They zigged and zagged through the crowded streets until they slipped around the corner of a pawnbroker at the end of a crooked lane, emerging in a sooty, bricked-in alley with a doorway cut into the wall every ten feet. Bedding hung overhead on ropes tied from one side of the alley to the other to dry, even though the damp never fully went away in the shadows. The smell of old cabbage stung the nose, and a chill crept between the collar and the skin, as if the sun had been closed off by a bank of clouds. A face peeked out of a curtained window above as a whistle blared on the street behind them, calling more officers to respond.
“Wait, where are we going?” Ian asked. “There’s no cover. We’ll be seen.”
It certainly looked like a dead end. A trap. Not a soul in the lane but a fat pigeon that flapped out of their way with a squawk. Edwina beckoned Ian forward with a wave. “This way, if you don’t want to end up in Northgate Prison tonight.”
She counted the doors—five on the left, four, five, six on the right. At the seventh door on the right, as plain a door as ever there was in the city, she stopped. She hesitated only a moment before knocking. A disturbingly long moment later—long enough to let panic seep under the collar alongside the cold—the door opened. An elderly woman wearing a black mourning dress trimmed in crepe squinted at them with suspicion. “Yes?”
“Merry meet,” Edwina said, lowering her shawl so the woman could get a good look at her. “I was told this was a safe place to knock if ever I was in trouble.” At the end of the lane, two police officers spotted Ian and Edwina, shouting at them to halt.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” The old woman threw wide the door so they could enter, but before she shut it behind them again, she grabbed a handful of coal dust from a bucket by the door and blew it into the lane from her palm. Darkness descended at the end of the crooked lane. The bobbies’ shouts went silent, and the woman closed the door and slid the bolt in place.
“The fools will mill about a few moments before they figure out they took a wrong turn.” She waved at Edwina and Ian to follow her through the shabby front room with its single upholstered chair set before a cold stove, a wobbly side table with a bowl half-full of curdled mush, and plank floors covered with a moth-eaten rug that was doing a poor job of disguising the swales and warps underfoot. Indeed, the ground felt anything but stable at the moment.
“A friend of yours?” Ian whispered. He opened his jacket and reached for his pocket watch.
Edwina shook her head. “My father gave me the address. For if I ever needed help from pitchfork-wielding mortals.”
The old woman looked over her shoulder at them. “I’m Abigail Featherstone. Folk around here call me Abby.” She smiled reassuringly, but the effect was eerily reminiscent of a skeleton’s deathly grin, offering little comfort. The woman chuckled to herself and passed through a curtain to a back room where a washtub and pile of laundry four feet high sat in the middle of the floor. There, a young girl in a filthy dress and plaid shawl stroked a rabbit she held in her arms. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Ian stepping through the curtain before her face scrunched up in confusion when she saw Edwina in her shawl.
“I’m sorry,” Edwina said as doubts crept in. “I think we may have come to the wrong place.”
“Show them, Charlotte. Before they change their minds and leave.”
The girl waggled her finger at what appeared to be a broom closet. “In there,” she said and pulled the door open. A wooden ironing board fell out and clattered to the floor. The girl made a face as though she’d made a mistake. Abigail picked up the ironing board, then quickly shut the door.
“Maybe we’d better go,” Ian said, shaking his watch as if it were broken.
“Nonsense, you must stay and have some tea.” The old woman briefly closed her eyes and exhaled. “Stop staring, Charlotte, and try again,” she said with practiced patience.
The girl petted her rabbit three times, then again waggled her finger at the door. This time when she reached for the handle, the door opened and a warm glow shone from within. Edwina, drawn in by her curiosity, moved closer. The light was coming from dozens of candles that flickered from another room. One that had not been there a moment ago. The scent of lavender and orange petals wafted out, reminding her of a summer garden party. She stepped closer and saw that it was a drawing room with four red velvet wingback chairs and matching footstools with gold tassels. A fire blazed at the hearth, and a steaming pot of tea sat on a table aside a plate of biscuits.