Olivia Twist(8)

Olivia swallowed hard, said a prayer for the children as she continued on her way, and repeated in her mind: I cannot save them all. But she could get to Saffron Hill that night, and deliver the loot she’d collected over the last week. Those kids depended on her. Archie and Brit would keep the younger ones fed, but Chip’s cough worried her. It had gone from a dry tickle to a wet bark, overnight.

Ahead, Dodger slipped around a corner, and Olivia picked up her pace. She lifted her skirt and stepped around a pile of refuse, yanking Brom’s leash when he stopped to investigate. But when she turned, Dodger was gone. She rushed past a pair of young women pushing red roses in her face, two blooms for a penny, and spied a shop door closing with the clang of a bell.

Rushing forward, she stopped short and read the words painted on the shop window: Paul’s Pawnbroker Shop. The cracked letters partially obscured her view as she watched Jack follow a squat man in an old-fashioned powdered wig behind the counter and out of sight. Brom sniffed at the opening where the door hadn’t closed all the way, but Olivia pulled him back. She didn’t even know what she hoped to accomplish with this little bit of sleuthing. So she stood outside and endeavored to look as if she belonged.

The shelf in the window displayed a random ensemble of cracked pottery, a plebeian calico shirt on a form, and a dusty garnet brooch. Shelves of merchandise lined the walls from floor to ceiling and racks of clothing divided the middle of the room. A perfect place for a young woman, such as herself, to shop and listen. Olivia led Brom inside and moved to browse a selection of threadbare dresses. A few moments later, the bell rang again and two rough-looking young men pushed into the store. Jerking her eyes back to the garish purple silk in front of her, Olivia attempted to remain unnoticed, but a low growl vibrated from Brom’s chest, drawing the ruffians closer.

One was tall and angular, wearing a knit cap pushed back on his shaved head. The other one appeared almost as wide as he was tall, with brown curly hair and eyes the color of mud. Brom’s rumble took on a menacing note as the men moved around the clothing racks and stopped, one on either side of her.

“Oh, tha’s a nice poochy, now.” The short one extended his hand to Brom’s nose.

Olivia turned to find the tall one standing less than a foot away from her. “Well now, whot’s a pretty lady like you doin’ in old Paul’s shop?” He picked up a silk ribbon from her hat and rubbed it between his fingers as he spoke. “You lookin’ to make a trade?”

The glint in his eyes made Olivia’s stomach constrict. She stepped back and turned toward the short one. “Just browsing, but my gentleman is meeting me here in a moment.”

“Oh, is ’e now?” the tall one questioned, his eyes raking over her from head to toe.

“Me thinks the lady’s skirt looks awful light. How ’bout you, Critch?” The short one chuckled at his own wit.

Olivia rolled her eyes. She may be a lot of things, even some unpleasant ones, but she was certainly no prostitute. When the thugs began to pluck at the fabric of her dress, she knew it was time to make her exit. Narrowing her eyes, she stared the short one in the face and said, “Excuse me, sir, but I must be going.”

“Not just yet.” The one called Critch put a hand on her shoulder and spun her around.

Brom’s bark exploded from his chest, his sharp, white teeth snapping. Moments later there was a blur, followed by a sickening clang, and the dog was silent.

“Brom!” Olivia bent and grabbed his muzzle between her hands; his soft brown eyes were open, but dazed. She glanced over her shoulder to find the short one holding a skillet and grinning. She surged to her feet, an inferno rising inside her, never before so grateful she was tall for a female. She towered over him as she hissed, “You slimy little toad! How dare you touch my dog?” The thug backed up, his eyes darting toward the door. Hysterical laughter echoed behind her and she whirled on Critch with a glare that could break glass, but he only looked more determined.

“I’m not done with you, little dolly,” he muttered as he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to his chest with a thump. Grasping his arms for leverage, Olivia hiked her knee up, and smashed it between his legs. With a groan, all the color drained from his face and he doubled over, his knit cap falling to the floor. When he raised his head, the viciousness in his expression trapped Olivia’s breath in her throat. She stumbled back as his hand shot out and locked around her wrist.

“Fancy meeting you here, Miss Brownlow.” The voice cut through the room like sharp-edged steel. With one glance at its source, the short one’s mouth dropped open marionette-style, and he catapulted out the door with a harried clang of the bell.

“D-d-oddger?” Critch straightened and dropped her arm, his eyes flaring wide. He was taller than Jack, but his spine seemed to shrivel before her eyes, his neck almost disappearing into his collar.

Dodger leaned against the counter behind him. “I’m sure I don’t know who ye mean.”

Jack’s appearance and the two thugs’ transformation made Olivia long to head for the door herself, but her feet seemed to have grown roots. Brom nudged her hand, and she patted his furry head, gripping his leash like a lifeline.

“Dodger, man, it’s me, Critch.” He opened his hands in an imploring gesture. “I’d heard you got transported. But if you’re back in town, I’m wit’ you. That bloomin’ Monks is takin’ over everything. I’ll pledge to you right here, man. Half of whot’s mine is yers.”