"Malcolm ..." She felt as though the blank windows many of them without glass-were staring at her like malicious eyes.
"These seven streets are the most dangerous place in all London. Watch our backs until we're well out of here."
From out of the gloom in the dank alleyways, rough men in tattered clothing watched through narrowed eyes. Margo kept a sharp lookout and wished they could break into a run. You'll cope with this on your own as a scout. This is the career you asked Kit Carson to give you.
At the moment, Margo would almost have traded this for another beating at her father's hands.
Almost.
Then she saw furtive movement in the shadows, the glint of steel
The man who grabbed her from behind laid a straight razor at her throat. She froze,, a scream dying in her throat. Two other toughs materialized in front of Malcolm. Margo realized with a shock, They're younger than I am!
The feel of sharp steel at her throat left her trembling: Margo's attacker tightened his arm around her waist. "Lookit, 'ee don' even shave yet." The boy's breath was foul. "'ow bouts I teach 'im?"
The other boys grinned. Their straight razors glinted evilly. Malcolm had gone very still, trapped between them.
"'and over the tike, mate, an' mibey we let 'im shave 'is own self?"
While Margo tried to sort out what, exactly, he'd demanded, Malcolm reached for the money pouch at his waist.
"Quick, now," the boldest said. He dropped his gaze from Margo to watch Malcolm pluck at his purse strings.
Margo moved instantly. She grabbed her assailant's wrist, twisting toward him as she shoved the wicked straight razor away from her throat -- then grabbed a handful of his crotch and crushed.
The boy screamed. She continued the turn, dragging his arm up behind him, then kicked the back of his knee. He went down with a gurgling sound and writhed on the ground, holding himself.
She whirled
Malcolm had gone absolutely white. "You little idiot
Before either of the other boys could strike, an enormous bull of a man stepped out from the alleyway and shoved them aside.
"You 'urt me boy," he said, staring at Margo. The bludgeon he held was as thick as Margo's thigh. His shoulders were twice the size of Malcolm's. He wore a thick woolen coat that covered him almost to the knees. Rough work pants and low, broken shoes completed the picture of the quintessential murderous lout. He grinned at Margo. "First I cracks your skull." He licked dirty lips. "Then me nephews cuts up wot's left."
Margo was suddenly conscious of other grimy faces in the shadows, watching with inhuman detachment. Malcolm swore and backed away from the trio, turning so they couldn't see him draw his revolver from concealment. The moose in the center hefted his cudgel
He charged. So fast Margo didn't even have time to scream.
Malcolm fired three shots and dove to one side. One of the shots hit the man's right ankle. The would-be killer screamed, lurched, and sprawled into the filth. The teenagers ran clattering down an alley. Malcolm whipped around like a cat and grabbed Margo's wrist, dragging her in the opposite direction. They dashed the length of a filthy, stinking alleyway and emerged into St. Giles-in-the-Field. Malcolm dodged into a rank, overgrown churchyard and dragged her behind a crumbling gravestone, then pressed a hard hand over her mouth. They waited, hearts thudding, but Margo heard no immediate sound of pursuit.
"Reload this," Malcolm said brusquely, thrusting his pistol and the tin from his pocket into her hands. He crept out of the graveyard and eased his way to the edge of the Churchyard, peering back the way they'd come.
Margo stared stupidly at the gun. The tin was heavy. It rattled She had no idea how to reload this revolver. It wasn't anything like the revolvers Ann Mulhaney had taught her to shoot. She was still staring idiotically at it when Malcolm returned.
He took the pistol-then swore in language she hadn't known he could use. "You didn't reload!"
Tears prickled behind her eyes. "I---"
"First you pull a stupid stunt like fighting that street tough--"
"But he was robbing us!"
Malcolm's pallor turned to marble coldness. "I was going to give him the goddamned money! My God, it's just a few pence! You nearly got us both killed--and I had to risk shooting that lout---"
"You didn't even shoot to kill!"
If she'd used that tone with her father, he'd have blacked half her face. Malcolm didn't hit her. Instead, his voice went as icy as the filthy stone against which she huddled.
"We are not at liberty to shoot whomever we please. Getting out of a fatal jam without killing anyone is a time scout's job. If the Britannia Gate opened up right now and Kit stepped through, I'd tell him to send you packing back to whatever miserable little town you came from. Give me the goddamned bullets:"
She handed over the tin. Her hand shook. Malcolm jerked the cord loose, opened the sliding lid, and dumped three rounds into her hand.
"You're going to reload this gun right now. Pull up on that T-shaped handle."
It blurred through hot tears, but she jerked up on it. The whole top of the revolver swung forward and down, revealing the back of the cylinder. Three empty cases and the two unfired rounds popped up slightly. Her fingers shook but she pulled out the spent cases and reloaded the empty chambers. Then she closed the gun up again.;
"You were supposed to know how to do this. Skip your lessons again and..."
He left the threat hanging. He'd already destroyed any hope she'd ever entertained of becoming a scout. Her whole chest ached with the need to sob. But she held it all inside, except for the hot, miserable tears she could not quite contain.
Malcolm checked the alleyway again, leaving her to huddle against the wretched gravestone. She slid down into the weeds and fought the tightness in her throat. I won't give up. I won't. It isn't fair! She'd only done what Sven Bailey had taught her. Hadn't she? Know when to quit, Kit had told her. I won't quit! Not when I've come so far! Somehow, she'd find a way to get back into Malcolm's good graces. She had to. She'd sooner commit suicide than go back to Minnesota a failure.
During the endless walk up through Spitalfields, Margo listened with everything in her, ruthlessly shoving aside humiliation and terror for the more immediate need to learn. She picked up slang, names for items she'd never seen before, tidbits of news and gossip that led her to several startling conclusions about the state of the world in 1888.
"Malcolm?" Her voice quavered only a little.
"Yes?" His voice was still icy.
"This isn't an ordinary slum, is it? Spitalfields, I mean. It isn't like Whitechapel or St. Giles."
He glanced back. Some of the chill in his eyes thawed into surprise. "Why do you ask?"
She bit her lower lip, then nodded toward women who spoke in a language that wasn't English, toward men who dressed in dark coats, wore their beards long, and looked at the world through eyes which had seen too much hardship. "These people look and sound like refugees. Who are they?"
Malcolm actually halted. Absently he blew against his fingers to warm them while giving Margo an appraising stare.
"Well, I'll be suckered ...." he said softly.
She waited, wondering if she'd get a reprieve.
"Who do you think they are?" He'd given her a challenge.
She studied the older women, who wore shawls over their hair, watched the younger girls with shining black tresses and shy smiles, the old men with wide-brimmed black hats and hand-woven, fringed vests. The younger people looked hopeful, busy. The older ones seemed uncertain and afraid, suspicious of her and of Malcolm., The language sounded like German, sort of. Then the whole picture clicked.