Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(14)

A small, black form darted away as he neared the other side of the cemetery—either a cat or a very large rat. The wall here was low, and Winter scrambled over it and into a narrow passageway, biting back an exclamation at a twinge from his leg. This let out into another alley next to a chandler’s shop. Overhead, the chandler’s wooden sign swung, squeaking, in the wind. It was in the crude shape of a candlestick, but whatever paint that once outlined the flame and stick had long since flaked away. A single lantern hung outside the little shop, the flame flickering uncertainly.

It was the last glimpse of civilization the alley could boast—farther on, no lantern lit the black shadows. Only the most courageous—or foolhardy—of St. Giles’s residents would brave the dark alley after nightfall.

But then he wasn’t an ordinary resident, was he?

His boots clattered on the remaining cobblestones in the alley as the grim shadows enveloped him. Most would bring a lantern out at night, but Winter had always been more comfortable making his way by moonlight.

A cat screeched with amorous intent nearby and was answered by an equally loud rival. Was he as mindless as the tomcats? Driven by the scent of a willing female and his own innate animal drive?

He shook his head as he entered a covered lane—more a tunnel, really. The walls dripped with slimy moisture and his footfalls echoed off the low arch. Up ahead, something—or someone—moved in the gloom.

Without breaking stride, Winter unsheathed the sword hidden in his greatcoat. As a commoner, he wasn’t technically allowed to carry either it or his short sword, but he’d long ago made peace with his necessary circumventions of the law.

Sometimes it was a matter of life or death, after all.

The lurker ahead made a sudden movement as if to rush him. Still advancing, Winter casually swung his sword up in front of his body. By boldness of attack you’ll seize the advantage, the old words of his mentor whispered across his mind.

The robber thought better of his action. There was a scuttling sound and then the way ahead was clear.

He should’ve felt relief at the lessening of danger—that the potential for conflict and the possible need to harm his fellow man had disappeared. Instead, Winter fought down a wave of irritation mixed with disappointment. He had the primitive urge to fight, to feel the pull and bunch of muscle, the thrill of peril, the satisfaction of victory over another.

Winter stopped dead, breathing quietly in the black night, listening to the drip of fetid water on the tunnel walls.

I am not an animal.

That was, in part, what the mask was for: to let loose some of his baser urges. Carefully. With great control. But he wasn’t wearing the mask tonight. Winter sheathed his sword.

The covered lane let out into a tiny courtyard that was hemmed in on all sides by tall buildings with overhanging balconies that seemed on the point of tumbling down to crush any so unlucky as to be standing beneath. Winter quickly crossed the courtyard and knocked twice on a low cellar door. He paused and then rapped once more.

Inside he could hear the scrape as a bolt was drawn back and then the door opened, revealing a face creased by time like the pages of a prayer book.

“Mistress Medina,” Winter murmured.

Instead of greeting him, the little woman impatiently beckoned him inside.

Winter bowed his head to clear the low lintel and stepped into the cozy room. A fire crackled on the hearth, gently steaming the clean laundry hung overhead on a wooden frame made accessible by a crude rope and pulley. Directly in front of the fire was a low stool and small table, set all about with lit tallow candles. And on the table were the tools of Mistress Medina’s trade: scissors, chalk, pins, needles, and thread.

“I’ve just finished it,” she said as she closed the door behind him and locked it. She limped over to the bed and held up the tunic that had been lying there.

Black and red diamonds paced across the fabric. People see only the surface, his mentor used to say. Give them a showy costume, a mask, and a bit of cape and they’ll swear to phantoms in the night and never notice the man beneath.

Winter crossed to the old woman and fingered the sleeve. “You’ve done excellent work as always, Mistress Medina.”

She scowled at his praise. “Best take care of it, then, ’adn’t you? I don’t know if I can ever make another. My eyes are going.” She jerked her chin at the smoking tallow candles. “Even with all them candles, I can’t see to place my stitches ’alf the time.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Winter said, and meant it. He could see now that her eyes were red-rimmed and watering. “Have you another means of making your way?”

She shrugged. “Might see if I can ’ire on as a cook. I made a fair pie in my day.”

“You did,” Winter said gently. “I can remember enjoying one of your apple pies.”

“Aye, and I remember making you the first one of these,” she said softly, caressing the new hose that went with the tunic. “You were but a shiverin’ lad. I never would’ve thought you could even ’old the swords were it not for Sir Stanley swearin’ you were the quickest learner ’e’d ever seen.”

There was a faint, nostalgic smile at the corner of her mouth. Winter wondered—not for the first time—if the little seamstress had been more to his mentor, Sir Stanley Gilpin, than merely a servant.

Her gaze suddenly sharpened. “You’ve filled out some since then, ’aven’t you? And become ’arder.”