BOOK ONE

THE HISTORIAN’S DISCIPLE

by Leo Swanhope

“Forbid thyself to feebleness! It mars thy warrior-name! Cast off the coward-fit! Wake! Be thyself! Arise, Scourge of thy Foes!”

~Bhagavad Gita

Prologue

The most dreaded structure in New Arcadia was St. Michael’s Sanctuary. 

In appearance, the building was certainly imposing, but to a casual observer the only suggestion of its monstrous nature would be the inscription chiseled into the granite panel over the keystone:

PATER OMNISCIENS LIBERA IUSTITIA

The phrase had not been included in the edifice’s original construction; it was originally built as a munitions factory to stock the palace armory and the harbor garrison when tensions between the four Crowns arose. When diplomacy healed the rifts, eliminating the possibility of war, the factory ceased production and closed its doors. Twenty-something years passed, and having gathered enough dust to make its resale price relatively low, the building was purchased and renovated by a handful of newly graduated lawyers looking to set up a firm. The partners who spearheaded the firm’s formation commissioned a stonemason to install the panel and carve the words “The All-Knowing Father Delivers Justice” into it in Latin as their slogan. Three years later, after spending too much money on renovations and losing too many court cases, the law firm shut down and the place was yet again put on the market. An anonymous buyer was quick to purchase the property at auction with the intent to renovate it into a refuge for homeless and abandoned children. The buyer remodeled the interior, setting up sleeping quarters, two dining halls, a kitchen, and even several playrooms. Once the institution was set up, the caretakers hired by the owner began to spread the word about it to the elite members of society, who then eagerly poured funds into the Sanctuary in the hopes that not only would they be helping to clothe and feed the innumerable waifs of New Arcadia, but that they would also be seen as true philanthropists – a status which, by all accounts, was incredibly fashionable.

As soon as there was enough financial support and some children had already been brought to live at St. Michael’s, the owner enlisted a dozen of his close personal associates to become the patrol that would collect stray children and deposit them in the Sanctuary. The more seasoned urchins resisted the patrolmen; they had known no real home apart from the alleyways and gutters, and certainly had no intention of giving up their lifestyle. The children dubbed the patrolmen “Rounders,” for their knack for rounding up the children who weren’t quick enough to get away. The Rounders, in turn, called the orphans “Runners.” The more the Runners resisted capture, the crueler the Rounders became, and the crueler the Rounders became, the more they would take out their anger and frustration on the children already living at St. Michael’s. Of course, that made the resident children increasingly miserable, which only made the Runners less inclined to cooperate with the patrolmen. This vicious cycle was largely ignored – if it was perceived at all – by the people of New Arcadia, and this contributed to the further decline of conditions at the Sanctuary and the unchecked struggle between the Rounders and their prey.

It would have made little difference in regards to that situation if the government had, in fact, been aware of it. The fact of the matter was that while government certainly existed in New Arcadia, it was not the influential institution that most other cities of its scale operated under. The seat of the Albionic monarchy rested in the heart of the city, though the reigning king’s affairs were concentrated on things like international diplomacy and preserving the happiness of the nation’s general populace. There was also an appointed city government, headed by the Praetor and a council of men chosen by the king with the influence of the city’s residents. The council’s main concerns had to do with expanding industry and infrastructure; the discontent of a few ragtag orphans was of little consequence when such grand matters as bridge-building and textile production were on the table. While matters of state were important, the one operation that truly ran the city of New Arcadia was the work of its historians.

The cardinal virtue of New Arcadia was that knowledge was the root of all strength, and in order to obtain knowledge, one had to learn from the past. The greatness of Rome flourished, spanning nearly a thousand years to the present day, and written history had been so well preserved that very few documents remained undiscovered. Consequently, historians and researchers were the most revered men in the whole of New Arcadia. Their dedication to the study, recovery, and preservation of important artifacts and documents placed them in the highest regard, even among the most prominent politicians and businessmen. The historians had little to do with anything in New Arcadia apart from stocking and maintaining its museums and archives, lecturing at the National College, and delivering presentations to the masses when major discoveries occurred. For the most part, they kept to themselves and their research, and had they known about the war between the Runners and the Rounders, most of them may not have done anything about it anyway.

And yet one historian was different.

His name was Professor Robert Allen. He had studied at the National College, gained a degree in World History and Anthropological Studies, and later became a teacher there. He was in his forties and held a private residence in St. Justine Square, roughly eight blocks from his office at the college. His research focused on world antiquities shrouded in mystery; he was never one to pursue something that did not have its uncertainties, and found their discoveries all the more satisfying. Of course, Professor Allen was not without his enemies, but his allies were strong in number as well. And one of those allies happened to be a Runner.

The boy was being accosted by two patrolmen when Professor Allen turned the corner, heading back home after finishing his errands. Then again, as the Professor observed the scene, it almost seemed as though the boy was the one doing the accosting. In any case, the Rounders had just succeeded in taking custody of the boy, and Professor Allen decided that he would intervene – after all, the boy had an impressive right hook.

“Gerroff me, you bloody rotters!” the boy growled, fighting madly to break free of the two surly men who held him. “I’ll break yer fat nose ‘f’you gives me ‘alf a chance!”

