Sweep: The Story of a Girl and Her Monster

by Jonathan Auxier

  Nan shook her head. “Newt needs your help. Crudd won’t let him go, and he’s . . . Newt’s not like us. He can’t survive.”

  She could tell from Roger’s expression that he knew all about Lady Wilde. “You always were a soft touch for hopeless causes.” He sniffed and turned back to the house. “Why should he get a family when none of us do?”

  Nan watched the family eating in their cozy little home. She tried to picture it. Roger knocking on the door. The mother opening it. At first she doesn’t recognize him. But then she sees it. And in a single moment, all of the hurt and regret melts away and Roger is swallowed into that home. The lost child returned to them.

  “You have to tell them,” Nan said. “You have to try.”

  Roger took a deep breath. Perhaps he was trying to imagine the same thing as Nan. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “But not yet. I’m an apprentice now. And in a few more years I’ll become my own master. I’ll work hard, work my crew harder, and soon I’ll have a bit of real money. Enough to buy that house there from the landlord.”

  Nan thought he meant to make it as a gift to them. “And then you’ll tell them?”

  “No.” His jaw tensed. “First I’ll raise the rent. Raise it so high they’re put out in the street. And wherever they end up next, I’ll buy that place, too. I will follow after them like a black cloud, taking every farthing they have. Until there’s nothing left. No stew in the pot. No oil in the lamp. No shoes on their feet.” Tears ran down his cheeks as he spoke. He ignored them. “And that is when I will come back to them.” A bitter smile crept across his face. “Only they won’t recognize me. I’ll be a grown man. In a fine suit. And shiny boots. And with six crowns in my purse . . .”

  Nan stared at this boy who had spent five years tormenting her. How many times had she longed to see him cry? But looking at his face now, she knew there was no help to be found in him. He was already too far gone.

  Nan said, “Happy Easter, Roger.”

  What else could she say?

  She turned around and started the long journey back home.

  THE QUEEN OF ICES

  Nan spent the remainder of the month working. She knew they would need the money once the captain’s house sold. She still had no idea where they would live—no idea where Charlie would be safe.

  She cut through Regent’s Park with an empty sootbag on her shoulder. Dappled sunlight shone through the cherry blossoms and danced on the surface of the lake. The trees made her think of Charlie, and what he’d shown her in the Nothing Room. It made her think of the promise he wouldn’t make.

  Nan heard shouts from the gates of St. John’s Wood cemetery. It looked like the groundskeeper was yelling at a beggar boy. She ignored the commotion and continued toward the Baker Street Bazaar. It was a house of wax figures some French woman had brought to the city. Out in front were mannequins—perfect likenesses of queens and pirates made from wax—their faces frozen in time. They made her think of golems.

  A voice rang in her ear. “Hullo, Smudge!”

  Toby was behind her, cheeks flushed and out of breath. He was holding his emporium with both hands.

  “What are you doing up in Camden?” Nan said.

  “Looking for you.” He glanced over Nan’s shoulder and adjusted his feet. “Charlie said you were out sweeping.” He nodded at Nan’s empty sootbag. “Business is slow, I see.”

  Nan shrugged. “I figured I’d take the day off.” The truth was, she had taken a job that morning. But when the maid showed her the first flue—a square eleven—she burked it and ran.

  “Oi! You!” an angry voice shouted. It was the groundskeeper from the cemetery. He was waving a rake over his head. “Get back here!” He was headed straight for them.

  Nan looked at Toby. “Is he yelling at us?”

  “Let’s not stay and find out.” He adjusted his emporium, which looked fuller than usual, and hopped off the curb. “Follow me!”

  Nan stayed where she was. “Where are we going?”

  Toby wagged his eyebrows. “I’m taking you to meet the Queen.”

  Toby made Nan follow him down Tottenham Court Road. The warm weather seemed to have brought out all of London—everywhere she looked were phaetons and parasols.

  “Better hop aboard if we want to beat the mob,” Toby called, grabbing on to the back of an omnibus. He crouched low so the driver wouldn’t notice him.

