by doctors and patients alike.
I did not, though. Much as I wanted to, the thought of running out before I had more coin was frightening enough.
Collection first. Resin second. Rest, possibly, following all that, for I need to be sure that I did not fall to illness.
Such thoughts occupied me in slow, deliberate detail, punctuated by the ebb and flow of them what lived in this fog with me. The bit of tar I’d chewed was not enough to take my senses away—I could not afford that much—but I nevertheless enjoyed its effects.
The world seemed a titch brighter, even in this thick haze. All seemed a little more manageable.
I passed an empty storefront just in the upper northeastern corner of Ratcliffe. The windows were boarded and the remnants of the glass long since turned black from too much time without a washer’s rag, and the inside likely as blackened and rotted as the out. Ratcliffe was not a wealthy district by any means, catering to the dock- born, the grubby-handed laborers who could not manage to land work above the drift at the upper West India Docks, and those who made their wages any way they possibly could.
I’d noticed a few more Chinese here and there, but mostly on the eastern edge—where Limehouse’s reach dwindled, but the Veil was not entirely disregarded. I’d also noticed more dock workers than usual; one may learn to recognize them by mode of dress and roughened hands, which were often gnarled like a sailor’s but lacking the distinctive sea-born calluses.
There had been rumors of strike not that long ago, union men demanding fair conditions and equal pay as those who worked above, but I’d heard nothing of late. This many unemployed, lazing about the open porticos of the pubs and prostitutes who made their homes here, was not a comforting sign.
A glimpse into the smudged film coating the remains of the storefront glass assured me that I looked no more out of place than a working man who was not at work, and I blew out a silent breath of relief.
My nerves did not settle. A sign of something more afoot, as I had learned long ago to trust my fog-sense— that instinct of those who made their way in the smoke. Opium might have dulled my anger, but it did little else noticeable.
As I passed the abandoned store, past the slender alley mouth dripping fog from its narrow crevasse, it was only by chance of that mucky reflection that I glanced sidelong into the lane instead of watching the walk at my feet.
The shadow that flitted back from view did not escape my attention.
My heart stuttered once. Then it slammed into my rib cage and hammered hard enough to turn my vision into a narrowed, brittle focus.
I was not alone on these streets—or rather, alone in the sense that a person walking in a crowd may be.
I did not stop—I remembered well what happened last time I threw myself into the smoke and fog in search of a murderer—but my fists clenched against my sides. My throat swelled on words—on an anxious, terrible anger—that I could not expel. The commotion of Ratcliffe about me, the shouting men and laughter of conversation not far away, the cheer of children playing marbles in a smooth patch of sand-filled mud, faded to a throbbing beat.
Was he close? Was he reaching for me even now?
I found myself straining to hear a whistle in the dark.
But it was not dark, was it? I wasn’t alone in the smoke and the fog, haunted by a murderer’s laugh.
I shook my head hard, and the world came back into rights about me. Laughter turned strident and tinny, but it was
What ever that was, I did not know. My heart slammed against my ribs as if it would tear itself out of its bodily cage. The world seemed suddenly too bright, too shrill, too much in all the things I looked at.
Still I walked, my hands fists by my sides, my fingers drenched in damp sweat. My jaw hurt from the clench of my teeth, and I forced myself to loosen it. It would not do to tip off whoever followed me—assuming, of course, that I had not fallen to ghosts of my own making.
I deliberately relaxed, easing into a stride I’d practiced for months before I’d learned to do it right. A street rat as I aped learned the art of walking at a pace that made it seem as if one was in no hurry, but that moved quite briskly indeed. Between the flick of a wrist and the clink of a coin purse, that walk turned into a run that could only be called a scarper.
I employed that talent now, walking as if I had not a care in the world—no school, no mum to worry for me, no thought as to from where my next meal may come.
And all the while, I found excuses to look behind me. I employed distractive techniques—a wave at a young girl here, a nod at a gnarled old man there—that allowed me to semi-turn and glance into the fog around me.
The trembling in my knees eased.
I
If it had been, I was rather sure that I would not have seen traces of him as often as I saw glimpses of this less clever cat. I couldn’t know if it were a footpad after my pockets, meager as they promised to be, or something else, but it would be easy enough to learn.
Sliding my hands into my coat pockets, I whistled again as I sauntered down a narrow street dividing this larger thoroughfare. The tune was something jaunty and heedless—a giveaway, really, for only those up to no good whistle so easily in the cold streets. The damp bit at my ears and reddened my nose, but the warm tide of adrenaline as it trickled through my leaden veins took care of any discomfort I might have felt.
This, then, was something more fun. Unplanned, to be certain, but oh, how I relished the chase.
Even if I were the quarry.
More fool, he who followed me.
I made my way down this narrow street, led us both out of the dull roar of the thoroughfare and into the quiet of the lesser traveled lanes. Now, though I made no sign I heard, I could pick out the faint echo of footsteps not mine as I splashed my way noisily through gathered puddles and shuffled over crumbling cobble.
There was a small apothecary down this way, its windows not as grimy as expected but covered by shelving displaying what wares the druggist could afford to sell. I paused here, pressing my face against the glass and cupping one hand against the glare from the lantern overhead.
I took the opportunity to glance down the road, but saw nothing untoward.
My pursuer was somewhat more clever than I assumed.
Fair. Stepping back, hands once more in my pockets, I continued my aimless route, studying my surroundings for any opportunity to force he who followed me into the open. I could not see him, yet I was sure that he had not given up on me. I was all too happy to return the courtesy.
I itched for the challenge.
An unfortunate circumstance for my challenger, whose trail I found again when I passed an alley mouth and caught a telltale swirl of black-streaked fog—the kind of eddy left when a body moves quickly through it.
I turned into the alley mouth, trod deliberately through an ankle-deep puddle until the splashes echoed down the eerily blank lane. I taunted my pursuer with such calculated brevity, painted myself as the hapless victim heedless of my own danger. My whistle bounced uncannily from wall to wall, then vanished into the suffocating shroud between them.
With single-minded intensity, I followed that alley, encouraged by the clatter of a foot against loose cobble, or the muffled thump of refuse kicked aside.
I felt as if I might laugh. I felt unstoppable. Here I was, an angry widow who’d just pledged the impossible to the Karakash Veil, and it was as if I’d done no such thing. As if I were destined to be victorious over all comers.
It was not to my benefit to be so reckless, but this day’s opponent would not be the one to teach me this.
The footsteps flagged. The alley was soon rife with the gasping breaths of one who could run no farther. My whistle did not cease as I allowed my pursuer to close the gap between us, slowing my pace. The tune did not falter as a silhouette slowly parted from the fog around us.
Yet what was to be a trilling crescendo to my chase cracked when a resigned, feminine voice said, “If I’d
