Servants got in, of course. One evening Tantalus must have thrown a party. In the dim twilight, the house blazed with light, and twenty men and women, dressed as servants, walked up to the gate and were admitted. Before long, Toff carriages rolled up to the gates and let people out. Most were horse-drawn, but a few were pulled by teams of boys, dressed in silk uniforms but whipped like animals. That night the women who lived in the house were very late coming home, and the next day on a food raid Betsy was able to snare some delicious cake and some other tidbits.
On the first day, Betsy sneaked out and was gone for hours, returning silent and pale. When she remained withdrawn for hours, he began to worry. But whenever he asked, “Bets, is something wrong?” she would just shake her head and look away. Jarvey wondered where she had gone and what had happened, but if she didn’t want to talk about it, he felt that prying would be wrong. Still, he woke at least once to the sound of Betsy’s quiet sobbing. The sense that something bad had happened to her just added to Jarvey’s uneasiness and to his growing sense that he had to find a way to get into the palace.
Toward the end of the third day, Jarvey made up his mind. He told Betsy, “I’m going to try to get into the palace somehow. I’ll hide the book up here. If I get caught, at least old Tantalus won’t get his hands on that.”
“You think you’re ready for this?” Betsy asked.
Jarvey shook his head. “No. I’m not. But I can’t think of any other way of trying to find my mom and dad. I’ll never be ready, but I’m going to have to try.”
“Luck, then,” Betsy said. “I’ll watch out for you. If you need help and you can think of any way to get word to me—”
“You’ll hear from me,” Jarvey said with a sick smile.
He left the next morning, as two girls went out for water. Jarvey had made what plans he could think of. One thing he had to have was different clothes. In Lunnon, you were a Toff, a servant, or one of the working poor. He wore the clothes of a poor kid, and he needed to look like a servant of some kind, at least a low-level servant. If you had a master, people let you alone.
He hid out for most of the day, finding a safe spot in a woodshed a mile or so from the palace. When the brassy light of the sky faded to twilight, he ventured out.
This part of Lunnon was a district of small servant cottages with meager yards and tiny back gardens. As night came on, weary men and women plodded home, and soon the smell of frying fish and stewing cabbage began to drift out on the air. Jarvey heard music from some of the houses, plaintive violins and tinkling pianos. None of it sounded cheerful. Now and then he risked a glance through a window, seeing men in their shirtsleeves and women in aprons settling down at tables, their faces looking strained and weary. In some of the houses children sat at the tables too.
A little farther, and Jarvey found a darkened street of shops: shoes, iron goods, kitchen things. And a shop that sold used clothing. It was locked tight, though. He crept in the tight space beneath the front steps of the shop and settled in for a restless night.
With the coming of daylight, he crawled out again and loitered around until an old man and old woman unlocked the shop. He didn’t dare go inside until he was sure they were busy somewhere in the back. Then he hastily ducked through the door, catching his breath when a bell tinkled and the old woman called, “I’ll be with you in a minute, dearie!”
A wilderness of racks surrounded him, and from them hung clothes in all sizes. Against one wall he saw a long shelf piled high with stockings and underwear, and under it stacks of boot and shoe boxes. Jarvey scrambled under the shelf, worming his way into a narrow space between the shoe boxes and the wall. Just as he did, the bell rang again, and he heard footsteps hurrying from the back of the store. The old woman said, “Well, Mrs. McCarty, and I hope I see you the same.”
“Pretty well, dearie, I thank you,” said another woman’s voice. “I’m in need of a black frock, Mrs. Shandy, if you’ve one that’s not too dear. My master wants me to wait on his son and daughter-in-law next week, and I’ve nothing suitable to wear as a lady’s maid, me so long in the kitchen and all.”
“I think we can fit you right up, Mrs. McCarty. Come with me, dear, and we’ll see what we have.”
From then on Jarvey lay still and listened to a steady stream of customers, some buying and some selling. At long last, he heard the two elderly shop owners talking to each other.
The man said, “Well, Mrs. Shandy, not such a bad day.”
