Olivia Twist(52)

Jack released her, gripped the umbrella in his right hand, point out, and muttered, “Stay close.”

She gave Brom’s leash a firm yank, effectively cutting off the dog’s growl. Then she scanned the area, but the man with the cart appeared to be alone. She grabbed Jack’s coat and tried to pull him to the other side of the street. He didn’t budge. The slow progress of the cart rumbled forward over the cobbles. “Come on,” Olivia hissed.

“It’s all right. I think I know him,” Jack replied.

The costermonger passed through a pool of light, and Olivia gasped. Same flat-brimmed black hat, hawkish nose and wiry beard . . . it was their old kidsman, Fagin. How he was still alive, she couldn’t fathom. She’d thought him ancient back when he’d taken her in all those years ago. Olivia shrunk behind Jack’s shoulder. Fagin had acted the kindly old gentleman, but he could turn like a viper, striking when you least expected it.

“Care ta buy a bobble, my dears?” The craggy old man approached, leaning on his cart like a crutch. When he drew up under the nearest lamp, Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth. Fagin’s teeth were completely gone, his lips sunken in around his gums, and his eyes were covered with a thick, milky film. By the way he lifted his chin and turned his head from side to side, she could tell he’d lost most of his vision. No recognition dawned as his unfocused gaze settled in their direction.

“What have you got for sale, old man?” Jack asked.

The assortment of junk piled in his cart looked to have been plucked fresh from the garbage—a broken rattrap, chipped dishes, a few rotten pieces of fruit. Olivia spied a stained pallet tied to the side of the wagon and realized the old man must be homeless. Compassion sparked in her chest, despite her apprehension.

“Oh, this is prime merchandise, it is. How about a lovely apple or two, hm?”

Jack reached for a piece of fruit, but stopped just before touching the foul produce wriggling with maggots. He pulled back his hand and then paused. Olivia could see the tension leave his shoulders as a look of resignation settled over his countenance. He reached inside his coat and produced a wad of pound notes. Handing several bills to Fagin, he instructed, “Tuck this away and go get yourself a room where you can die in peace, old man. The Three Cripples will likely take you in.”

Fagin took the cash and lifted his windfall to the meager light with trembling hands, straining to see as he shuffled through the notes. His lips began to quiver when the amount of his good fortune dawned.

Jack took Olivia’s arm and steered her around the cart. When they drew even with the old man, Jack’s hand whipped out and grasped both of Fagin’s, lowering his arms. “Stash this before someone takes it from you, eh?”

Fagin turned leaky eyes to Jack, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank ye, my dear.” He called everyone by the same endearment—boy, girl, or a little of both as had been her case.

Jack gave him a single nod before leading Olivia away. He set a quick pace, and she imagined he was as eager as she to leave that bit of their shared past behind.

After they’d rounded the corner, Jack released her arm and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. His profile set into hard lines, his whole demeanor aloof.

Olivia felt the absence of his warmth all the way to her toes, but she followed suit and stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets. They’d made such strides tonight, she couldn’t allow him to retreat inside himself again. She moved closer and caught his eye. “That was a very kind thing you just did.”

After a brief silence, he said, “Not so much kind as guilt-driven.”

She arched a brow in question.

“He called me his ‘best worker,’ and I left him behind.” Jack shrugged both his shoulders.

“But you didn’t owe him anything, Jack. He took from you for years.”

“Perhaps, but he also taught me the craft, and where would I be now without it?” His voice had taken on a flat quality, and he’d maneuvered Brom so the dog walked between them.

“Monks, my . . . er . . .” Her mouth worked but it took a few tries for the title to emerge. “My brother was a big reason you went out on your own, right?”

He gave a tight nod. “Have you found any more information about Leeford . . . Monks, from your uncle?”

“He doesn’t know any more than I do, and when I asked him to see the letter from my mother, he couldn’t recall where he put it. I plan to search his study at the first opportunity.”

“We need to figure out why that bludger is after you.” He fingered the scar on his right cheekbone. “He’s not to be underestimated.”

“Why, Jack?” What wasn’t he telling her? “Did he . . . hurt you?”

He jerked his hand back to his side and shoved it into his pocket, his fingers balled into a fist.

Olivia could sense him slipping away from her again, so she blurted, “I know you left Fagin because of Monks. But how did you end up working with Lois March?” After the words were out, she wished she could take them back. He’d shut her down before for asking precisely the same question.

“You need not answer. Sometimes I don’t know when to leave off.”

They were nearing the workhouse district, so she hoped it wouldn’t seem too peculiar that she lifted her lavender-scented kerchief to cover her nose and mouth, surreptitiously disguising her heated cheeks. She increased her pace and pulled ahead, leaving Jack and Brom to follow.