I don’t like it, the way she strides off down the street. She’s talking to herself, head down, heedless of the bustle around her. It’s broad daylight, and with the sun the city’s denizens have come out, taking to the street for their business and their leisure. Groups of men on the corner rake their eyes over her, as slim as she is, her confidence pulling their eyes as they smoke and laugh. She’s on the border of adulthood, I can see, her attitude swaying the balance. A hackney driver calls to her as she crosses in front of him, while a suit – his gaze as greasy as his modish hair – ignores his companion to watch her pass.
I do what I can to keep up, dashing from shadow to doorway, availing myself of the preoccupied rush to skirt both vehicles and feet. I would abandon her, in this setting, were it not for her mood. Midday in the open, she ought to be safe – safer than I – but I do not like the tension around her. She fears for the boy, I understand, even if I do not share her concern. More than that, she is settling on some plan, some course of action. I see once again why her mentor must have chosen her. She is strong, this girl, her determination the biggest thing about her. But it is foolish to simply walk through the city this way. Like me, she is a small creature, a hunter only on a limited field. Like me, she must practice stealth, must take care if she is going to survive.
‘What the—’ The boot appears from nowhere, and I dodge it only by leaping into the gutter. ‘Filthy beast!’ I scramble to distance the agitated voices and must swerve and dash to avoid catastrophe in the street. By the time I have reached safety – the underside of a vendor’s cart, a shadowed place both cool and dark – I have lost the girl. I am also, I am embarrassed to note, panting. There is nothing to be gained by dying out here, I decide, and instead tuck myself into a niche by the wheel well, to wait out the crushing mob and, perhaps, to think.
I understand the girl’s vexation. Her courage was discounted, her offering – that ledger – rejected as of as little value as any trinket that a street waif might pick up. She is frustrated, I can tell, by her inability to negotiate with that self-satisfied miscreant Bushwick. She does not comprehend him as I do – the rancid sweat, the fear he barely holds at bay – but she does not like him and sees him as a hindrance, blocking her way.
This I know, and it makes me concerned for her, for the bluff she may attempt. She may have started on this path out of grief, fear and loss prompting her to avenge the old man she so dearly misses, but she has added another impetus along the way. As she told the smug man, she seeks to take over the old man’s business. She wants to finish his assignment, to solve the crime he had been hired to investigate. It would be a tall order for a full-grown male. For a young girl, it is madness.
But – as my eyes close in the cool shade – she may yet have a chance. Another type of female, supported by societal strictures and accustomed to its cosseting, would have given up by now. This Care is tough. She is smart, and as I have noted before, she has been given the rudiments of training. No, it is not impossible that she should achieve both her aims. The obstacles she faces are formidable, however. Not only Bushwick but her former colleague, AD, the leader of that rough assemblage by the docks. Which is why I do not trust the boy either. He loves Care. I am not so removed from social intercourse as to miss that. But his allegiance is, at best, divided. She must keep in mind that he has disappeared once more, and that fear may not be his only motivation. How easy would it be for him to lead those two thugs up to her, whether wittingly or not? If AD sent him scurrying, if he were careless – or chose to be for a moment blind – those two brutes could follow and then flank him. And Care, preoccupied by her hunt, might perhaps be heedless, be searching for connections between a jeweled necklace and those who may have seen it last. Not until all chance for escape was lost would she look up and see them waiting; hear the cold laugh as they made their final approach – the two henchmen stepping forward to complete their vile task.
I can picture them with ease, tall and looming against the light. The two bullies approach first, stepping each to the side to better set their trap – to seal off any hope of escape. The one in the middle does not speak, and too late I recall that cruel sneer as he comes toward me …
I wake in darkness, the shade beneath the cart matched now by shadow on the street. Shaking the dream like dust from my fur, I peer from my sanctuary. The day has passed, the traffic calmed. Above me, the vendor is pulling in his wares, folding down the awning that protected his display. The vibration must have woken me, though I cannot discount the possibility that its creaking collapse may also have sparked the dream. No matter – it is time for me to set out. The girl needs a companion she can trust. Already, I may be too late.