“No, Mr. Shandy, but if we don’t sell more than we buy, we’re in for trouble.”
“Never fear, Mrs. Shandy. We buy cheap and we sell dear, and that’s the way to make the world go around.”
“Have you locked up the back, dear?”
“I have, my pet. Now, it’s likely we’ll have no more customers today, so what say you to closing early and having a pint at the public house before curfew?”
“I say a pint would be welcome, Mr. Shandy.”
The old couple both chuckled at that, and soon Jarvey heard the front door close and a key turn in the lock. He waited a few minutes more and then slipped out of his hiding place.
He explored the dim shop and found in the back a bathroom with running water. Trickling water, anyway. He closed the door and turned up a small gas lamp. He blinked into a bleary, corroded mirror hanging over a cumbersome, rusty sink.
His face was a mess. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed. Probably his plunge into the river, if you could call that washing. His rusty brown hair was so dirty that it lacked the usual odd highlights, and it was too long, longer than he liked it, hanging over his ears and down low on the back of his neck.
He needed that change of clothes. Keeping to the back of the store, Jarvey hunted through the racks for something he could wear. Finally he found a white shirt, gray vest and jacket, and short black trousers. He turned up some thick white stockings and a pair of shoes that were tight, but he thought he could stand them.
Then he returned to the little bathroom and gave himself as much of a bath as he could with just a sink, a bar of coarse brown soap, and a dribble of cold water. When his reflection in the mirror looked clean, or anyway cleaner, he got into the clothes. They felt weird, like a Halloween costume. The shoes pinched his feet, and the vest was too loose, but otherwise he looked the part of a houseboy or errand-runner. He hoped.
He buried his old clothes at the bottom of a rag bin. When he turned the gas light down and opened the bathroom door, Jarvey realized that night had fallen. He stood in the dark store, debating with himself. He could find a way out now, but that meant spending another night dodging the Mill Press and tippers. But if he stayed in the store, he’d have difficulty slipping out after the Shandys arrived. And he was very hungry.
Jarvey felt his way to a closed door, presumably the door to the office. It was locked. He rattled the door, but had no way of opening it.
A gleam of light shone through the front window, and Jarvey dropped to the floor, lying on his stomach. The light flickered as someone—probably a tipper with a dark lantern, a kind of oil-burning flashlight—tried the front door, found it locked, and moved on. Jarvey lay still for another full minute. He reached out to push himself up, and his hand hit the door.
Which moved.
Exploring by feel, Jarvey finally understood what had happened. The office door had a pet flap in it. Maybe the Shandys had once owned a cat or a guard dog that slept in the office. He didn’t think one was in the shop now. He hadn’t heard any sign of a pet all day long, anyway. He could get his head and one arm through the flap. Maybe with a little squirming—
He wormed through the opening and stood up, feeling his way. Another gas jet burned low and blue on the wall. He cautiously eased it up, saw that the cubicle had no windows, and then turned the gas up full. Against one wall of the little office stood a long, scarred, chipped desk, taking up most of the space. A squat iron safe was against the opposite wall, and next to it a narrow door. A litter of papers
covered the desk, most of them scrawled bills and invoices.
Jarvey searched for something useful and found a few crusts of bread left over from sandwiches. A withered apple was on one corner of the desk. The scraps were barely enough to remind his stomach that he was hungry. When he had eaten, Jarvey opened the narrow door next to the safe and saw a sort of closet stacked with new-looking boxes. One of them had a stenciled legend on its visible side: OLDCASTLE AND SON, TAILORS. It was the right size for a jacket or a half-dozen shirts, and it gave Jarvey an idea. He took it—it was empty—and soon had it stuffed with his old clothes. He found twine and tied the package securely.
Jarvey waited until almost dawn before he dared to go to the front of the shop and examine the door. He could unlock it from the inside—the deadbolt had a twist latch—but he couldn’t relock it. Jarvey bit his lip and decided to risk it. The Shandys were old, and they had gone to a public house for ale or beer before going home. Maybe the old man would think he’d just forgotten to lock up. It wasn’t likely either of them would realize that they’d been robbed. The clothes Jarvey had taken came from scattered racks, and with the thousands of articles of clothing crammed into the little store, it would be all but impossible to tell that a few odds and ends had vanished.
