The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Licorice proved an absolute banger of a shop assistant. The girl was a hard worker and a quick study. When given a task, she didn’t muck about. She was also stubborn and unafraid to talk at the customers, her language a touch too colorful at times.

“You ain’t s’pposed to say things like that in here, Licorice.” Olly stood facing his fellow urchin, with his hands on his hips and a disapproving glare worthy of a monarch. “Miss Vera ain’t running a boozing ken!”

“I’ve heard you say worse and more,” Licorice tossed back. She had at least six years on the boy but didn’t always act that way when he began pricking at her.

“Not in here, you haven’t. Miss Vera lets me earn coins, and she gives me food sometimes, so I wash m’ hands and keep m’ words clean too. Iffen you don’t do the same, she’ll toss you out, and you’ll be back chasing dogs and looking over your shoulder.”

Licorice paled a little. Time to intervene.

“Don’t let him gnaw you, love,” Vera said, turning the girl back toward the chair she’d been polishing. “You’ll twig what you’re meant to say and do soon enough.”

“I’m not trying to make trouble for you, Miss Vera.”

“I know.” She nudged her on, then turned back to Olly. “Quit kicking off at her. She’s new to our shop. You made a few missteps yourself when you first started working here.”

“I ain’t bungling things so much now,” he said almost plaintively.

“You’re a right legend,” she said a touch dryly. “Now hop to it, zaychik.”

He grinned before snapping a cheeky salute and spun around to continue his dusting. Vera caught sight of Licorice out of the corner of her eye and saw a fond gleam in the girl’s expression as she looked at the little boy, very much the way one looked at a younger brother.

“I hope you’ll not let his sauciness put you off working here,” Vera said in a low voice. “I’ve appreciated your help, especially on the days Mr. O’Donnell’s not here.”

“Let me know what days Olly ain’t here. Those’ll be my favorites.”

Vera clicked her tongue. “Don’t feed me any of that flim-flam, Licorice. He picks at you, but you’re fond of him.”

Licorice shrugged a little and focused on her work once more. She wasn’t likely to admit her fondness for the boy, but it was obvious. Olly didn’t always spend his days in the shop; Vera suspected Licorice wouldn’t either. But she liked having the two around. Between them and Ganor, she didn’t feel nearly as lonely.

Papa stood in the doorway of the back room, where he was spending his day. Though there were penny dreadfuls on display in the shop front—there always were—it was not a delivery day, so the number of tales was low. On those days, he was a little more willing to take a step or two inside.

He had his coat on.

“Are you going somewhere?” she asked.

He nodded as he buttoned the front, still hovering in the back doorway. “I heard of someone who might be looking for a new printer. Thought I’d go make myself known to the man.”

“Who is whispering to you about print work?” She couldn’t think of anyone he chatted with regularly.

“I may not have a lot of friends, kotik, but I am not entirely without acquaintances.”

She’d set his back up, and she’d not meant to. “I hope you get the job, Papa. You’d do a fine job of it. Whoever this man is, he’d be fortunate to have you doing work for him.”

He gave an almost regal dip of the head. Her papa had never been a person of high standing or importance, but he had always carried himself with dignity.

“What sort of printing does this person need done?” Vera asked.

“Political broadsides.” Papa pushed his spectacles back; they’d slipped when he’d nodded to her.

“You don’t care for politicians.” She knew that perfectly well.

“I also don’t care for writers, but as you see, that has made little difference.” As he put on his hat, he motioned with his beard toward the display of stories.

“Only the stories, pápochka. Not the ones who create them.”

“And I’ll print the broadsides,” he said, “without thinking too hard on ‘the ones who create them.’”

“Then will you stop growling at me like a bear with a sore paw every time new stories are delivered? Seeing as you understand the need to sometimes hold your nose and make a living.”

He did not appear the least convinced by her logic. “Writers are not to be trusted. How is it I have not given you enough understanding of that after all these years?”

She lowered her voice. “I’m well clued to our history, Papa. I’ve no intention of opening our doors to people who’d as soon destroy us as look at us.”

His shoulders drooped. “The Petrashevsky Circle ruined our lives. I will not let that happen a second time.” They only ever spoke of this in whispers.

