The voices grew fainter and Arista pulled her coat closer to her body. In the dim light, from a distance, she could easily pass for a boy—a slight boy, perhaps, but clearly one with a knife strapped to his thigh.
No one else bothered her. She made it to where the unused warehouse stood, its tattered edges outlined against the sky. The spot where she liked to go was just past the dilapidated building, through the overgrown path leading to the river’s edge. Though it was completely hidden from view, if she was spotted, she’d have nowhere to run but into the Thames. As she could not swim, it would be a certain death for her. She had to be careful.
Footsteps came faintly from the right, growing louder with each breath she took. A stack of empty crates gave her enough cover to hide behind, and she forced her lungs to quiet as the Watchman made his rounds. In only moments, he turned and ambled away, taking the faint lamplight with him. Next to the river, the night was even darker. The working dock sat much farther upriver. There was no need for anyone to be around at this hour except the occasional Watchman.
The air grew damper as she moved closer to the river. In the stillness, she could hear faint whispers of the water lapping against the riverbanks. She exhaled softly and straightened. Though her boots were heavy, she barely made a sound as she hurried around the corner of the long building.
There had been a fire years before and the old building had been destroyed. The only thing left of the loading dock was a small bit of wood jutting out a few feet into the river. Weeds grew up along the bank, effectively hiding it, and giving Arista the perfect place to sit and watch the lights reflect off the water. The cool air there didn’t reek of refuse and deadness so much during the night. Only under the thick midday fog did the stench test the stomachs of even the most hardened of seamen.
Arista pushed through the dense brush and carefully stepped over the spot with a missing plank. Water lapped gently against the wood supports, and the tension gripping her shoulders finally melted away. The hopes and fears of a seventeen-year-old bubbled to the surface, finally free from the constraints she kept them under. Every minute of the day, her movements were calculated, as either a gypsy beggar boy or the notorious Lady A. Neither role fit. She wore someone else’s skin all the time, except in rare moments like these, when she could escape both and just be Arista.
At the ball earlier, when she’d lost sight of herself for a moment in a stranger’s arms, a slight breeze had swept over her from an open courtyard door, beckoning to her. An indescribable urge to run away had overtaken her. An urge to go someplace like where the man described; where she could be completely free. She’d never been so close to running.
Bones owned her, and he made sure she never forgot it, but something stubborn inside Arista refused to give up. She wanted freedom. Wanted to make her own choices and have a future, away from the streets of London. Maybe even find love.
She yearned for something pure and beautiful in her life. When she looked at Nic, she could sometimes see a ray of hope. Oftentimes it was clouded beneath the darkness that had been lately creeping into his eyes, but when she remembered everything he’d done for her, she tried to ignore it. She could see the faint hints of a future she hardly dared to imagine.
Lately though, trying to find hope in these short moments of solitude had become harder. As if she were fading away from herself. How long would it take before she only existed as a beggar or Lady A? What would happen when she forgot who she really was?
Across the river, a light pulled away from the glittering reflections, and a barely discernible boat glided across the water. Oars dipped down and cut through the water, and Arista saw the lamplit face of an old man staring earnestly down at the river.
Goose bumps spread up her arms. Bodyfinders. They skirted the river’s edge in the dark, dredging for bodies with a long, hooked pole. Once found, they would pull them onto the boat, rummage through the pockets for valuables, then take their clothes and dump the naked corpse back into the river.
There were no proper burials for the forgotten.
The thought made Arista tremble harder. How different was she from a body floating in the river? Who would care if she ceased to breathe? She had no past and no future, no family to lay claim to her.
“Daydreaming again, gypsy?” Nic’s amused voice came from behind her. He settled down on the rickety dock without a sound, his arm brushing against her. The familiar ache started again, and she looked up at him from the corner of her eyes.
“If I ended up like that…” She swept her hand out over the river, where the old man in the boat was now fishing something out of the water with his hooked pole. The words lodged in her throat and she had to force them out. “Would you care?”