Page 104 of Eternal Craving

“Tomorrow.”

I cursed the daylight, but it was futile to resist. We had to find a safe place for shelter, and soon.

The Strand, a street in the City of Westminster, served our needs. We handed over the first week’s rent to a half-blind night porter. We insisted that a tour of the apartments was not required.

“Just show us our room,” I said.And make it fast.

He led us up a winding staircase to the top floor.

Once inside, we took in the modest décor – a medium sized bed, a worn side-table, and a chair that I didn’t trust enough to use. But the heavy-lined drapes on the single window, and the working lock, convinced us to stay.

“Better than a mausoleum,” I reasoned.

“It’ll do,” Sunaria said.

Our room overlooked the River Thames. In different circumstances, I’d have admired the vista, but viewing the sprawling city and its miles upon miles of territory, I felt only desperation. When Jacob surfaced, we’d be asleep, and when we emerged, he’d be inside again.

I pulled the curtains, turned, and slid down the wall. With my head in my hands, feeling an overwhelming despair, I allowed myself to weep uncontrollably.

Within a week, we’d searched virtually every workhouse in London. Many of them were matchmaking factories. Our third factory of the night was nestled in a rundown neighborhood that verged on the edge of Westminster Abbey. We made our way to the manager’s office.

We strolled past child after child, all of them bending over their wooden work benches, laboring away. I searched each face and saw Jacob in all of them. Heads rose in a moment of interest. Big, sunken eyes stared back, and then they returned once again to the tasks at hand. These children would work well into the night and start early again tomorrow.

At the rear of the bleak factory, just off to the right, old straw beds lay stacked up against the far wall. They lived here and slept here, trapped in a cycle of deprivation – such a sorrowful existence.

But for the chosen few, for those children blessed with health and good bones, an alternative offered hope. A reasonable profit could be made from wealthy family members who, unable to bear children of their own, would seek to adopt. They’d pluck out a child, paying whatever was asked of them. The thought of unscrupulous buyers crossed my mind.

I wanted to open the doors to the factory and yell at the children to run. Though if they did escape, a new threat awaited them. If caught, they’d suffer severe punishment. The threat of execution was very real, a brutal and undeserving death. More surprising still, this building, along with two thirds of London, belonged to the Church.

The numbness I’d felt within had for a moment lifted and provided such inner turmoil that I feared my ability to restrain my temper. I took a moment to compose myself.

Easily passing for wealthy aristocrats eager to adopt, we presented ourselves to the owner’s hard-faced wife. Mrs. Amesbury, who wore a permanent scowl, greeted us with a suspicious eye. A harsh task mistress, no doubt.

“We want to pass the child off as ours,” Sunaria explained.

“Do I detect Spanish in the gentleman’s accent?” Mrs. Amesbury asked.

I gave a nod, trying to suppress any visible disdain.

“Oh, dear, we did have a Spanish boy. Had you come on Wednesday, you might have beaten the other couple to him.”

I tried to remain calm. “His name?”

“I can’t remember that now.” She shook her head. “He was a quiet one, and we have so many boys.”

Every sinew in my body felt on edge.

“May we inquire as to the boy’s new address?” Sunaria asked.

Mrs. Amesbury pursed her lips. “We never divulge such information. Discretion is so important in this business.”

“As it is in ours.” My fake demeanor of courtesy fell away.

As Sunaria closed in on her, Mrs. Amesbury’s smile faded.

Many of the streets were named after the trades practiced there, like Threadneedle Street, the aptly named Tailor’s District, or Baker Street, where locals bought their bread. Fleet Street was where the wealthy resided – the aristocracy, rich merchants, architects, and men of law.

At the east end of Fleet Street, London’s walls rose high, the dark waters of the Fleet River flowing by. One building miraculously untouched by the constant surge – saved, it seemed, by the sturdy white brickwork along the riverside – was the Bradbury’s residence. Their large town house towered three stories high. Long black timbers split along the front, enhancing its sturdiness.