“Gentlemen,” Professor Allen addressed them, his voice firm, “what do you think you’re doing?”

The boy stopped struggling for a moment and cast a sharp look in the Professor’s direction. The taller Rounder glared at Professor Allen, showing off his crooked and yellowed teeth. “Wot’s it to you?”

Professor Allen lifted his chin and nodded in the boy’s direction. “I must ask you to unhand the boy,” he declared. The Rounders glanced at each other in disbelief and then looked back at the Professor. “As his uncle, I am more than capable of disciplining him myself once we return to the family home.”

“You ‘eard ‘im!” the boy affirmed, breaking free of the Rounders’ hold on him. He approached the Professor and touched the brim of his cap. “I’m awful sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you, uncle.”

Professor Allen patted the boy’s shoulders and glanced back at the Rounders, who watched with gaping jaws. “Thank you, gentlemen. Your services are no longer required here,” he dismissed them curtly. With his arm around the boy’s thin shoulders, Professor Allen guided him around the corner and down the street in the direction of his residence. Before they had gone a full block, however, the boy wriggled free of the Professor’s hold.

“Thanks much fer that,” the boy said, wrinkling his dirty nose, “but I en’t lookin’ fer charity.”

The older man raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Dear boy, who said anything about charity?”

The urchin narrowed one eye at the Professor, sizing him up. “You en’t no Rounder I ever seen, which means ye’re one of them fancy gentleman-types wot likes to think we can’t hold our own. Which means ye’re talkin’ charity.”

The Professor eyed this boy with curiosity. “What’s your name?” he asked, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“They calls me Crane, but I don’t see wot it matters to you.”

“Well, Crane,” the Professor said, “I am willing to offer you a deal. If you allow me to give you a hot meal and a warm bed for the night, I will not turn you in to the authorities. And, just this once, I’ll let you choose tomorrow whether or not you’d like to stay a little longer.”

Crane eyed him cautiously, thinking for a moment. Finally, the boy put his cracked knuckles on his bony hips and nodded. “Fine. But I’m the one wot gets to decide if I stay or go.”

The Professor smiled warmly, returning the boy’s nod. “And I wouldn’t dare argue that point.”

Thus, the boy and the Professor walked back to the Study – the house Robert Allen called home. When the morning came, though Crane had every intention of parting ways with the scholar, the promise of food and a warm bed of his own proved too convincing. The boy who had never had anything that he didn’t have to steal suddenly had someone to provide for him, and if Professor Allen was willing to provide for him, Crane was not about to argue.

The one price the boy did have to pay, however, was education; but that was never a problem for Crane. His mind devoured the knowledge just as his stomach devoured the food he was given, and as his body filled out and gained its proper form, so did his brain. And as the months grew into years, Crane became more than a student and ward to the Professor.

Despite the fact that Crane had found a home and a purpose, St. Michael’s Sanctuary still stood, and where there were Runners, there were still Rounders. And where there were Rounders, there was a man to tell them where to look for the boy who had escaped them twice.

The Gala

”I have often thought of him since, like the steam-hammer that can crush a man or pat an egg-shell, in his combination of strength with gentleness.”

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

New Arcadia, Albion, 1887

Not a single shop was open. The streets were empty, save for the occasional urchin navigating the shadowed alleys, on the alert for Rounders. However, the Rounders were not on patrol – not this night, at any rate. Every inch of fine damask and black linen had been tailored for the night. Every white glove had been pressed. Every lace fan had been checked for imperfections. Every shoe had been polished to shining. Every carriage was waiting outside the Anglican Museum, because everybody who was anybody was at the gala.

News of the exhibition had been soaked in ink, dominating the papers for weeks. The museum had recently acquired several new pieces, all artifacts from the Dark Islands, donated by Julius Grahame, one of the leading field scholars of New Arcadia. Opening night tickets had sold out a month in advance, and now, as the stars lit up one at a time in the twilight sky, society squeezed and pressed into the marble halls of the museum, each patron desperate to get the best glimpse of the artifacts before the papers went to press and ruined the entire event with airy prose and dry commentary.

As the crowd clamored in between the high columns of the main gallery, a lean figure in a suit jacket and hat worn down to shield his eyes maneuvered through the museum as well. However, this young man was the only person not headed for the new exhibition. Once he had passed through the masses like a fish swimming upstream, he made his way towards the now-closed section of the museum. The main gallery and the exhibition hall were the only areas open that night, and that was the way he wanted it; he worked best in the darkness.

Crane could navigate these halls in his sleep, and, in fact, he had. The drone of the crowd grew fainter as he headed for the Hall of Ornaments – the section where artifacts that were used as decorations were displayed. He hadn’t needed a note to remember the object he had been sent to obtain; he knew its name and what it looked like, and that was enough. Besides, handwriting could be deciphered, and neither his nor the Professor’s handwriting was difficult to come by. It was always safer to commit things to memory than to write them down. In any case, he still wasn’t an excellent speller, so it didn’t matter much anyway.

Crane crossed the room quietly, not concerning himself too much with the sound of his shoes tapping against the stone floor. That was part of the reason he came during the gala – there was less of a chance he would be heard over the dull roar from the main gallery. Still, it never hurt to be cautious.