He stepped out into a clammy, foggy early morning. A few people were stirring about already as he walked up the street. In a kind of square, a lot of them had gathered at a pump, where they gossiped as they filled buckets. A man noticed Jarvey staring at the crowd. “What’s your trouble, young’un?” he asked.
Jarvey blinked, then tested his ability to sound English: “Please, sir, I’m a new errand boy at Oldcastle’s, and I’ve a half-dozen shirts for the palace.”
“Lord love you,” a woman said with a chuckle. “Afraid to go there, are you? If you’ve business there, they’ll not hurt you. But you’re early, you know. Best wait until full day to make your delivery.”
“Don’t look for no tip, neither,” another man advised. “Likely if you ask at the front gate, they’ll send you around to the back, anyway, so you’d best go round there to begin with. Nip in, nip out, and don’t make no trouble.”
“Aye, or you’ll find yourself in the mills,” the first man said.
“Thank you.”
The woman tilted her head. “You eat yet, lad?”
“No, I haven’t. These shirts were promised for yesterday, but Mr. Oldcastle didn’t get them finished until after dark, and I was afraid to take the package then.”
“Wise you were. Here, I’ve drawn my water. Come along with me and carry it for me, and you can have a bite of breakfast with my two. They’re not old enough for service yet, but’twill do them good to see a young fellow already trusted with shirts for the palace.”
With his box clutched under his left arm, Jarvey lugged the heavy pail of water in his right hand. The family’s name was Broad, and they lived up to it: Mrs. Broad was chunky and smiling, with a red berry face always in motion. Mr. Broad was grave and heavyset—“Under-butler to Lord Wainford,” Mrs. Broad said in tones of pride. The little Broads were a girl, six, and a boy, four, round butterballs with wide eyes. Jarvey tried to remember his manners as he sat at the table and had a fried egg, thick bacon, toast, marmalade, and cool milk. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten with a knife and fork.
Mr. Broad gave his wife a peck on the cheek and then went off to work. Jarvey helped her clear the table, while she chattered away about how his mum and dad must be proud of him, getting a job with the Oldcastles, the tailors the Toffs always liked to use. Jarvey blushed. She was a nice woman, and he felt strange lying to her.
After offering his thanks to Mrs. Broad, Jarvey escaped finally when day was bright in the streets. With his package under his arm, he made his way toward the palace, wondering if Betsy was still in the snug above the block of flats. He hoped she would be at the stairway window watching him, for he felt lonely and deserted.
Giving the front gate of the palace a wide berth, Jarvey followed the street as it curved off to the right. The palace stood alone in its own green square of land. The cottages of the servants ended outside the front wall, and to either side and the back he saw only rolling green hills and trees—the palace park, he supposed, off-limits to everyone but Tantalus Midion and his guests. He walked close to the brick wall, which went on for nearly a quarter of a mile before he came to the back corner. Then he found the back guardhouses, identical to the front ones, with identically tough-looking men in both of them. Feeling shaky, he approached one and said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I’ve this parcel to deliver to the palace.”
The guard stared at him. “Where from?”
“From Oldcastle’s, sir.” Jarvey held it up so the guard could see the label. “New shirts, sir.”
“All right. In with you. Servants’ door is at the end of the lane. Stay on the lane, mind, or the dogs might rip you up.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The guard unlocked the gate and waved Jarvey through. The lane was a strip of lawn, bordered on either side by a tall wrought-iron fence. Jarvey had taken no more than a dozen steps when he heard a snarling and the scrabble of paws. Two short-haired brown dogs, hounds that came nearly up to his waist, thrust their muzzles through the fence and snuffled, growling at him, the fur on their necks and shoulders bristling.
They didn’t bark at all. The sounds they made were worse, low and guttural, as if they wanted to shred him to bite-size morsels and gulp them down. They paced him all the way down the lane and up to the big, square stone house.