“There is no Petrashevsky Circle in London, Papa. We’re safe from that here.” She’d told herself that ever since she was tiny. Many children grew up fearful of otherworldly creatures and fairy tale villains. The Petrashevsky Circle had been her terrifying hobgoblin.

“We’re not safe from it anywhere. Not ever.” He adjusted his hat for good measure and moved into the shop, weaving through the customers milling there, and stepped out onto the street.

His words echoed in her mind: “We’re not safe from it anywhere.” A lifetime of remembered fear surged up in her. She had no recollection of the years they’d lived in St. Petersburg. She remembered nothing before South London. But she’d heard her parents whisper of the threat they’d fled from. She’d heard “Petrashevsky” muttered often enough that its syllables were worryingly familiar.

But that Circle was a lifetime ago.

They had avoided writers, had even kept little company with their fellow Russian immigrants. Surely the threat was behind them.

“We’re not safe from it anywhere.”

No. She refused to believe that. They had to take care. They had to keep a safe distance from writers. But they didn’t need to live in the degree of fear Papa seemed to.

Peter dropped into the shop. He did so often, but not always in the middle of the day. “I’m liking that ‘Dead Zoo’ tale.”

“It’s a beaut, i’n’it?”

“Right plummy.” Peter eyed the display. “Got anything like it?”

“Dr. Milligan writes tales that are suspenseful like Mr. Donnelly’s.” She motioned for Olly to fetch a copy.

Peter nodded and accepted Olly’s offer.

Vera helped a few others choose stories. She sold a small handful of pen nibs. George, the bookkeeper’s clerk, turned up for his usual order. She filled it quickly with pen nibs and parchment, blotting paper and a bottle of black ink, and sent him on his way.

She was managing the shop, juggling the various areas of it. The children were helpful, in their own way. She should have been content with the day but, oddly enough, she wished Ganor was there. She’d not known him long, but she missed him when he was away. And not merely because he helped shoulder the burden.

She liked him. She liked having him around.

Upon returning to the counter after chatting over a penny dreadful, she found a note addressed to her. Though she wasn’t entirely certain, she thought the handwriting looked like the same that had been used on the mysterious letter she’d received the previous week.

This week’s quid will be collected in the morning.

—The Protector

This week’s quid? Nothing in the previous note had indicated the payment for extra eyes on the shop would be a weekly one. For how long would that be asked? She couldn’t afford £52 a year.

The previous payment had been collected by a brawny man she’d not seen before or since. He’d certainly not been in the shop that day. Who, then, had left the note? She’d liked to have asked for more information, but of whom?

Lowering herself onto the stool behind the counter, she set her mind to twigging the scheme. No one unusual had been in. No one had been the least out of place.

She rubbed at her temples. Someone had to have left the notes.

“Are you unwell, Miss Vera? You look stomped on.” Licorice’s voice managed to penetrate her thoughts.

“Only thinking,” she said.

“A person can get into trouble that way.”

Vera forced a bit of lightness. “Don’t I know it.”

Licorice shrugged a shoulder and made her way to the back.

The shop door chimed. Ganor O’Donnell stepped inside. Relief slid over her on the instant. He’d talk her through the mystery, help her think her way through it.

“Miss Vera.” He tipped his hat to her.

“I’d not figured on seeing you today,” she said.

“I brought some scarves for the children.” He held up two thick scarves. “Winter’s nearly upon us, and they’re needing a bit more protection from the cold.” He glanced around the shop. “Where are the wee saplings?”

“Olly’s hunched on the other side of the display table, sweeping up a bit of dust. Licorice is doing a bit of work in the back room,” Vera said.

Ganor dropped his voice. “Is having her here a burden to you? I dropped her on you without warning.”

Vera shook her head. “She’s a hard worker and well fit to the shop. These street children don’t tend to stay in one place for long. She’ll likely grow bored of the shop before too long and scout out something else more to her liking.”

“Smart as a whip, from what I saw of her,” Ganor said. “She’ll sort herself out as often as need be, I’d wager.”

So few had kind words for London’s street children. It reflected well on him. A lot of things did. His kindnesses. His friendliness. The more she knew of him, the more she liked.

“And if she doesn’t sort herself, Olly will,” Vera said. “The two snip at each other like brother and sister.”