The glass case enclosing the artifact he was looking for was in the corner of the hall, surrounded by a velvet rope. The museum was exploring new security options, which were still limited, but for now, this was about as good as it got. After all, security patrolled the entire building for twenty-four hours nearly every day; other than a night like tonight, it would be extremely difficult to even think about nicking anything. Even someone as experienced as Crane would have a hard time going unnoticed.

However, tonight was different. Security was trained on the main gallery and doors. This would be easy. The boy approached the velvet rope and ducked under it without disturbing the barrier in the least. His flexibility was something the Professor always instructed him to never take for granted, for one day he would no longer have it. Crane closed the five-foot gap between himself and the glass case, taking a quick glance at his surroundings, on the off chance that someone had wandered nearby. The coast was clear, and he withdrew a pair of black silk gloves from his coat pocket, wrinkling his nose as he drew them on. Of all the things he could never quite get used to, dressing up was the absolute worst. While he knew it was a necessity in many cases, he longed for the days where he could wear a torn linen shirt that hadn’t been laundered properly in weeks and a scarf so stained with sweat that it was nearly stiff. Luckily, the Professor had allowed him to keep some of his old clothes – the ones he hadn’t grown out of – but only on the condition that he would wash them regularly.

With his slender hands now concealed by the gloves, Crane took a deep breath and took hold of the glass case. It was small enough that he didn’t worry about its weight, but large enough that he couldn’t hold it in one hand. Slowly and delicately, without breathing for fear that it would disturb the steady motion of his hands, Crane lifted the glass. Once it had cleared the top of the artifact, he set the square case down on the board that explained the history of the piece.

Crane reached forward, careful not to bump the glass sitting precariously beside him, and grasped the horse-shaped handles of the bowl. It was much lighter than he expected, but he didn’t waste time wondering about that. Instead, he removed the black scarf wound around his neck, wrapped the bowl in it carefully, and tucked it safely within the satchel slung at his hip. He replaced the glass exactly as he had found it, and ducked back under the rope. The breath he had been holding finally released, but Crane knew he wasn’t out of the water yet. What were the virtues again? The Professor had encouraged him to recall them during the times he was completing an errand, to keep himself from premature celebration or a sloppy retreat made in haste. Crane began to recite the list in his head as he calmly headed in the direction of the museum’s back exit.

Chastity, named Castitas. Treat others with courtesy. Refrain from licentious behavior. Resist temptation. Your reward shall be love in its purest form.

Temperance, named Temperantia. All things in moderation. Control yourself and practice propriety in all conduct. Resist selfish thoughts or desires. Your reward shall be the generosity of others.

Charity, named Caritas. Provide for those in need without desiring recompense. Sacrifice is the highest form of love one person can show another. Resist the tendency to put yourself before others. Your reward shall be the sacrifice another may perform for you.

Patience, named Patientia – my personal struggle. Endure suffering without complaint. Do not give up easily on tasks or your beliefs. Forgive and show mercy. Resist resorting to violence. Your reward shall be honor.

Diligence, named –

The unmistakable tap of shoes on the stone floor echoed from down the hall. Drawing in a breath, Crane swiftly ducked behind a pillar and froze. The footsteps continued, and Crane determined that the shoes were feminine – the distinct click of a heeled woman’s boot gave that away. And yet the sound was light, so it was not caused by a wandering matron or scholar’s patron. This woman had to be young – or at the very least, light on her feet. She walked with purpose, but not without grace. While relieving, Crane couldn’t chance being discovered by this woman. After all, who was to say she wouldn’t find him suspicious and turn him over to the authorities? He listened intently, running through potential escape plans in his head, but the footsteps grew distant again, as though the woman had turned to go down a different hallway. Crane breathed again and stepped out once more, walking quickly towards the exit. He didn’t want to risk another close encounter.

Within a minute, Crane was outside the rear of the museum. Glancing quickly around the corner, he jogged across the lawn, out of sight of the windows (not that anyone was watching from them anyway), and across the street. He knew the cobbled roads and brick alleys better than his own life story, and he knew that it was safest to navigate the back roads first before using the main streets to get back home to the Study. He just had to be careful, that’s all.

The warmth and thickness of the night air betrayed the oncoming summer, and the cobblestones glimmered with recent rain. The humidity made Crane’s dark hair curl where it wasn’t covered by his hat. He wished he could get rid of his jacket, remove the cravat and vest and loosen his dress shirt. Now was not the time. St. Justine Square was only three blocks away; he would be home soon enough, and then he could sleep naked, for all he cared, as long as he locked the door. As he meandered through the narrow walkways behind shops and houses, he took a moment to look behind him, just to make sure he was not being followed. He faced front again, but the moment he did so, a fist collided with his face.

Crane stumbled backwards, taken completely off guard. His nose had exploded in pain, and he wondered if it was broken. Dizzied by the blow, he tried to clear his head, but before he could lift a hand to defend himself, another punch cracked against his cheek. He shook his head and struck out blindly. His fist connected only with air, but he caught a glimpse of his assailant – tall, slender, and wearing a dress? Honey-colored hair tumbled from beneath a feathered hat, and for a moment, Crane worried that he had been knocked unconscious and this was some sort of dream. He was being attacked – and beaten – by a girl? Growling in frustration, he stood straight up and got into boxing stance. It was the one technique of self-defense the Professor would allow him to learn, partly because he had already picked up some basics from the street. Castitas warned him against fighting girls, if indirectly, but this one wasn’t a normal girl. This one knew what she was doing.