As he neared the palace, Jarvey saw something that might prove useful later on. Off to his right, an old tree grew close to the wall, one sturdy limb actually touching the top row of bricks. Next to it was another tree, with its limbs interlacing with the first. If a person could climb up onto the wall and into the tree, he just might be able to creep along through the branches until he reached the protection of the lane. Then he could drop down safely and be inside the palace grounds.
Except that the dogs would bark at him, and people would investigate and catch him if he tried that.
The rumble of the dogs grew louder as Jarvey came up to the green-painted back door of the palace. A ponderous iron knocker in the shape of a lion’s head gripping a huge iron ring in its jaws hung there. Jarvey lifted it and let it fall.
A moment later, a young woman opened the door. “Yes, boy?”
“A package for Mr. Robinson, from Oldcastle’s,” Jarvey said, remembering Charley’s technique.
The young woman, who wore a white blouse and a gray skirt, frowned. “Robinson? Robinson? Old Bill, the chamberlain? I suppose you’d better take them to him, then. Down the hall to the end, then left, then up the stair, then right, and his is the third room on the left. If he’s not in, leave it outside his door.”
“Thank you, miss.”
“Mind you watch your step,” she said.
“Yes, miss.”
The kitchen must be somewhere nearby, Jarvey thought, from the smell of cooking. He walked slowly down the hall, stepping out of the way when servants bustled past him. They didn’t give him a second look. Too many servants, he decided, and he seemed to have some purpose, walking along with his package tucked under his arm.
He reached the end of the hall. Before him were two great arched doors, the wood carved to represent animal heads: lions, elephants, water buffalo, other creatures. Before he could turn toward the stairway, both doors opened suddenly. A tall man stood there for a moment, staring at Jarvey.
Jarvey’s heart nearly popped out of his mouth. He knew the face.
It was a cruel face, thin and pale. A pink scar zigzagged from the forehead down over the blind right eye. From a deep, dark socket, the left eye glared at him.
It was the tipper who had very nearly caught him at the river.
CHAPTER 10
In the Grip of the Hawk
“Who’s that?” The querulous, old-man’s voice came fro
m behind the one-eyed tipper. “Hawk, who is that?”
The thin, black-clad tipper stepped aside. “An errand lad, my lord.”
Jarvey swallowed. Tantalus Midion, his blue eyes piercing beneath shaggy white brows, glowered in the doorway. Jarvey caught his breath. If old Midion could really sense magic, would he sense Jarvey’s art? Midion barked, “Boy, what are you doing here?”
Jarvey’s voice caught in his throat. “I, uh, some shirts here to—to go back to Oldcastle’s for mending, sir.”
“Bah! Sell’em to a rag shop.”
“Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The tipper shot out his hand and grabbed Jarvey’s shoulder. “Do you not know whom you’re addressing, snipe? Say ‘my lord’ to your betters!”
“Yes, my lord. Forgive me, my lord. I never saw you before, my lord.”
“Wait a bit,” old Tantalus growled with a wave of his hand. “Hawk, Oldcastle’s is in Holofernes Street. This errand lad can save you a trip. Give him the message.”
“Are you sure, my lord?” The tipper’s voice grated. “It is an important message.”
“He’ll see it there safe if he knows what’s good for him. The Oldcastles know where their loyalty lies, and they have whips for dealing with messengers whose speed displeases me.” Old Midion’s lips spread in an evil smile. “But you are young and strong, my lad. No doubt you are fleet of foot as well. Give him the envelope, Mr. Hawk.”
Mr. Hawk’s one eye, a strange shade of yellow-brown, glared at Jarvey as the man reached into his leather tunic and produced a heavy tan envelope. He held it out. “To go to the Holofernes Street police station, to be handed to the sergeant of the watch. You are to wait upon his reply and bring it here at a run—at a run, mind you.”
Jarvey reached a shaking hand for the envelope, but before his fingers could close on it, Mr. Hawk twitched it back. “Repeat your orders, errand boy, to make sure you understand them.”
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