Smeeth’s face turns blue as the blood drains from his cheeks. His eyes turn up, disappearing behind his lids. As he quivers in my grip, I release him, sending him crashing to the floor like a rag doll, wheezing on the blue-and-green carpet. He coughs, sputters indecipherable words, and finally his gaze meets mine. I recognize that expression, and I reel back in horror as the man in front of me transforms into a younger version of myself, trembling at the feet of my mother. Burning embers flare within my gut and I can’t look at him. I can’t face that expression of terror on his face. I spin, ready to bolt for the door, when his voice stops me.
“Captain?” he chokes. I turn toward him, keeping my eye shut. When I open it, Smeeth’s trembling hand reaches into a pocket on his jacket and pulls out a silver chain. Two military tags dangle from the necklace. I snatch it, inspecting the rectangular metal pieces. My finger runs along the engraved name.
“G. Darling,” I read aloud. “Where did you find this?”
“It was the girl’s,” Smeeth says through coughs, the tint of pink returning to his lips. He points to the entryway. “A prisoner,” he gasps.
At the entryway, two soldiers lead the tall boy into the room. His long, dark hair hangs in his face, curtaining his glaring eyes, an expression I’ve become all too familiar with. Bright red blood stains the side of his shirt and waistcoat.
I can’t help the wicked grin that grows on my face. It wasn’t a matter of if but when I’d see him again. “So good to see you, Jack,” I say, regarding the Lost Boy.
“Wish the feeling was mutual, brother,” Jack sneers, holding a hand over his wound. Blood seeps between his fingers, but it isn’t the worst injury I’ve seen him endure. While my mother was cruel to me, she was monstrous toward Jack, especially after his father met an unfortunate end. It’s a wonder Jack lived to see his last birthday.
With his hand still clasped at his throat, Smeeth peers up at me, confusion lacing his peaked complexion. “He’s your brother?”
“Stepbrother and traitor,” I say with disdain. I stride over to a nearby officer, seize the lantern from his hand, and smash it against one of the long couch-like benches, setting the red upholstery ablaze. Immediately, the acrid fumes fill the room. The fire catches on nearby curtains and races toward the ceiling.
“Change of plans, boys,” I say, before storming out of the room.
Is she dead?” Mole’s voice cuts through the thick fog in my head. Stubby little fingers poke my ribs and cheeks. “Blimey, Doc, I think we might have killed her.”
I swat the prodding hand away, my thoughts muddled and disoriented.
“She’s alive!” Mole exclaims.
“Of course she’s alive,” Doc says.
I blink, trying to focus on the dark shapes in the narrow room. The subtle smell of smoldering wood draws my attention to the figure kneeling in the corner. The flames of a small fire built in a metal rubbish bin dance wildly, casting bright yellow light on Doc’s face.
“Where are we?” I ask, rubbing my throbbing head.
“The National Gallery,” Doc says, breaking down the remains of a wooden bench and feeding the pieces into the fire. “That’s where we said we’d meet everyone.”
Priceless paintings hang on the walls; disapproving eyes stare down at me. I prop myself on my elbows and rub my head, wincing. “How’d I get here?”
“Doc carried you,” Mole says. “Man, oh, man. What I wouldn’t give to have two good eyes to have seen the whole thing. I’d even take one good eye. Can you imagine? Doc threw you over his shoulder while he was dragging me behind him. The soldiers shot bullets at us. Lucky for us they want you alive or they wouldn’t have aimed at our feet. I am glad I was on your team. Otherwise I might look like Swiss cheese if I had gone with the other Lost Kids.”
“You carried me?” I ask, grimacing as I sit up.
“You wouldn’t be the first patient I’ve had to carry,” Doc says, still feeding the fire.
A dull ache throbs from my forehead. I run my hand through my disheveled hair, which is sticky and matted. When my fingers graze a golf ball–size lump, I wince.
“Careful,” Doc says. “It took a while to stop the bleeding. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a slight concussion.”
“I fainted?” I ask, trying to recall my last memory.
“Yep,” Mole says. “Good thing Pickpocket fired on those awful soldiers or we’d have never gotten away.”
The last moments prior to blacking out flood back to me: the standoff with the Lost Boys, gunfire, and running. “What about the other Lost Boys? Did they get away?” I ask.
“I believe so, but I don’t know for sure,” Doc says, brushing my hair over my shoulder. “Since we split up, the Marauders were confused, hopefully for long enough to let them run.”
“And Jack?” I ask, thinking of the boy on the street.
Doc frowns and shakes his head.
My heart sinks and I place my hand on my chest, stilling the ache. “My father’s tags,” I whisper, grasping for the chain that had been around my neck. My hand touches the collar of my shirt but comes up empty.
“They’re gone,” Doc says, scooting next to me. “I’m sorry.”
I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek. “They were the only thing I had left of him.”
Doc rubs his thumb over my cheek, wiping away the tear. “Let me see your head wound,” he says.
I lean forward while Doc inspects my injury, his touch gentle.