Crane attacked, jabbing at the girl’s head. She dodged and aimed a left hook, but Crane ducked just in time and head-butted her in the stomach. The girl grunted, the wind knocked out of her, and gasped for air. Catching the opportunity, Crane reached forward and slammed his fists into her ears – not hard enough to do permanent damage, but hard enough to keep her at bay for a while. She blinked, still choking for a breath. A sweep of Crane’s leg knocked the girl’s feet out from under her, and she dropped to the ground like a stone. He patted the satchel to make sure the bowl was still inside, and noticed that the girl was wearing heeled boots – she had followed him from the gala, he was sure of it. A split second passed, and Crane wordlessly ran off in the direction of the Study, not seeing the bloody grin on the blonde girl’s face as she watched him disappear.

*

“I wouldn’t have hit her if she hadn’t hit me first,” Crane explained, taking the damp cloth from the Professor. He had arrived back at the Study nearly half an hour ago, and while Professor Allen had furrowed his brow at the blood trickling down his ward’s cheek and pouring from his nose, the man’s primary concern had been the artifact. He had actually breathed an audible sigh of relief as Crane lifted it from the satchel. Once the Professor had locked the bowl away in his private office, he had brought Crane to the tiny library on the second floor and interrogated him in regards to his wounds.

Crane pressed the cloth to his nostrils and sighed. “Bloody cat would’ve beat me, too, if I hadn’t fought back.”

The Professor’s voice was patient, as always. “Language, Crane. She may have attacked you, but we do not resort to name-calling, not even under these circumstances.”

Crane rolled his eyes. “She followed me, too. I got the bowl and was leaving, and I heard footsteps. It had to be her. She had the right shoes on.” He lifted the cloth from his cheek to study the amount of blood that came with it. “Anyway, what would she want with me?”

The Professor sighed. He never shrugged, never showed any physical signs of uncertainty. Not around Crane, at least. “Who knows? Perhaps you wronged her in the past and she was looking to get revenge.”

Crane narrowed his eyes at the older man. “If that was supposed to be a joke, it weren’t funny.”

“Wasn’t,” the man corrected him.

“Wasn’t,” Crane repeated, trying to hold back a groan. He had come very far in correcting his speech, but despite five years of intense education, he still slipped up every now and then. Old habits are like cockroaches, the Professor had once told him. They are in many places and they are hard to get rid of.

“Did you recall your virtues?” Professor Allen asked, turning to the tea table to pour a cup for himself. One of the many things he had learned about Crane was that, try as he might to instill an appreciation for tea in the boy, he never found a taste for it. That was one battle the Professor had let his young student win.

Crane nodded, moving the cloth from his nose to the cut on his cheek. “I did. Stopped at Diligence, though. That’s when I heard the girl following me.”

The Professor did not look at the boy. “Finish them, then.”

Though the man was not watching him, Crane knew better than to show his irritation. He had learned the hard way that the Professor seemed to have eyes everywhere, and that not a single expression of annoyance escaped his notice.

“Diligence, named Industria,” Crane recited, trying to keep his voice free of frustration. “Put your heart into your work. Live life with integrity. Do not be afraid to uphold your convictions. Resist falling behind in your work and betraying your conscience. Your reward will be respect.”

“Good,” the Professor commented absently, striding over to the bookshelves, the teacup and saucer in his right hand. Crane watched as he lifted his left – the one that Crane had always looked at with curiosity, with its mangled-looking fingers and palm, but never dared to ask about – to scan the titles. “Next.”

“Kindness, named Humanitas. Remain loyal and steadfast in friendships. Inspire the same actions in others. Resist spiteful words and thoughts. Control feelings of hatred, and give yourself no reason to have such feelings. Your reward will be the loyalty of your friends.”

The Professor placed the saucer on the shelf, balancing it carefully, and pulled a cloth-bound book from the shelf with his good hand. “Next,” he said, wedging the book between the shelf and his chest so that he could thumb through its pages.

“Humility, named Humilitas. Act with modesty. Respect all life – ”

“Respect all life and examine your heart for improper judgments. We’ve heard it all before, thank you.”

Both Crane and the Professor looked in the direction of the door. A tall young woman with straw-colored hair pulled back into a bun stood in the threshold, a tray loaded with two steaming plates of roast chicken and potatoes balanced between her hand and her hip. “Really, you two,” she remarked with dry amusement. “I think a more productive hobby would do you both a world of good.”

“Marion, if you remembered your virtues as well as Crane does, I would never have given up on you,” Professor Allen noted, hiding a chuckle among his words.

Marion entered the room and set the tray down on the writing desk. The rooms were small due to the architecture of the house – built in the narrow space between a pen and ink shop and a bakery, the structure was three floors and an attic, which had served as Crane’s room for the past five years – but not so small that to put furniture into a room would compromise the ability to move within the space.

