“Filthy” is too kind a word for this place. Vagabonds are at every other step, holding out battered hats for money. A few mean-looking women stand in front of their doors dressed only in thin smallclothes. Some men lie drunk amidst the stench and rubbish. Chickens squawk, sheep bleat, and placid cows move along slowly, as if they know what their fate will be. My leather boots are immediately ruined by some unknown murky substance that I fear is animal blood from a butcher’s shop. It is horrendous. Emily and Gabriel, however, seem to take no notice, as if this is just another jolly trip to the market.
The day is cold but sunny, and the three of us weave our way among the stalls, where costermongers sell everything from bread and meat to roasted chestnuts. The air is full of chattering voices and sharp smells. Songbirds shriek inside their cages. And everywhere hawkers crying their wares:
“Sheep’s trotters! One guinea!”
“Potato! All hot! Potatoes here!”
“Hot eels! Ha’penny!”
A young boy, his face darkened by what looks like coal, sweeps a path in the dirty street, hoping for a few coins from a kind stranger. Gathering my skirts, I quickly step around a mound of horse muck. So far, I find this adventure absolutely appalling.
“Oh!” Emily cries, and suddenly stops.
“What is it?” I ask, looking around warily, perhaps for one of Mephisto’s ghouls.
“I smell eel pie,” she says, a hungry gleam in her eyes. “C’mon. Nothing better than a bit o’ pie and mash.”
The thought of eel anything revolts me, but I follow her and Gabriel as she winds her way among the vendors. After a moment we find ourselves at a stall where pies are set out on a wooden slab. Emily licks her lips. The pie man leans over the makeshift counter. I shrink back. “Don’t think I can’t see ye,” he mutters, “just because me gots only one eye.”
I force myself to look at his face. Where his left eye should be is a scarred flap of dry skin. A red neckerchief is knotted around his throat.
“How much for the eel pie, then?” Emily asks.
He mutters something I cannot hear and winks at her with his good eye. He looks at me for an uncomfortably long moment. “And what are you lot doing out all on your lonesome?”
“Piss off,” Emily says sharply, and I gasp at her language. “Just give us the pie, then, yeah?”
“Har! She’s a sassy one!” he bellows, revealing teeth the color of mud. He lifts a pie and pokes a crooked finger through the crusty top, then holds it up and licks it. “Ah,” he moans. “Cat.”
I close my eyes.
He picks up another, but this time, he digs in with two fingers and pulls out what must surely be an eel. He tilts back his head and opens his mouth, and as I watch in horror, the eel slides down his throat with a disgusting slurp. “Mmm,” he says. “Fishy. That’ll be your eel, then.”
My stomach falls to my feet.
He lifts the pie tin and hands it to Emily, who drops a few coins into his hand. She’s going to buy it? After he put his grubby fingers into it!
He tosses the coins into an empty can, and then his horrid gaze falls on me again. The flap of skin that covers his eye socket twitches, as if an eyeball were still in there, moving around. Quicker than lightning, his hand shoots out and squeezes my wrist. “Better get home soon, poppet,” he whispers. “When it gets dark here, bad things come out.”
“Ow!” I shout. “Unhand me!”
Emily pulls me away. “Sod off, you great pillock!”
I would be shocked once again by Emily’s language, but I am still reeling from the man’s breath.
“C’mon,” Gabriel says, a fierce look in his eyes. “Let’s go.”
I leave the stall shaking and glance back at the exact moment the pie vendor snorts into a yellow rag.
“You all right, then?” Emily asks.
I let out a bewildered breath. “Yes,” I say. “What a beast!”
“Aw, that old codger’s no trouble,” she says. “Me and Gabbyshins had to put up with worse back at Nowhere.”
The sound of an organ grinder drifts through the air. I look up to see that the clear sky has given over to threatening storm clouds. We continue on, passing the stalls and crowds, and come upon a ragged boy and girl sitting on blocks of wood, trying to earn a few coppers. A basket of hand-carved clothespins sits before them. They are both so skinny, my heart breaks just looking at them. Back in Deal, there were several poor families, but nothing compares to these two, with their sunken cheeks and scabby knees. They don’t even have proper clothes. “C’mon,” Emily urges me. “What are you lookin’ at?”
“Nothing,” I say, turning away from the two children, and wishing I had some coins to give. Before I can think on them any longer, the faint ringing of jaunty music rises in my ears, different from the organ grinder’s. As we turn the corner, I see the source.
A little distance from the street, under a group of trees, several men and women are gathered. A few small children sit on blankets in front of a bow-topped caravan, a sort of wagon. A sorry-looking mule snuffs at the dry grass, and a skinny dog gnaws on a bone.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“Gypsies,” Emily says.