  Nan and Toby rode the omnibus all the way to Charing Cross Station. “There she is,” he said, dropping back to the street. He pointed at a food stall parked at the front of the station. Well-dressed men, women, and children were in a queue that went clear around the block. They were all eagerly chattering to one another.

  “Looks like the mob beat us here,” Nan said.

  “You forget who you’re with,” Toby said. He took Nan’s hand and led her to the stall. A banner hung from the top:

  The World-Renowned Mrs. Agnes Marshall

  “The Queen of Ices”

  Scoops ~ Pints ~ Penny Licks

  Working behind the stall was a plump woman with a striped apron and pinned sleeves. Her spectacles looked as if they would slip from her nose at any moment. She had three girls assisting her. They were all busily passing out shallow tin dishes of something that looked like colored cream.

  Nan wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t look anything like ice.”

  Toby removed his cap and bowed. “Hullo, Aggie!”

  The Queen looked up from her work. Her face broke into a smile. “Toby Squall!” She took off her apron and marched out to meet them. “I was wondering if you mightn’t come by today.” Despite operating a food stall, there was something refined about her—she really did seem like a queen.

  Toby took her hand and kissed the back of it. “How could I resist?”

  The Queen turned toward Nan. “And this must be the famous Nan Sparrow!”

  Nan shifted her weight. “Pleased to meet you . . . um . . . Your Highness.” She gave a sort of curtsy.

  The Queen laughed. It was a hearty, infectious laugh. “She is every bit as lovely as you promised!” She put a hand around each of them and led them to the cart—right to the front of the line. A few customers made sounds of obvious indignation.

  “Ignore them,” the Queen said, donning her apron. “Now, what flavor would you like?” There were several tubs behind the counter, each a different bright color. They were named strange things like Pistachio Bliss and Star Anise.

  “I haven’t a penny,” Nan whispered to Toby.

  “Never you fear.” He set down his emporium and opened the top. “We’re guests of the Queen!” He produced an enormous bouquet of flowers—roses, honeysuckle, lemon blossoms, and lavender. The smell was overpowering.

  The woman took up the flowers. “Lovely as always, Toby. These will be just the thing for my recipes.” She handed the flowers to an assistant.

  It was clear to Nan that those flowers had not come from the Thames. She remembered the groundskeeper at St. John’s Wood. “Did you steal those?” she whispered.

  Toby pretended not to hear her. “Two amarettos, please.” He nudged Nan. “That’s the best flavor—and I’ve had ’em all.”

  The Queen took two dishes and filled them with a sort of whitish ice. Nan watched her work. She was clearly wealthy, but also not afraid to get her hands messy. Nan liked that.

  Soon she found herself in possession of a tin bowl filled with amaretto cream ice. She was a little disappointed not to get one of the brightly colored flavors. The outside of the bowl was frosty, and it stuck to her fingers when she adjusted her grip. She sniffed the ice. The dish had the tangy smell of hammered metal, but beyond that, she caught the faint aroma of almonds. She stuck out her tongue to taste it.

  “Stop,” Toby said. “You can’t eat it yet.”

  “But won’t it melt?” Nan said.

  “Not if we hurry!” They hopped onto the back of another omnibus, which carried them down Piccadilly. Soon they were standing at a giant ho
use facing Hyde Park. The walls were made of red brick, with tall pillars. The windows along the facade were round and grand. It looked like a miniature fortress.

  Climbing with a dish of ice was tricky, but Nan was soon sitting up on the roof overlooking the park. “You’ve gotten much better with heights,” she said, scooting over to make room for Toby.

  “I’ve had some practice.” The boy reached into his bag and removed a pair of spoons with long handles. “Now you can try it.”

  Nan took a spoon and dipped it into the ice. The whole thing felt like a prank. She put the spoon into her mouth. The taste was very much like cream—smooth and rich—only so much sweeter. She had eaten ice and snow before, but this was different. As the cream melted and spread across her tongue, it sent a shiver right down her spine. She made a sort of involuntary murmur.

  Toby gave an amused smile. “I take that to mean you like it?”