“If I remembered my virtues at all, I wouldn’t have to worry about you staying up all night to pray for my soul,” Marion chuckled. “I made you two some dinner – or rather, I made myself dinner, but enough that you could have the leftovers.”

“How thoughtful,” Crane scowled, snatching up one of the plates. He winced slightly as he moved his arm, and he suspected it was because he had strained a muscle during the fight. The pain did nothing to reduce his appetite, however, and the Professor had to cast yet another authoritative glance in his direction to get him to slow down.

“What happened to you, anyway?” Marion asked, leaning against the threshold and crossing her arms over her chest. “One minute you were on the doorstep, looking like something the cat might bring in, and the next, old Uncle Robbie spirits you away to the library without so much as a ‘why, hello, Marion.’ You look like the devil, Crane.”

The boy rolled his eyes in irritation, opening his mouth to speak, but Professor Allen beat him to the punch. “Crane, why don’t you go upstairs and lie down for a while? It’s been a long night, and you could use some rest.”

Crane furrowed his brow at the Professor, but the man offered no explanation. Knowing better than to press for information, the boy picked up his plate and trudged past Marion and out of the room. He marched up two flights of the narrow staircase, entering the attic room once he reached the top. The room was decently-sized, taking up about the same amount of space as the other floors, but without walls or partitions. It was one big room, and Crane had it all to himself. It was the one place in the Study where he more or less could avoid everyone else.

Nudging the door shut with his foot, Crane shuffled over to his bed and sat on the rumpled linens. He set the plate down beside him and lifted a hand to his still-swollen cheekbone. The blood had congealed and crusted on the cut, and he winced despite the delicacy of his touch. Though there were a thousand questions buzzing in his tired head, Crane wanted nothing more than to ignore them all, eat his dinner, and sleep from then until noon the next day. The only problem with that, Crane mused, was that between his pounding head and his racing thoughts, sleep was an unlikely state for him to find himself in anytime soon. He wolfed down the rest of his dinner and considered going to the bookshelf, but before he could get up, there was a knock on his door. It opened without him answering, and Marion peeked around the door.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked. “I won’t barge in if you’re in the middle of something.”

Crane shrugged. “Wasn’t in the middle of anything. There’s no chance I’ll get to sleep anyway.”

Marion gave him an empathetic smile and entered the room, pulling the chair from his desk over towards the bed so she could sit closer to him. “Good Lord knows I know how that feels,” she sighed. “Of course, I’m sitting up because I worry too much.”

Crane’s eyes grew distant for a moment as he stared at the dusty floorboards. “Why does he smile at you like that and not me?” he finally asked, a quiet frustration in his voice.

“What do you mean?” Marion asked, furrowing her brow.

“The Professor. He jokes with you and smiles at you all the time, and he’s always business with me.”

Marion sighed again, though this was more out of tired patience than empathy. “Crane, you can’t say that. He smiles at you,” she assured him, though she wasn’t quite certain it was true. A change in subject was necessary. “How has the Latin been coming?”

Crane shrugged. “Slowly. It’s like trying to read scribbles. I know what it should say, but none of it makes sense.”

“Greek is harder,” Marion said, the hint of a smile returning to her face, “if it’s any consolation. He won’t start you on Greek until he’s sure you’re comfortable with Latin. At least that’s in letters you can understand.”

“Why does he do this anyway?” Crane demanded in frustration, standing and going over to his bookshelf. “I’m not going to become a great scholar. Hell, I’m not even going to become a bad scholar. Whether or not he likes it, I’m made for street life.”

Marion rose and stood behind him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “He just wants you to know that that’s not your only option. You don’t have to be a scholar. You don’t have to go to the College if you don’t want to. He’ll be…disappointed, I’m sure, but he won’t force you. If you wanted, you could live out your days hawking newspapers. The Professor would understand.”

Crane grunted with a mirthless chuckle. “You mean you would understand, and you’d try to convince him to see reason.”

“I mean he cares about you, Crane,” Marion corrected him. She turned and pulled one of the books from the shelf. Its binding was brown leather, and the pages were worn and dirty with age. “This journal was his when he was a boy. He spent two years filling it, slaving over his Latin and commenting on how hard he found it. Perhaps if you gave him a chance, you’d see that you and he are not terribly different.”

Crane took the book from her and glanced at its cover, the black etching so faded that it was nearly impossible to read. After a moment, he put it back on the shelf dismissively. “I’ve lived with him for five years, Marion. I think if we were the same, I’d know by now.”

“I’ve lived with him for almost twenty years. I think I would be able to tell,” the girl countered. “You’re sixteen years old, Crane. Every sixteen-year-old fancies himself as an island.”

The boy gave her a narrow-eyed look. “And by the time you’re twenty-three, you become a master at reading people?”

Marion dropped her shoulders, seeing that this was one fight Crane was not going to lose easily. She sighed and spoke after a moment. “Finish your dinner and get some sleep. I’m sure the Professor will want to talk in the morning.”

She headed for the hall, and as she turned to close the door behind her, she saw the brown leather journal cradled reverently in Crane’s hands.

*

“I found him,” the girl announced, hanging her cape on the hook. “He put up quite the fight, too. I must admit, m’lord, when you said he would cause trouble, I did not believe you were so serious.”

