“Damn it,” she whispered.
It was evening when she got back to Nickel Street West. All the windows were blazing with light.
“I knew you’d come,” Marlowe said to her, when she walked into the warm parlor. But there was in his eyes something that said he hadn’t known it, hadn’t been sure of it at all. She felt a pang, seeing it. He’d eaten, washed his face, put on a flannel sleeping gown far too long for him. He’d been sitting with Charlie Ovid on the thick Persian carpet under the new window, talking maybe, or maybe just sitting, she couldn’t tell, but whatever it was when she came in Charlie got up and went through into the bright foyer and upstairs without saying a word.
She gave Marlowe a tired smile. “I said I’d be back, didn’t I?” she said. She gestured at where Charlie had disappeared. “Is he all right?”
Marlowe smiled shyly. “I like him. He’s nice.”
Nice. Not her word. She remembered how he’d cut the throat of the guard in Natchez, how he’d dug out of his own flesh the blade to kill him with, and felt something flicker across her face. It was clear something had happened to Charlie, not only because of the marks on his throat, only slowly going away. There was in his face a new sharpness, an unhappiness. She reminded herself to ask him about it directly. Or Coulton, if he ever showed up. Where the hell was Coulton, anyway?
“On an errand” was all Mrs. Harrogate would say.
And that only in passing, as she hurried out of the grand house, adjusting her hat and gloves, or made for the attic where she kept, she said, her pigeons, or else as she was coming back in from the shops, a package under her arm, disappearing into one of the rooms on the third floor. A day passed, then another. It seemed to Alice, in irritation, that the widow was avoiding her, as if she knew Alice had questions, as if she knew Alice would demand answers.
But if Mrs. Harrogate avoided Alice, she did not avoid Marlowe. Alice was with the boy one dark afternoon passing the entrance to the kitchen when the older woman, from within, called them through. A great pot was boiling on an ancient stove. Mrs. Harrogate stood at a long counter, chopping a row of carrots with a very sharp knife, bang bang bang, scraping them into the pot, chopping again.
“What kind of institute can’t afford a cook?” Alice said.
“Can’t and won’t are not the same,” replied Mrs. Harrogate. “Servants talk.”
Alice smiled dryly. “They also cook.”
“And you, Marlowe,” the older woman said, ignoring this, “how are you settling in? I see you and Charles have become friends.”
Marlowe, standing just inside the door, nodded.
She paused at her chopping. “Stand straight. That’s better. We mustn’t slouch like a layabout. Now, what did they teach you, child, at your circus? Did you learn your letters?”
Marlowe nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Harrogate.”
“Your maths?”
“Yes.”
“And your Bible? Were you raised a Christian?”
Marlowe bit at his lip, his face reddening.
“I see.” She returned to her chopping but kept her eyes on Marlowe. “Show me your hands. They’re filthy. Cleanliness is next to godliness, child. Did Miss Quicke not instruct you on how to wash, on the journey?”
“She took good care of me, Mrs. Harrogate.”
“And yet you have been here several days in her charge and your hands still look like this. He is in England now, Miss Quicke. You must do a better job of helping him to blend in.” She turned back to the child. “You will have questions about why you are here. You are a very special boy, Marlowe.”
Alice watched as he met the older woman’s eye boldly. She glimpsed in his expression something hard, stubborn, older than his years. “Because of what I can do,” he told her. “Because there’s other kids like me. I’m to go to meet them.”
“Well, the other children are not like you exactly,” said Mrs. Harrogate, selecting her words with care. She crossed the kitchen to a small pantry and came back with an armful of potatoes. “But they are talents, yes. That is what we call it, your ability, yours and the other children’s.”
“Talents,” Marlowe murmured, turning the word on his tongue.
“We will be leaving for the north, soon. At the institute, you will meet Dr. Berghast. Do you know who that is?”
“No, Mrs. Harrogate.”
“You were his ward. He is your guardian. Your family.”
Alice looked up sharply. This was something new. Marlowe was regarding the older woman without fear. “You don’t have to lie,” he said. “I know there isn’t any family looking for me.”