He laughed. “I have an older sister. She’s been poking at me my entire life.”

Olly had spotted Ganor and rushed over to him. “I earned a penny and bought the next bit of the story.”

“And which story’s that?” Ganor hunched a bit, enough to talk more directly to the scamp. “We’ve discussed a few.”

“‘The Dead Zoo.’”

Ganor nodded solemnly. “What did you think of it, then?”

“I think Jonty’s the one stealing the animals. Do you?”

“I think it’s a possibility.” Ganor ruffled Olly’s hair as he stood tall once more.

Olly smoothed his hair with a disgruntled swipe of his hand. “Miss Vera does that too. Makes me wash my hands then messes my hair.”

Ganor’s eyes darted to her.

She shrugged. “I think I improve his look when I fuss with his hair.”

“I got a reputation.” Olly’s salute held more defiance than usual but hadn’t lost an ounce of its cheek. He spun about and marched off, resuming his work.

Vera rested her elbows on the counter and her chin against her hands. “He’s a handful. But he’s been here every day this week. Likely, he’ll disappear for a while now. Never do know what they get up to.”

“I’ve been a street urchin,” Ganor said. “’Tis likely for the best you don’t know what they do when they’re away from here.” He motioned toward Licorice. “I’m going to gab a bit with the girl. But I won’t keep her from her work. Swear to it.”

“I ain’t worried,” she said. “And it’ll do Licorice good to have a moment free of Olly’s pestering.”

Ganor laughed and crossed the shop. His laughter warmed her through and through. It was little wonder she missed him when he wasn’t at the shop.

Vera stepped onto the pavement out front. The place wasn’t overly busy, but the flow of customers into the shop was steady. Either of the children could nip out and grab her if she was needed. Peter was at his cart as usual, near enough for a quick gab.

She stood under the front overhang, watching the comings and goings on Old Compton Street. This was not the area of London where she’d grown up, but it had come to feel like home. She knew her neighbors and fellow merchants, knew the street sellers, knew the urchins who lingered in corners, and the workers who passed by on their way to and from employment, knew those many pretended not to see. The area was not the most affluent, but it was generally peaceful and calm. In this little corner of Soho, people felt a bit of hope, a bit of peace. She wanted it to stay that way. But £52 a year was more than she could pay.

Across the way, Mr. Overton stood outside the door of his barbershop.

“Mr. Overton seems burdened,” she said to Peter. He spent his days on the street, so hardly anything happened that he didn’t know about. “Is the barbershop struggling?”

Peter shook his head. “Plenty come in and out. But his shoulders are always slumped. His mouth ain’t ever nothing but a frown. Something’s fretting him.”

She understood that all too well.

“Something’s fretting a good many people,” Peter added.

“Including you?”

“Two merchants didn’t buy their usual bundles. Mr. Overton”—he motioned across the street— “said he’d an unexpected expense. Couldn’t spare even a quid.”

“I find myself struggling with that amount as well,” Vera said with a sigh.

“Seems the debt of the day. Mr. Bianchi mentioned needing an extra £1.”

Odd. “Anyone else toss out that as a sum?”

Peter’s brow dipped in thought. “Come to swirl on it, yeah. Been hearing that amount the last day or two from near everyone. And heard it a week ago as well.”

That couldn’t be a coincidence. “Do you remember all the locals who mentioned the £1 expense?”

“Aye.”

“How many would you say there was?”

His lips moved silently. Then, “At least a dozen. All right here in this stretch.”

A dozen. Someone in that group must have some idea who the Protector was and how often they were meant to be paying. A little more information would make a difference.

“If you dropped a word in their ears, do you suppose they’d come to the shop and help me sort this?”

Peter shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

She didn’t mean to bother Papa with it all. He’d lived for years looking over his shoulder, expecting danger at every turn. The last thing he needed was to be alarmed at this business enterprise if there was no need. She’d sort it out, and he’d be none the wiser. If she asked, Ganor would help her.

“Ask those you know of to come by the shop at eight o’clock.”

“Will do, Miss Vera.” Peter pulled his cap.

With luck, they’d have some answers tonight. But she suspected those answers would prove more complicated than she’d prefer.