Her audience entered the hallway and approached her. She could feel the velvet of his dressing gown against the part of her back not covered by her dress. “And?” the man inquired, putting a leathery hand on her shoulder. “What was he like?”

The girl turned to face him, tucking a blood-crusted lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, if the bruises are any indication, he doesn’t have a sense of chivalry. Although, judging by the company he supposedly keeps, I can’t say he would have learned one.”

A deep chuckle resounded in the man’s chest. “I’m sure you didn’t give him reason to be a gentleman, either.”

“I’ll put it this way, Doyle – it’s easier for a woman to justify bruises received on the street than it is for a man.”

Doyle stroked the pad of his thumb along the line of her jaw, stopping at her pointed chin. “I must confess, Natalie, you look beautiful even with the bruises. They bring out a certain…dark side to your looks.”

Natalie tried to hide the shiver that ran through her at his words. Doyle Coleridge was the only man who had ever been able to intimidate her, and he knew just how to do it. “Perhaps,” she replied, giving a chuckle to conceal her sudden unease, “but I do prefer my looks without them. They certainly are a bother to maintain.”

Doyle dropped his hand and turned to go back to the drawing room. Natalie followed dutifully, though at this point, all she wanted to do was change into her nightgown, clean her face, and go to bed. “The boy,” he said as they walked, bringing her back to the topic.

“The boy,” she repeated affirmatively. “He’s about fifteen or sixteen, but you probably knew that. He was dressed well, which I found odd for a thief – cravat, jacket, polished shoes. I suppose Allen wouldn’t send his thief out looking like a thief, though. I knew him by the eyes, as you said I would. Blue as the day is long.”

“Did you see him when he entered the museum?”

Natalie rolled her eyes as if his question had offended her. “Of course I did. I had been waiting for him specifically. It isn’t all that hard to blend into a crowd like that one, so he didn’t suspect anything until I began following him out.”

Doyle nodded thoughtfully from his armchair, his eyes trained on the fire crackling in the hearth. “Did he speak at all?”

“Regrettably, no,” Natalie replied, taking a handkerchief from the drawer in the corner table and dabbing lightly at her bleeding lip. “He didn’t speak inside the museum, and the fight was over quickly. I did, however, follow him almost all the way home. It would seem the dear old scholar is still residing in St. Justine Square. Would you like me to pay a visit?”

“No,” Doyle answered, quickly and firmly. He looked over at her, his expression unreadable. “He cannot know that we are tracing him yet. I need more information first.” He stood and crossed over to her, a light in his eyes. “Until then, I have other uses for you.”

Natalie sighed, her suspicions of how this night would progress now confirmed. “Of course, sir. I am yours to command.”

The Flower Girl

“And some are pretty enough,

And some are poor indeed;

And now again the people

Call it but a weed.”

“The Flower”, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

If there’s anything I hate more than Latin, it’s Latin by candlelight.

The writing could have been his. As Crane read the pages of the journal, he wondered if Marion had been telling the truth. Surely the Professor wasn’t that much like he was. But his journal told a different story.

I failed to finish my conjugations before dinner, so I’m paying the price for it now. Professor Llewellyn seems to think that I have nothing better to do than sit and conjugate verbs. Who knew that words could be written so many different ways and still mean more or less the same exact thing? When the sun went down, I asked if I could go. I suppose it was a ridiculous question, now that I think of it…Llewellyn said no, of course, and lit a candle. He has a drawer full of them, so if I’m not finished by the time this one burns out, he’ll just light another…

“Crane!”

Marion’s call startled him so much that he nearly fell out of bed. The book hit the floor with a thump, and Crane quickly picked it up, checking to make sure no pages had fallen out of place. As his door creaked open, he stuffed the book underneath his pillow – if Marion saw that he had been reading the journal, he would never hear the end of it.

“I’ve been shouting for you for almost half an hour,” Marion declared, letting herself into the room. “What in heaven’s name have you been doing?”

Crane blinked a few times, his eyes tired from poring over the scrawled penmanship. As his eyes adjusted to the change of scenery, he noticed that Marion was wearing a new skirt and apron, and her hair had been brushed and braided. A bonnet dangled from her hand by its ribbon, and she looked at him in startled curiosity. “Wh-what time is it?” the boy asked, suddenly confused.

Marion sighed. “Honestly, Crane, the day you actually pay attention to the time will be the day time ceases to exist.” She stopped, furrowing her brow. “Why are you still wearing those dirty clothes? It’s almost ten in the morning – we have things to do.”

At that, Crane practically threw himself across the room to his chest of drawers. He threw the drawers open, digging through them for fresh clothing. “Ten in the morning…how did I…going to be late…” he muttered to himself in hurried frustration.

“Gracious,” Marion chuckled. “If that’s all it takes…” She trailed off, coming to a realization. “You were awake all night, weren’t you?”

Crane didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, he tore his shirt off over his head, scrambling to get dressed. Marion raised her brow and turned to leave, closing the door behind her. Once he had thrown on some fresh clothes, Crane hurried downstairs to the ground floor. He jumped down the last few steps and tried to dart towards the door, but an arm hooked him around the shoulders, holding him back.

