“Ready?” Arista asked. The longer she waited, the higher her chances of getting caught. Becky took a deep breath and nodded. She released Arista’s hands and stepped to the door. Her hand shook as she reached for the latch, but she didn’t pause.
“Hello again.” Becky moved out of the room and left the door slightly ajar. “My mistress is sleeping, and I find that I am not at all tired. I hoped that I could find someone to converse with. There aren’t many to talk to around here.”
Arista heard the way Becky’s voice wavered and held her own breath. Would the man notice her nervousness and become suspicious?
“Most aren’t here for the conversation,” the man said with a knowing chuckle.
“This isn’t the kind of place I normally stay in,” Becky said. Her voice got a little fainter and Arista decided to take a quick look out the door. Sure enough, Becky had moved a few feet away and the man now had his back to the door. Becky glanced past the man and saw Arista.
“I used to be a lady’s maid,” Becky continued. “Before…” She brushed a hand to her face and Arista watched her gaze slide down to the floor. Anyone would blame the maid. No one would ever dare point a finger at the lord.
Arista took a tentative step into the hallway and paused.
“Damned rich bastards think they can get away with anything.” His voice grew hard with contempt. The man shifted toward her and Becky put her hand on his thick arm.
“It was the best thing that happened to me. I got away from him before something worse happened. He had a horrible reputation…”
Arista missed the rest of the conversation. She made it down the hall, her bare feet silent on the carpeting, and opened the servants’ door before she dared to exhale. A quick glance back showed Becky and the man were still deep in conversation.
Confidence surged through Arista, making her muscles sing. Three flights of stairs and the kitchen door were all that stood between her and escape. Every creak from the uneven steps made her catch her breath, and it seemed to take forever to get to the bottom, but she finally made it without anyone the wiser.
When Arista opened the kitchen door, there was more movement in the house than before. A half dozen kitchen girls were mixing and kneading huge piles of dough on the large center island. These must be apprentices, not yet experienced enough to do anything but turn the dough.
One looked up, and an immediate spark of interest flashed in the young girl’s eyes. She looked about twelve or thirteen. Arista thought it peculiar, until she remembered she was dressed as a boy. She ran the last few steps and threw herself out the door. The fading sound of laughter followed her abrupt departure.
So much for leaving unnoticed.
The garden was full of shadows. The glow from the kitchen illuminated only the area right in front of the door. And there, on the side of the step, she saw a pair of boots. The errand boy must have put them there so as not to track mud into the house.
With a quick, silent apology, Arista grabbed them and hurried toward the back of the garden, to where Wild had materialized earlier. Sure enough, a small gate was hidden in the dark. The alley that ran behind the brothel was so black she could barely see her hand in front of her face. Arista slipped the boots onto her feet as quickly as she could.
Once she was free of the alley, she didn’t try to be quiet anymore. She simply ran. Her borrowed boots thumped against the ground, breaking the silence of the night with each step. In just three turns, Arista made it back to the familiar labyrinth of alleys that would lead her to Fleet Street—she could navigate them blindfolded if she had to. The shadows were quiet as she raced past. Even the ones who staggered home drunk from the taverns were asleep in their own beds at this hour.
Only the sneaks who picked the pockets of those same drunks were out. The occasional whisper of movement was the only indication they were there. It was one job Bones had never required her to do, though he sent most of the children out to do this dirty work. It was a very dangerous practice. Sometimes the drunk would wake, and fight back. Sometimes an even more desperate sneak would rather stick a knife in a fellow thief than return empty-handed.
An acrid aroma filled the air, even before she made the last turn out of the alley. Wet, charred wood. A dull thumping filled her ears when she looked at where the house had once stood. It no longer reached for the sky. All that remained of her home was a lifeless pile of broken pieces.
Something inside her snapped, and all at once, Arista could see her freedom. Nothing was left of her nightmare, her prison. Her tormentor had perished in the bowels of the hell he’d created. Laughter bubbled up in her throat. A fitting death for the likes of him. She inhaled deeply, letting the stench of this death fill her lungs.
Once, this place had filled her with a burning fear, but no more.