Brynt folded a protective hand around Marlowe’s shoulders. “Compensate?”
“Financially. For loss of income.”
“For loss of income?”
Mr. Fox took off his spectacles. He had the long arms and legs of a field spider, the same small furry head. “Marlowe, son. Take up your shirt and turn around.”
The boy unlooped his suspenders and lifted his shirt and turned. Brynt heard Miss Quicke breathe in sharply. His torso was dazzlingly pale, like it had never known sunlight. And in the small of his back was a red birthmark in the shape of a key.
“It’s him,” said Mr. Beecher. He looked at Mr. Fox in amazement. “He’s the Halliday boy.”
Felix Fox put on his spectacles and inspected the mark and took off his spectacles. He made a sound low in his throat but did not speak.
No one said anything.
Mr. Fox rubbed at his face, looking like a man who did not want to say what he was about to say. “Brynt,” he said. “There’s money behind all this. Money and powerful folk convinced this is their boy. Do you imagine it will stop?” He squinted his watery eyes. “You know it yourself.”
Brynt was thinking much the same thing.
Miss Quicke pulled on her gloves and then she kneeled before the boy. She did not touch him. “Your real name is Stephen, child,” she said. “Stephen Halliday. You went missing when you were a baby. I was hired to find you and bring you back to your parents in England.”
“They will be very glad to know you are safe, son,” said Mr. Fox. “Miss Quicke is here to help you, you can trust her. It’s all right. She is fine people.”
All this the boy listened to in silence, watching their mouths carefully. He gave no indication of understanding except the way he reached for Brynt’s hand, gripped it hard.
Miss Quicke stood. “Why doesn’t he speak? Is he deaf?”
“Deaf!” Beecher grinned. “Good God! He’s not that, surely?”
Mr. Fox folded his arms, eager now to be done with it all. “There’s no law anywhere on earth wouldn’t say the boy’s better off with his kin, Brynt.” He furrowed his brow. “Miss Quicke means to leave in the morning. I trust there’ll be no need to take this matter further. You’ll have the boy ready, Brynt.”
“Ready—？” Brynt looked up, as if coming back to herself. “Ready?”
“Ah,” said Beecher quickly. “But we do have certain details to discuss yet. Compensation and such. As was proposed. There is a contract, after all.”
“Agreed,” said Miss Quicke.
Beecher held up a long gray hand. “And the boy plays this afternoon’s and night’s set. He is ours until morning.”
“Very well.”
The boy tucked in his shirt, pulled up his suspenders. Then he stood staring at the woman detective, Miss Quicke.
“Son—？” said Mr. Fox.
Marlowe did not answer. The tent was quiet.
“Marlowe,” Miss Quicke said slowly, cautiously. “I know this must be confusing. You must have questions for me.”
He stared at her with great intensity, his eyes pale and blue. As if searching her face for some clue as to the nature of her truer self. She suffered his scrutiny in silence, white gloves folded chastely in front of her, as if somehow she understood that it was important not to move and not to look away. All this Brynt watched from across the tent. She saw his long dark eyelashes, the dusting of freckles across his nose, the tuft of hair that stuck out from his head, knowing each feature perfectly. He was so small for eight, she thought. Or maybe that was just what eight looked like.
At last Miss Quicke flinched, glanced uncertainly around. “What does he want?” she said.
Brynt watched her like an adder.
“Madam—” Fox began.
But before he could finish his thought the boy leaned up, as if in answer, and whispered something very soft to the woman. She glanced at Brynt, and her face was sad.
Then the woman, Miss Quicke, kneeled back down.
“Oh, sweetheart, no,” she said to the boy. “No, Brynt has to stay here.”
* * *
Alice Quicke walked out of Beecher’s tent wanting to punch something, preferably her employer, Mrs. Harrogate, in her fat face, or Frank Coulton maybe, anything really, but hating her work regardless and what she had to do for it and who she had to do it to.
That poor kid, she thought. That poor woman, with her tattoos and her sad eyes. As she ducked under a guyline and made her way back through the mud toward the big top and the road back into Remington she understood that she’d had enough, that she was finished with all of it, the tracking down of the orphans, the lies. It wasn’t only this kid, the sadness of it all. It was also that Ovid boy back in Mississippi, the one who had dug into his own arm and taken out of it a blade. And Coulton’s warning about the man Jacob Marber, somewhere in the world, hunting these kids? Jesus.