“Your hair looks like a rat’s nest,” Marion clucked at him, releasing him from her grip. She made an attempt at smoothing the dark curls, but they sprang back into position anyway. “Well…there’s not much we can do about that, then. We’ll have to have your dress clothes pressed – I still can’t believe you actually slept in them.”

Crane shrugged, tying the heather-grey scarf around his neck. It was a sort of good-luck charm for him, and he had worried that his mission last night would go wrong because he had to leave it at home. In times when he needed the luck, he almost always had to dress up and couldn’t wear it; he supposed that he wore it enough otherwise to build up the luck he would need on errands. “Technically, I didn’t sleep in them. I just never took them off, that’s all.” He glanced around, furrowing his brow. “Is the Professor coming with us?”

Marion shook her head, tying her hat in place. “He’s holed up in his study. I’ll check on him when we get back, but he said he had important research to take care of.”

“Where are we going, exactly?”

“You’ll find out when we get there, won’t you?” Marion replied, hanging a wicker basket from the crook of her elbow. “Ready, then? Would you mind getting the door?”

Crane rolled his eyes, but complied. Marion was one of those women that wouldn’t allow men to act superior towards her, and while Crane wasn’t exactly a man, he knew that rule applied to him as well. She had been fighting for a very long time in the causes of women’s rights, especially the Right to Research, and if that cause was ever lucky enough to gain Marion Hopewell as a leader, Crane knew it would only be a matter of hours until the Senate was signing it into law.

The street was already alive and beating with the rhythm of New Arcadian life. The cries of vendors and newsboys rang above the drone of business. Merchants and buyers alike lined the cobbled thoroughfare of Saint Justine Square. If Crane hadn’t spent nearly his entire childhood on these streets, he would have been swept up in the current like a leaf. Even though it had been five years since he had agreed to stay in the Professor’s home, Crane had lost none of his skill in blending into that current and riding it as naturally as a fish headed downstream.

“Do you really need me with you, or did the Professor just tell you I had to come?” Crane asked, petulance apparent in his tone.

Marion’s eyes remained forward, as always when they were on an errand. “I would say you could go your own way, but I know for a fact that once you found out where I am headed, you’d be unhappy to have missed it.”

Crane pursed his lips, cocking an eyebrow at her. “Where are you headed, then?” he asked suspiciously.

A shadow of a grin lifted the corner of Marion’s lips, though she still looked ahead. “I suppose you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

Crane’s brain mulled that over during the subsequent minutes, and after several brief stops at produce vendors’ carts and polite salutations to acquaintances they passed, Marion’s basket was full and Crane was ready to begin whining for an answer to his question.

Before he could resume his pestering for an answer, he received it. Marion headed in the direction of a girl with a tiny, fairy-like frame and mouse-brown hair escaping from a faded grey scarf. A basket of flowers hung from her arm, and there were several more baskets of various plants and herbs on the ground. Crane’s face turned the color of sour milk.

“Why in the bloody Inferno didn’t you tell me we were meeting Lynley?” Crane wheezed. “Don’t you even know what common courtesy is?”

Marion flashed him a teasing wink over her shoulder. “You look fine, Romeo.”

Crane’s jaw hung open indignantly and he reached up to his hair absently, trying to flatten it before scampering after Marion.

“Good morning, Lynley,” Marion was greeting the girl.

Lynley returned her smile and nodded. “Good morning yeself, Marion. Morning, Crane.”

Crane mumbled something that sounded like “good morning” and shuffled his feet. Marion rolled her eyes.

“Excuse him, Lynley,” Marion murmured, turning Crane’s ears scarlet. “He had a rough night last night.”

The girl’s eyes widened with realization as they focused on the shadow of Crane’s black eye. She withdrew a small bundle of herbs from the basket at her feet and handed it to him. “Witch hazel – it’ll help,” she explained. Crane reached into his pocket, but Lynley waved her hand. “And I’ll not be takin’ any of yer money, Mr. Crane. You’re the only one I show any real charity to, and that will be the end of that.”

Crane stuffed the witch hazel into his pocket with a garbled “thank you” and pretended that his shoes had just become incredibly interesting.

“What can I do for ye, Marion?” Lynley inquired finally, giving up her task of staring at Crane in the hopes that he would look up.

Marion pulled a folded piece of paper from her apron. “The Professor was wondering if you would be so kind as to help him with a package,” she replied, handing Lynley the paper. As one of the few young people on the streets who could read, this task was nothing new to the flower girl.

“Sending or receiving?” Lynley asked, studying the paper.

“Receiving,” Marion answered. “It’s coming through a new courier, so if you’re willing to help, the Professor would like to know your opinion of his reliability. He also said that if you agree, he would be happy to pay you for the service.”

The girl mulled it over for a moment, then lifted her eyes to Crane’s face. “What do you think, Crane? If I agree to be tabellaria for the Professor, would you assist me?”

Crane looked up dumbly. “Why would you need my help?” he asked, immediately deciding that it was a ridiculous question and he was making a complete ass out of himself.

“I may be quick, Crane, but I’ve never seen fists faster than yours,” Lynley grinned in reply.

“You clearly didn’t see the girl last night,” the boy grunted.

