“Right,” Freddie replied without enthusiasm. The sight of Rat Face had spooked him, and he followed close behind Derek, casting nervous looks from side to side as they shouldered their way through the crowd.
Derek’s technique, developed from years of practice, was to head for the center of a group. People on the outer edges tended to be more wary, since they assumed (erroneously) that a pickpocket would immediately abscond after snatching a purse. In fact, Derek enjoyed casually relieving a person of his valuables, often standing next to his victim for some time afterward. Occasionally he even ventured a friendly remark or two. When the time came to slip away into the crowd, the boy was like an eel, slithering between bodies with astonishing agility.
He slid between a couple of lawyers in white wigs engaged in a heated exchange about the nature of Scottish independence—a much-discussed but little-acted-upon topic in Edinburgh. Freddie lingered a few yards behind, doing his best to emulate his friend, but without his talent. His journey was spotted with epithets, exclamations, and excuses as he trod on toes, jostled elbows, and bumped into fellow burghers.
“Oiy—watch it, why don’ ya?”
“Hey—look where you’re goin’!”
“’Scuse me, really sorry—beg pardon, sorry.”
Derek sighed as his friend’s incompetence trailed behind him like the tail on a comet. He knew being clumsy wasn’t Freddie’s fault, but sometimes Derek wished to be rid of the encumbrance. Freddie was so clueless. Derek held his breath and slipped between a couple of comely, chattering housemaids with wicker baskets dangling from their arms, running a casual hand over their bottoms. The girls were so engaged in giggling and gossip that they didn’t even notice.
One reason Derek liked the center of a crowd was that people were less wary of physical contact, being used to a certain amount of jostling. Pickpocketing was that much easier—and so was the opportunity to caress plump buttocks or gaze with impunity at a lavishly displayed bosom. Derek could graze a lady’s bottom with such a featherlight touch, she wouldn’t be aware of it. And if by chance she did feel something, her accusatory glare would invariably fall upon the closest grown man—after all, who would suspect a ten-year-old boy of such licentious public behavior?
But Derek was incorrigibly randy; the mere whiff of a tea-rose sachet or the ruff of a lady’s bonnet could catapult him into frenzied infatuation. Not so Freddie—he loped along behind Derek like a big friendly golden retriever, good-natured and eager to please.
Derek was studying the frock coat of a prosperous-looking gentleman of middle years, wondering how much cash his wallet was likely to yield, when he heard a commotion behind him, near the outer edges of the crowd. Turning, he saw the same rotund dowager he and Freddie had passed earlier. Red-faced and furious, she was thrusting a fat finger at his friend.
“Thief! He tried to steal a loaf of bread from my basket!” she shouted at anyone who would listen.
Freddie froze, wide-eyed and trembling, as if bolted to the spot. Derek realized he must act quickly or his friend would be seized by the first spectator to get his wits about him. Shoving roughly through the crowd, he grabbed Freddie’s wrist and turned to face his accuser.
“Me poor brother is a dumb mute idiot,” he said, tears springing to his eyes. In addition to his other talents, Derek was an excellent impromptu actor. “Please forgive ’im. Poor lad is probably hungry and didn’t know how t’ask fer food.”
The good woman’s face softened. She shook her head, her own ruddy cheeks moistening with tears. “Oh, dear me, I am ever so glad you told me. Here—take the bread,” she insisted, shoving it at Derek.
“Oh, no, mum, I couldn’t,” he replied, but she thrust it into his hands.
“I insist! You’re a good lad to take such care of your brother,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Here’s half a crown for the both of you.”
Derek took the piece of silver and muttered his thanks. Freddie stared at them both with such a stupid expression, Derek wasn’t surprised the good lady had bought his story about him being an idiot. She smiled at them beatifically before continuing on her way toward the shops lining the main square. After some head shaking and a few muttered remarks of sympathy, the crowd lost interest in the boys, returning to the purpose of the day—haggling and buying.
Derek grabbed Freddie by the wrist and dragged him to the other side of the street.
“Ye’ve gone an’ ruined an entire day—over a loaf of bread!” he sputtered, waving the offending item in Freddie’s astonished face.
“I was hungry,” he replied meekly.
“We can’t stay here an’ work now. Everyone’s had a bloody good look at us. We’ done fer the day,” he said, disgusted.
“W-what’ll we do, then?” Freddie asked, close to tears.
“I don’ care what ye do,” Derek declared. “I’m goin’ somewheres else where I kin do a decent day’s work. Here,” he added, tossing Freddie the half crown. “Go buy yerself another loaf o’ bread.”
And with that, he stalked off without looking back, the rage boiling in his ears drowning out the voice of his conscience.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The magician hummed to himself as he set up his equipment on the street corner at the Grassmarket. The plaza buzzed with activity as Saturday shoppers and vendors came together in a timeless ritual of bartering and buying. He enjoyed doing magic on the street—it was more of a challenge than performing in a theater, more honest and raw. He liked the close contact with his audience, being able to see the awe and wonder in their eyes when he fooled them. No, not “fooled”—enchanted them. He drew them into a world of mystery and marvel, where anything could happen, and they entered it willingly.
He did a few tricks with metal rings and silk scarves to warm up—basic stuff, which he did well, having studied the techniques of the best, from Herrmann the Great to Robert-Houdin. His patter was smooth, his movements mesmerizing, and his good looks didn’t hurt, either—plenty of couples passed by, the women craning their necks to get a better look at him, the husbands tugging at their wives impatiently to move along. Constant practice had refined his innate gift for “prestidigitation,” as it was known on the Continent—what people here called “sleight of hand.”