I awake, startled.
The man across the aisle from me is snoring loudly, and his whiskered mustache blows out with each creaky whistle. I didn’t even realize I had dozed off. I sit up and compose myself. How horrid, I think, falling asleep in this dreadful carriage. Most unladylike.
The man continues to snore like a bellows. He is a very large fellow, and I expect the buttons on his vest to burst at any moment and scatter in the aisle.
I look briefly to Mother, who gazes out the window with a distant air about her. Balthazar pores over a book, his head down. I turn to the man again.
Can I see what he is thinking?
I block out the hot cabin, the sharp odor of someone’s greasy chips, the clatter of the horses’ hooves, and focus all my energy on a spot on the man’s cheek, a red blemish resembling a cluster of grapes. After a moment I feel a tingle in the center of my head.
And then it happens again.
A ribbon of rusty red smoke trails from his forehead and across the aisle. I look left, then right. No one notices. How can they not see it?
I wave my hand in the air and feel the mist curl around my fingers, but I lower it when I see Balthazar shoot me a glance. I return my gaze to the sleeping man. The tendrils swirl around his head. There are no smoky words this time, but I feel a jolt, like pins and needles on the back of my neck. A series of images flashes before my eyes: a small room filled with rubbish, a red-faced, squalling child, and a woman, drying her tears with a frayed handkerchief.
“Morris,” the woman pleads. “She is your child. Your daughter!”
“The child is not mine!” a man’s voice cries out. “Put the bastard in an orphanage!”
The man snorts and opens his eyes.
He is staring right at me.
I squeeze the armrest of my seat. I’m done for. He knows. But much to my relief, he snuffles once, closes his eyes, and immediately begins snoring again.
A sharp pain stabs my temples. For a moment I am dizzy and feel quite tired. I close my eyes. When I open them again, Balthazar is staring at me.
I saw the man’s memories in my mind’s eye. How is that possible?
It is an invasion of sorts, I realize, this gift of mine—?eavesdropping to the highest degree. Father had this ability. How did he use it? How did he die? The questions seem to never end.
The wealth and luxury of the West End is a thing of the past now as the bus pulls into a warren of crooked streets. It’s darker here, although the sun is peeking through scattered gray clouds. A yellow fog hangs over everything. “Welcome to the East End,” Balthazar says glumly.
This neighborhood is cramped with small houses crowded together. People are everywhere: standing in front of their doors, sitting on buckets, sweeping up dusty steps. A foul odor rises on the air. I wrinkle my nose.
“The Thames,” Mother says. I look to the window. Several men and boys are gathered at the banks of the river. They look a sorry lot, with trouser legs rolled up to reveal knobby knees as pale as fish bellies. “This is the same river we saw from the West End,” I observe. “But it smells worse here.”
“I am fortunate enough to reside upwind of the river,” Balthazar says.
“Who are they?” I ask. “The men down there.”
“Mudlarks,” he replies. “They scavenge the murky depths for things they can sell: scraps of metal, bits of iron, broken pieces of wood and coal.”
How awful, I think, to have to resort to such unseemly work.
The omnibus comes to a stop, and Balthazar helps us both out. “Follow me, if you will. It’s not too far now.”
I wonder what “it” is.
I share a glance with Mother. “Exactly where are you taking us?” she demands.
Balthazar pauses. “I would not lead you astray, Cora. Please, we are expected.”
And then he’s off again. Mother and I have no choice but to follow.
Balthazar takes long strides, which reminds me of Father, and I walk quickly to keep pace with him. I thought a gentleman should walk in unison with a lady, offering his arm if need be. So much for my fanciful thoughts.
We pass a street doctor selling vials and potions from an open leather case perched on a high table. “Sassafras,” he calls in a singsong voice, “a cure-all for what ails you.” Farther down the road, a man in a top hat sits on a stool, mending the seat of a cane chair. Shoeblacks shine gentlemen’s shoes, and cries of “Chestnuts! Hot chestnuts!” ring in the air.
I am certainly no longer in Deal.
Up ahead, our way is blocked by some sort of disturbance. Several men are digging up the earth, as if trying to reach Hell itself. Mounds of dirt are everywhere. Steel beams are stacked like firewood. Several homes have been demolished, and the remains are roped off from passersby. Horse-drawn wagons rattle along, their beds heaped with refuse.
“What is this?” I ask.