The flower girl’s brow raised in startled amusement. “Oh, it was a girl, now?” she teased. “Were you being too much of a flirt, and she popped you one?”

“No!” Crane cried, wishing very hard that his ears would stop turning scarlet. “She was trying to steal from me! She took me by surprise and hit me before I knew she was there.”

Lynley bit her lip, stifling a giggle. “Goodness. She must’ve been quick, then.”

“Doesn’t matter. I still beat her.”

“Alright, alright,” Lynley conceded. “It isn’t fair of me to laugh. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

Marion pressed her lips together, eying her young companion. “Crane,” she said, suggestion in her tone, “if you prefer to not help, I remember overhearing the Professor complaining that the bookshelves in the library need reorganizing. That’s certainly a task I could recommend you for.”

“I’ll help,” Crane interjected. His ears immediately reddened. “I mean, if you really think you need the help. And only if you promise not to make fun of me.”

A familiar little smile lifted the corners of Lynley’s mouth and she nodded. “I promise. I could never make fun of a tough rogue such as yourself on my own. Marion brings out the worst in me.”

Marion rolled her eyes at the girl, trying to hide her amusement. “Yes, well – send word once you hear from the courier, and we’ll send Crane right out to meet you. The package won’t be large, but it will need to be kept safe, away from prying eyes.”

Lynley’s expression sobered. “I shouldn’t be concerned, should I?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Marion assured her. “The Professor would never ask you to do something that might put you in harm’s way. It’s more a matter of security for the object rather than yourself. You have nothing to fear.”

The flower girl nodded and her face brightened back to a sunshine smile. “I didn’t expect so. I’ll keep an eye out for word.”

Picking up her basket, Marion thanked Lynley and started off back in the direction of the Study. Crane began to follow her, but Lynley caught his arm, which in turn made the breath catch in his throat.

“There’s something you need to know,” Lynley said as Crane’s face wrinkled in confusion. “Jamey’s gone missing.”

At that, Crane paled visibly. The young Runner had always been something of a brother to Crane, and even since his moving in with the Professor, Crane had always kept an eye out for the boy. “Rounders, ye think?” he asked, momentarily slipping back to his street tongue.

“We’re not sure. It would make sense, but no one was around when he was taken. We didn’t find out until it was very late, and by then, nobody was sure of how long it had been since the last time anyone saw him.”

Crane pressed his palms together, drumming his fingertips against each other. After a few moments, he looked back up at Lynley, a resolute light in his blue eyes.

“We’ll have to go in after him. I have to get in somehow and find him,” he declared.

“That girl must have hit you in the head harder than you thought,” Lynley commented. “We never go into Saint Michael’s. That was the rule. A ruleyoucreated, I might add.”

The boy shook his head firmly. “This is different. This is Jamey.”

Lynley took hold of Crane’s arm once again, squeezing lightly. “Crane, I know he means a lot to you, but you cannot go in there. What will you do if you’re caught? What good will you be to Jamey then, once the Rounders finally have you?”

Again, Crane shook his head. “I can’t let him stay in there, Lyn. He won’t last a week. I’m the best chance he’s got at getting out of there.”

“Damn you, Crane! Damn you for being so blodna noble!” Lynley finally cried, hitting his arm. “You wouldn’t last two days if the Rounders caught you! So if you’re going to throw whatever caution you have to the wind, then I’m blodna well coming with you!”

For a moment, there was just silence between them. Crane looked at the flower girl with wide eyes, amazed that such an impressive tirade could come from such a small creature.

Do you really care that much for me?his brain wanted him to ask. Instead, he asked, “But why are you coming with me?”

Lynley scowled and rolled her eyes. “To make sure you don’t get hurt, you idiot. I may be a girl, but I still live on the street – and I have a revolver, which is more than I can say for you.”

“I could steal a knife from the kitchen if I wanted to!” Crane protested with a rather impressive frown.

“I have a revolver. We don’t need a knife,” the flower girl replied patiently. “I’ll meet you back here tomorrow night at eleven.”

Crane shook his head, dizzied by this turn of the conversation. When did Lynley become the orchestrator of this raid? Hadn’t it been his idea? “Why tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow is Monday. The Rounders aren’t as active on Mondays,” Lynley replied without hesitation.

“Eleven is too early. The Professor doesn’t go to bed until one in the morning some nights,” Crane protested.

“Eleven-thirty, then,” Lynley scoffed. “You pride yourself on being the best thief in New Arcadia. Don’t you think you could make it past the Professor if you had to?”

Crane didn’t have time to press his case further; at that moment, a flustered Marion reappeared. “There you are! Heaven’s Grace, Crane, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“He’s been here with me, Marion,” Lynley interjected, saving Crane from having to scramble for a reply. “Sorry for keeping him.”

Smoothing her apron, Marion huffed. “Yes, well…we should really be getting back. Robert will wonder where we’ve vanished to.”

Crane nodded to Lynley as Marion led him away. “See you later, then,” he murmured to the flower girl. As he stepped away, his hand brushed hers for just a moment, his fingertips feather-light against her palm, and just as they rounded the corner back to Saint Justine Square, he caught a glimpse of a rosy blush creeping into her cheeks.