Olivia Twist(7)

“There’s our mark now, Ollie,” Dodger whispered as he inclined his head toward an older gentleman browsing through a street vendor’s assortment of books. The man wore a coat of the deepest red, the snowy ruffles of his shirt peeking from beneath his cuffs, his tall Hessian boots shining in the sun. Dodger gestured toward the table, indicating Ollie should attempt a distraction.

Ollie swiped the crumbs from her mouth with a dirty sleeve, approached the bookstand, and squeezed in between the white-haired gentleman and a less-affluent customer. Her hands clammy and shaking, she selected a brown leather tome and opened the cover, moving her finger along the letters as if she could read them. She turned the page, repositioned her foot, and stomped on the toff’s boot. When the man harrumphed his displeasure, Ollie apologized and grinned up at him, using her dimples to their full advantage. The man did not return her smile, but met her gaze and held it, blinking several times before his mouth fell open. Ollie’s smile faltered, the book falling from her hand as she stared into honey-colored eyes, the exact shade of her own.

Then the man jerked and spun about. “Thief!”

Dodger froze in shock, before whirling on his heel and taking off, the man’s wallet clutched in his fist. Ollie dashed after him, her heart galloping into her throat. This was not supposed to happen! The Artful Dodger never got caught.

Shouts of “Stop the boy!” and the pounding of boots followed them as they raced through the streets. Dodger slammed into a vegetable cart, sending the produce spinning over the cobbles behind him. Ollie stumbled over a rolling potato, and before she could right herself, arms grabbed her from behind. She struggled, pulled, and kicked, but they held her fast.

“That is the wrong boy,” insisted the white-haired toff as he bent over and tried to catch his breath. “It was . . . the taller . . . dark-haired one.”

“I saw this one hand off the wallet with me own eyes. This be yer thief, sir,” a gravelly voice claimed behind her. She twisted around to see the cop’s belly protruding far over his boots. Likely he’d never catch his true target, and figured one tooler was as good as another.

“No! It wasn’t me!” Ollie knew what they did with thieves. It was death by hanging or deportation to the Colonies, which was a drawn-out death at sea. She stopped struggling and implored the gentleman who was her only hope. “I didn’t do it. I swear it on me mother!”

Ollie stared up into the man’s kind face, pleading with her eyes. And then, as if his voice echoed through a long tunnel, she heard him say, “Release the boy.”

“But sir, we cannot abide law breakers. This be for the magistrate to decide.” The beak wrenched her arms tighter behind her back.

As the toff argued with the constable, Ollie spied a familiar crooked top hat peeking up from behind a wagon. She let out a slow breath. Dodger would come up with something. He was clever enough to save them both.

Dodger rose up and met her eyes. But then the boy’s face hardened, all emotion leaching out of his expression, and in the blink of an eye he was gone, taking the man’s wallet with him. All the air whooshed from Ollie’s chest, like a kick to the ribs. An unfamiliar sensation stung the backs of her eyes, and her throat constricted. Blast it! She hadn’t bawled since she was a toddler in nappies.

She swung back toward the white-haired gentleman, but he wouldn’t meet her stare. He’d lost the fight. Her breath coming in shallow gasps, she stumbled over her feet as the copper led her away to face her sentencing.

It wasn’t until Brom trotted up and sat at her feet that she realized her fingernails were digging crescent-shaped ridges into her palms. Her dog, ever the gentleman, tilted his head, one of his ears cocked in concern. “I’m all right, Brom. Give me that.” She reached out, and he dropped the damp stick into her hand. Olivia surged to her feet and hurled the branch halfway across the square. She’d trusted Dodger with her life! And he’d rewarded that faith with betrayal.

Brom bounded after his prize in reckless abandon, and Olivia longed to race alongside him, to pump her legs in time with the indignation flaring through her chest. Curse her absurd skirts, anyway. If she’d been wearing her trousers and cap, she and Brom would sprint across the square and down to the river.

That’s when she noticed the dog—his stick forgotten—watching a dark-haired man striding briskly through the square. “Well, how about that.” Olivia set off to retrieve her errant pet, when she noticed the man stumble, then dance to the side with inherent grace. Something in the man’s movements made her walk faster. He turned to stare at her dog, and the newsboy cap pulled low over his eyes did nothing to disguise his square chin or the determined angle of his jaw.

Dodger.

Olivia jogged to Brom, clicked his leash into place, and, ignoring the warnings in her head, followed her quarry at a distance. After adjusting the angle of her hat to partially cover her face, and tightening the sage-and-lime-striped ribbons under her chin, she quickened her pace.

She almost lost Jack when he cut in front of a chicken cart and ducked into a dark alley, and again when she came across a cluster of children huddled against a chimney. She stopped at the sight of fat tears streaking through the grime on a sandy-haired boy’s face. He sat away from the others, nursing a bloodied lip. Olivia approached and handed the child a pound note. Wisely, he tucked the bill into his pocket, a secret smile on his face.