  Nan felt her face flush, which somehow made it taste even better. She did not want to be impressed, but her face betrayed her. The muscles in her jaw clenched, and her mouth twitched into a pursed smile. She couldn’t help it. “I do,” she said.

  “You could have this every day, if you wanted.” Toby rapped his spoon on the edge of his dish. “Of course, you’ll have to come with me if you want to skip the line.”

  Nan put her spoon down. “You can’t do things like that—swiping flowers from graves. It’s horrid.”

  Toby laughed. “I don’t think anyone will miss them.”

  “That groundskeeper could have caught you, and then what?” She shook her head. “Someday, you’re going to find yourself in trouble, Toby, and you won’t be able to smile your way out of it.”

  Toby’s smile soured. “We don’t all have magic protectors.” Nan’s thoughts went back to Christmas Eve, when she’d seen Toby asleep under the bridge—so cold, so alone. However hard life with Crudd had been, at least she had the other climbers. Toby had no one.

  “Besides”—he clinked the edge of Nan’s bowl with his spoon—“take another bite and tell me it wasn’t worth it.”

  She took another bite. And another. She worked the bit of cream in her mouth as if it were a piece of mutton. “It’s terrifying to think this existed without me knowing it,” she said, scraping up the last of her ice and licking the dish clean. “Makes me wonder what else I’ve been missing that’s right in front of me.”

  “Indeed.” Toby offered her his dish. “Do you want this one, too?”

  Nan hated herself for accepting, but accept she did. “Thank you,” she said, spooning ice into her mouth.

  Toby did her the kindness of not watching her eat. He leaned against a chimneystack, staring out at the park—grass and trees stretching clear to Kensington Gardens. “If this weather keeps, it’ll be a perfect May Day.”

  “I’m still not holding your hand, if that’s what all this is about.” Nan took another bite.

  “It’s never about that,” Toby said. “But there is a reason I brought you here, to this rooftop.” He tapped his knuckles against a slate. “This place is called ‘Chesterfield House.’ It’s one of the finest in London. It was built a long time ago by a fellow named Isaac Ware.”

  For as much time as Nan spent climbing up and over houses, she didn’t give much thought to the men who made them. “What’s so special about him?”

  “There’s nothing special about him. And that’s the point.” He widened his eyes. “The story goes that Isaac Ware was a climbing boy, just like any other. No learning. No family. One day some famous building-maker sees him out on the street in front of a church—face black, barefoot, in rags. The boy is drawing a picture of the church on the wall with some chalk. He’s getting every window and turret just right. The builder is so impressed with the drawing that he hires the boy and trains him as an assistant. Ware grows up to become one of the greatest builders in all England.”

  Nan could tell that Toby wanted her to be impressed. “Good for him.” She tried to savor the last bite of ice. “What’s your point?”

  Toby shook his head as though she’d said something funny. “You’re like Isaac Ware. Miss Bloom sees it. That’s why she’s taken a shine to you. I’ve known it my whole life.” He was looking right at her. “You are destined for something great, Nan Sparrow.”

  Nan tapped her spoon against the bottom of her dish. “I’m just trying to keep alive.”

  “Keeping alive isn’t enough. You have to live for something. You need purpose.”

  Nan shuddered. “Maybe you do, but not me.” She was thinking about Charlie. About Miss Bloom’s story. About everything.

  She could feel Toby watching her. “Before I found you at the park, I swung by the house,” he said. “You’ve got a tree sticking out of the roof. And also, I noticed something different about Charlie. His arm . . . It was—it had changed.”

  “Stone,” Nan lowered her head. “It’s turned to stone.”

  “There something you want to tell me?”

  “No.” Nan wiped a speck from her eye. “I don’t know.” And before she knew it, she was telling him the whole story. What Miss Bloom had told her about golems. What had happened when Charlie saved her from Crudd. What had happened with Dent.

  “That’s quite a tale,” Toby said when she had finished.

  “I’m afraid,” Nan said. “Afraid he . . . afraid I . . .” She shook her head. “What if I can’t protect him?”

