Page 92 of Guardian
I was ravenous, my insides hollowed out by the hours in the cold water and fear.
Between bites, I told her everything from the moment we reached the tunnels until I woke up in the chair at the strangers’ house, concluding, “I never met the doctor. I only heard him. He spoke with a Cockney accent. He said, ‘Ah, Art my boy.’”
“It’s likely Art’s father.”
I stared. “His father?”
“His mother was Chinese,” she said. “His father was a doctor on a merchant ship. He met her in one of the port cities and brought her back here. She died not long after Art was born.”
“We could never have done this without him,” I said soberly. “He swam me out of that tunnel, Amelia. I’d have drowned. Who is he?”
“An old friend. Dependable as the day is long. Like James.” She gave me a searching look. “You love that boy, don’t you?”
I nodded unhappily. “I haven’t told him I’m leaving.”
“No, I can see that,” she said. “Some might say it’s heartless, but it’s for the best until he’s cured.” She twitched at her skirt. “I’m not the praying sort, but ... he’s young and strong, he has that on his side.”
“I hope so.”
“And you have the diamonds, so you’ll have Sarah soon. You’ll see Maggie this morning?”
I wrapped my palms around the cup. “I need to see Mr. Fuller first. Maggie won’t release Sarah until the story breaks. I hope he’ll talk to me without James.” I drank the last of the tea. “Can I borrow your pistol?”
She raised an eyebrow. “To convince Fuller?”
“Not him,” I said. “Maggie. In case I need to remind her of our bargain. She’ll be furious I did this on my own.”
My hair, bundled into one of Amelia’s nets, still stank of the river, but at least I appeared respectable in one of her dresses and her coat, which fit me better. With her pistol in my pocket, I made my way to the newspaper offices, putting my prepared letter for the marquess into the post for delivery before noon.
It was still early when I pushed open the door withthe mirrorin metal letters above, and the desk near the entrance was unoccupied. From behind the wall came the steady thump of the press. I climbed the rickety steps to the first story. Half a dozen men sat at canted tables, with wooden boxes holding bits of lead type in the upper cases and lower cases, their fingers quick, setting the letters in rows.
The noise of the press was louder here, and I had to speak up to have one of them notice me.
“Where’s Mr. Fuller?” I asked, half shouting.
The young man nearest to the door turned, and his mouth fell open. “Ach, miss!” His eyes goggled at me, and I repeated my question. “How’d you get in?”
“The door was open,” I said.
He pointed. “Up those stairs, down the hallway.”
I climbed again, a narrower set of stairs with no banister. I reached a windowed hallway with long, dusty floorboards and half a dozen doors. The first one on the right was open, and I found a young woman of about twenty-five seated at a desk, a lamp on either side, her pen dashing across foolscap.
The press was still audible, but up here I didn’t have to shout to make myself heard. “Begging your pardon,” I said. “I’m looking for Mr. Fuller.”
She paused her pen, settling her elbow on the desk. Her eyes were bright, inquisitive, mischievous, even. She studied the bruise that had darkened and ran diagonally along my cheek. “You look like you could tell a story.”
“I have one,” I admitted. “But it’s for him.”
She shrugged good-naturedly and pointed the top of her pen to the right. “Three doors down.”
I continued on and paused at the threshold. Mr. Fuller was bent over a cluster of written pages, a pen in his right hand, making notes in the margins. His gingery hair was thinning in an uneven patch at his crown, and the sight unexpectedly made my heart soften. He was a man, after all, not merely a journalist.
“Mr. Fuller,” I said.
He started and looked up, blinking through silver-rimmed spectacles, which his left hand promptly removed.
“Where’s James?”
