressings, he opened the wardrobe, glanced at the contents and selected new breeches, hose, shoes, shirt, waistcoat and jacket. His fingers worked intuitively on all the fastenings. Once clothed, he topped everything off with a tasselled tricorne and a cream neckcloth secured with a silver pin. When he gazed into Crabbe’s full-length mirror a phantom stared back.

  I’ve lost weight, he mused.

  The door swung wide. ‘Your friend thought you might want supper,’ the darkie said, a trencher in his hands.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Gone outside. The girl has been fed. Her child too. They are both asleep. No one else is in the house.’

  On the trencher was bread, stew, a lump of cheese. ‘Take half the food for yourself. And here,’ the Fixer reached into the wardrobe, ‘put on this overcoat. I don’t aim for either of us to starve or freeze. Crabbe might not care whether you survive but I owe you a debt, my friend, and I’ve just enough honour left for that to matter. Does he know you understand our language?’

  ‘He did not even look at my face.’

  ‘Good. Don’t say anything. Knowing English would make you more valuable. Crabbe would sell you behind my back in a spit, no matter the risks. I should have warned you in the lane.’

  ‘You do not trust this man?’

  ‘So long as a profit is involved he’s entirely trustworthy, but his notion of a fair price doesn’t always match mine.’

  ‘A bad thing to say when you are wearing his clothes. Better than anything I’ve seen on missionary or trader.’

  ‘These were my clothes once. That favour he did before cost me plenty.’

  ‘I heard you both talk about money. Have I helped you save this girl so that she might be sold? Is that how it is done in this land also? You trade one another?’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She will have a life.’

  ‘Had I stayed in the slavers’ pen I too would have a life, but it would not lessen the bite of those chains.’

  ‘If I’m caught I’ll spend my life on a prison treadmill. Perhaps even hang. I don’t have any place else to run. Trust me.’

  ‘You do not trust Crabbe.’

  ‘I trusted you. I had faith that you would help us. That you wouldn’t run when I opened the pen or kill us and steal the cart.’

  ‘Perhaps it is I who has lost too much faith.’

  ‘Keep just enough to finish this journey. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘You have too many secrets.’

  ‘As do you. Now eat.’

  Friends or Foes?

  ‘Just a moment.’

  Curious thumps and bumps. Beth knocks again. The door is flung open. A wild-haired young woman, petite and bright-eyed, gazes out. She sneezes and a feather flies out of her mouth. ‘Well, patience isn’t one of your virtues,’ she declares.

  ‘I think I’m supposed to sleep here.’

  ‘And so you shall. Come in.’

  Beth slips past her into the room. It looks like a storm has gusted through it. Clothes lie everywhere. Over the floor, across the dresser and draped on the backs of chairs. A huge embroidered quilt is scrunched up in one corner. Feathers float onto the carpet.

  ‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting,’ says the girl. ‘I’m forever getting into a fight with that quilt and I always lose. It’s like trying to shift an elephant. Not that I’ve ever se
en an elephant, you understand, except in a storybook, but the size and the weight look about right. Still, now you’re here you can help. Perhaps we’ll get the cursed thing on the bed while there’s still some stuffing left.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot to say for yourself. In my village, women who gabble as much as you do get a scold’s bridle in the mouth.’

  The other girl looks startled, then laughs. ‘Yes, I know I talk a lot. The queen of light conversation, that’s what the Abbess calls me.’ She crosses to the dresser. ‘Hummingbird’s my name. You know what a hummingbird is?’ She taps the picture on her cheek. A tattoo like the others.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A tiny, many-coloured creature that can hover in the air like a bumblebee.’

  ‘It must be a very peculiar bird.’

  The girl tries to pull some sense back into her tousled hair, gives up and reaches for a brush. ‘Yes, it’s certainly different. Now, are you going to help me with that quilt or stand and watch me tie myself into knots? Might be good for a giggle but it won’t get the bed made.’

  Beth doesn’t move from her place on the rug.

  ‘Right,’ Hummingbird puts the brush back down, ‘so I’m small. Well, a lot of men like that. You’d be surprised how many want me to pretend to be their daughter or niece. Women too. I’m sure Nightingale is half hoping I’ll end up servicing old men. Can you see me doing that? No? Well, neither can I.’ She made a face. ‘Are we going to sort this quilt, Kitten? It’s cool out tonight.’

  ‘Why does everyone call me Kitten?’

  ‘It’s a nickname for new girls. I don’t mind you sharing my bedchamber as long as you don’t snore. I’ll stuff a pillowcase up your nose if you do. Apart from that, I’m sure we shall make fine companions.’

  She plumps down on the mattress in a rustle of petticoats and kicks off her slippers. ‘The Abbess warned me she was putting a Kitten in my room. I always seem to play mother. Well, a maid will soon be huffing up the stairs with two possets to warm our bellies. I’d sooner enjoy a snort of brandy, but this is the only nightcap we’re allowed. Here, would you help me with my fastenings? The chambermaid is so clumsy; her nails are always ploughing my back.’