  “That’s what it is to care for a person,” Toby said. There was not even a hint of mocking in his voice. “If you’re not afraid, you’re not doing it right.”

  GOODBYE THINGS

  It was the last week of April. May Day was just around the bend, and all through the city preparations were being made. Coal pies cooled on racks. Flower garlands filled market stalls. Banners hung between lampposts.

  Nan and Charlie were at the house, enjoying an afternoon together, just the two of them.

  “Goodbye . . . cat?” Charlie said.

  “We don’t have a cat,” Nan said. “Guess again.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlie said. “Only I thought we maybe had a secret cat.” He peered around the room. “Goodbye . . . kitten?”

  “That’s the same as a cat,” Nan said. “Guess again.”

  They were playing a round of Goodbye Things. This was a game that Charlie and Nan had invented. One person would look around the room and try to remember everything that was in it. Then that person would close his or her eyes and count as high as possible. (Nan would count to fifty; Charlie would count to purple.) While that happened, the other person would take something from the room and make it disappear.

  Then the counting person would open his or her eyes, look round the room, and try to guess what had gone away—making guesses by saying, “Goodbye, pillow with the yellow stitching” or “Goodbye, framed print of the Virgin Islands” or (in Charlie’s case) “Goodbye, cat.”

  Nan usually won, because she could see where Charlie had been from his footprints. Charlie never won because he only guessed animals.

  Nan was figuring out how to remove a suit of armor without making noise when she heard a pounding at the front window.

  “Nan!” a voice shouted. “Nan!”

  “That sounds like Toby,” Charlie said. “Maybe he will want to play.”

  Nan ran to the foyer and drew back the curtains. Toby was still pounding against the glass. “Open . . . up . . . ,” he said through gasps of air.

  Nan unlatched the window. “You know you’re not supposed to approach the front of the house. Someone might see—”

  Toby grabbed her arm and started to pull her through the window. “You have to follow me!” he said in a hoarse voice. “Bring Charlie!”

  Nan pulled back. There was something in his face that she’d never seen before. “Are you mad? We can’t take Charlie outside in broad daylight.”

  Toby ignored her. “It’s Newt.” His eyes were wide. “There’s been an accident.”

  Moments later, Nan wa
s sitting with Charlie and Toby inside a rattling cab. “Miss Bloom gave me fare for the ride. When the boys told me what had happened, I knew I needed to get you—both of you.” Toby closed a gap in the curtain, keeping Charlie hidden from view. “Don’t worry about Desmond,” he said, nodding to the driver, who had not said a word. “He’s a friend.”

  “Where are we going?” Nan had never been inside a carriage before and found the movement slightly nauseating. She gripped Charlie’s stone arm. “What happened to Newt?”

  “Miss Bloom is having him taken to London Hospital. Crudd had him sweeping a stack in an iron mill over in Southwark.”

  “Was Roger with him?” She braced herself against the door as the cab turned onto Oxford Street.

  “I think he’d been sent up on his own,” Toby said. “Now that Crudd’s on the outs with the gentry, he’s taking any job that comes along.”

  Nan could not believe what she was hearing. “Newt did a factory alone?” Factory stacks were too wide to scale the regular way. Climbers had to be lowered down on ropes—it was a two-climber job, at the very least. “How did he manage the rigging?”

  “There was no rigging,” Toby said. “He slipped and took a nasty tumble.”

  Nan peered out the carriage curtain toward the factories across the river. She could see giant brick stacks as tall as steeples belching black smoke into the sky. “How far did he fall?”

  Toby looked at her, his face pale. “It’s bad, Nan.”

  After what felt like an eternity, the carriage rattled to a stop in back of London Hospital. Nan and Charlie followed Toby through a service door that had been propped open. Inside, the hallways were broad and empty. “Miss Bloom had the nurses put Newt in a room where folks wouldn’t bother us,” Toby said, running up a stairwell. “They’re still building this wing.” He was peering into open doorways as he ran.

  Nan felt Charlie take her hand. “I do not like this place,” he whispered.

  She squeezed his hand. She didn’t like it, either. The whole place smelled like gin and bile. It smelled like sickness.