“I doubt it,” Nic replied. “He’s greedy, and he enjoys the power more than the money, I think.” He expertly whisked her down another maze of alleyways filled with dark shadows, where the light from the street lamps didn’t reach. There was no need to illuminate this part of London. No one cared what happened in the dark there. Her skirt swished in the silence.
None of the people who used Bones’s services really understood what they had done—the true ramifications of trading their darkest secrets for more power and money. At some point, there would be no more secrets, but it wouldn’t matter. Bones would have the means for a lifetime’s worth of blackmail, if not multiple lifetimes—generations of noble families. No, these people who thought themselves so clever had become pawns in a game only Bones would win.
After several minutes, she stopped and looked up at Nic. “He could destroy every single one of them, if he wanted to.”
Though she couldn’t see his face in the shadows, Arista could hear the smile in Nic’s voice. His words chilled her even more.
“Aye. Whoever controls the secrets controls those rich bastards.”
The walk back to their “home” only took a short half hour. Taking shortcuts through alleys was second nature to Arista and Nic, and few dared maneuver them in the darkness of night. Nic gripped her arm, and his muscles tightened and released at her touch. Always in a constant state of alertness. To be mistaken for gentry in this part of London would not end well.
In her usual attire she wouldn’t have attracted a second glance, but clothed in silk and paste jewelry, she was a walking target. Thankfully, Nic’s dark jacket covered most of the skin exposed by the cut of the dress, and the black silk blended with the shadows. Still, she would not be completely safe until she made it back to her room.
Arista felt no pleasure, no rush of warmth, upon seeing the run-down tenement buildings she called home. Off Fleet Street a row of gutted buildings stood, so badly damaged from the fires that no one had bothered to rebuild them.
That’s where the worst of the worst made their homes. The murderers, thieves, and those hiding from the Watch. The rest of London could pretend people like Arista didn’t exist if they remained cloistered away from sight, but they were there, waiting in the shadows for some unsuspecting fool to stagger by after a night at the alehouse.
It was the perfect place to live unnoticed. And the worst place to grow up.
At the orphanage where Arista had been dumped at barely three, all had treated her as the devil’s own daughter, except for one woman. While the rest called her a gypsy, spat in her face, and made her do the most menial tasks like scrubbing the floors and emptying the chamber pots, Nalia wrapped Arista in her arms and told her thrilling stories about her home country of India.
Her lilting accent became Arista’s safe place. The exotic smell of Nalia’s tea soothed Arista’s spirit after days of scrubbing until her tiny hands were raw. The laundress would rub salve on the blisters and distract Arista with tales of monkeys riding elephants; she’d let Arista wrap herself up in the brightly colored scarf that Nalia wore over her head.
For two long years, Arista had endured life at the orphanage, sure that everyone except Nalia wanted her to die. Indeed, after her refusal to climb inside the huge kitchen chimney to dislodge an obstruction, she’d been banished to a dark broom closet. If not for Bones, she might have starved to death in there, alone.
The old memories swept over her.
“You, get your sorry arse out here. You’re leaving.” Agnes, the old kitchen woman, yanked open the door and pulled Arista out of the closet. “And good riddance to you, too.” Agnes shoved Arista at Sister Beatrice, who sidestepped to avoid touching Arista. None of the other women ever touched her, except Agnes, and her hands were never kind.
The nun led Arista to a group of two dozen other children huddled in the cold foyer, clutching each other. None of them were older than seven. The youngest looked three. Some wept; others stood with their fists at their sides. That was Arista.
Even at five, she knew what was happening. Twice a year, the crooked old man with the cruel eyes came. Bones. He took the children away. No one knew why, only that the transaction happened on the darkest, moonless nights. None ever returned.
Arista was pushed against the wall, and Bones went down the line, giving each child the once-over. He barked questions at Sister Ann about disease and fortitude. He forced their mouths open with sharp fingers and looked at their teeth. One by one, they were chosen or cast aside. The ones overlooked disappeared back into the orphanage without a backward glance.
Arista found herself among the chosen that moonless night.
As she waited her turn to climb into the wagon, movement caught her eye. Nalia stood in the shadows, her hand pressed to her mouth. Her cheeks were shining with tears. Without thinking, Arista broke free from the group and ran to the woman, her only friend, and threw herself into her arms.