The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden
Vera was as perplexed as a mare with a foal that won’t walk. Ganor was behaving oddly. He kept his own company, today—did his work in near silence. Something was clearly worrying him, but he seemed entirely unwilling to talk. And that was not at all like him.
“He’s grumpy,” Olly muttered, watching Ganor with frustration.
“Any inkling why?”
Olly shook his head. His brows pulled down a bit. “Ain’t like him though.”
“If you sort any of it, drop a word in my ear,” she said. “I miss the Mr. O’Donnell who makes us laugh.”
His mouth tipped a bit. “Do I make you laugh, too, Miss Vera?”
“Laugh? You ain’t nothing but trouble, boy.”
He laughed. Olly never failed to catch when she was teasing. “A spot of trouble ain’t a bad thing.”
“No, it ain’t.” She ruffled his hair.
“Mr. O’Donnell does that too,” Olly said as he smoothed his hair again. “You two’s strange.”
You two. She liked hearing them connected that way. The afternoon and evening she’d spent with Ganor had been wonderful. He was so easy to talk with and be with. They’d shared stories from their childhoods and thoughts on current matters in the country, what it was like to be an immigrant, how that varied when one had been in a country since childhood compared to arriving as an adult. She’d learned more of his sister and wanted to meet her. She’d told him a little more of her family history, though she’d veered clear of the Petrachevsky Circle. Even having to leave that out, she’d had a more personal interaction with him than she’d had with anyone in ages.
Papa stepped inside, interrupting her reverie.
“You’ve been away quite a spell,” she said.
“And well worth it, kotik. I’ve secured a new printing order. Our largest one ever.”
“What type of printing?”
“Any number of things.” Papa fussed with his beard, not looking directly at her.
“Such as?” She found it odd that he was being evasive about something he seemed so pleased about.
“The printing is my area, Vera.” His lips flattened in a gruff line.
His sharp tone drained every ounce of breath from her. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant to . . . ” She wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence, not knowing what she’d done wrong.
“You ask too many questions,” he said through tight teeth.
She hadn’t a ready answer for that. He’d not ever griped this much about her being inquisitive. Why was he so guarded about this particular job?
Olly tugged at Papa’s coat. “What does kotik mean?”
“‘Kitten,’” Papa said. “I have called Vera that since she was younger than you are.”
“I like when you speak Russian,” Olly said, tossing his gap-toothed smile at them both.
“Russian is a beautiful and powerful language,” Papa said. “You would do well to learn it, malysh.”
“I want to learn,” Olly insisted.
“The first lesson”—Papa spoke somberly, but with a twinkle in his eyes that let Vera breathe again—“‘do svidaniya.’”
Olly popped a salute and tossed out an enthusiastic, “Do svidaniya,” earning him a nod of approval from Papa.
With a dip of his head, Papa said, “Do skorovo” and, pushing his spectacles back into place, moved with a broad stride to the back room.
“That weren’t the same words,” Olly said.
“No, they weren’t.”
His little forehead creased. “But what does it mean?”
“The words he taught you or the words he just said?”
“Both.” Olly tossed his hands in the air. “He didn’t tell me what either one meant.”
“He did after a manner,” she said. “Toss it about in your idea pot. You’ll sort it.”
Olly stood rooted to the spot, a mighty pout on his face. Vera looked to Ganor, expecting to exchange amused looks. But the man kept quietly at his work. Vera didn’t for a moment think he was unaware of what was happening. The man was sharp, and he didn’t miss anything.
He might be in a bit of a sour mood, but she was willing to risk it. She wanted his thoughts on Papa’s new job. She wasn’t certain whether she was overreacting. Talking with Ganor had started to help her sort the matter of the Protector’s letter, and chatting about their pasts the evening before had given her a measure of peace and a sense of belonging.
Vera crossed to him. “We’re to have some new printing orders.”
“I heard your da say as much.” He kept his eyes on the window trim he was repairing. “He seems pleased.”
“Pleased and mysterious,” she said. “I often ask him details of the jobs he’s doing. He’s never bit off my head like that before.”
“Could be he’s not so sure of the job as he wants you to think he is.”
She shook her head. “He’s not ever tiptoed around that before. He tells me if he ain’t sure a client’ll prove a good one.”
“’Twasn’t the client he refused to talk to you about,” Ganor said.
That was true, though she’d not twigged that right away. “We talk about his printing regularly, what he’s printing, how complicated it might be, how many pages it’ll require, what type of parchment. He wouldn’t even tell me the type of job this time. No clues whatsoever.”
For the first time since she’d joined him there, Ganor looked up from his work. He didn’t look at her, though, but at the back door where Papa had exited the shop. “Maybe he’s printing something he doesn’t want you to know about.”
“What could that be, though? He ain’t one to do anything nefarious.”
He offered her a quick, half-formed smile. “Maybe he’s agreed to print a book and doesn’t want you knowing, since it’d make him a bit of a hypocrite.”
Heavens, that could be the answer. She hesitated, then lowered her voice so as not to be overheard. “A group of writers caused some difficulty in St. Petersburg when we lived there, and my papa was accused of being part of it. That set the police on our trail, and we had to make like the waves and leave Russia behind. If he’s printing books now, he’d never admit to it.”
“What sort of difficulty did these writers cause?” he asked, matching her low tone.
“I’ve already told you more than I tell anyone.” And she’d done so unprompted. She’d never trusted anyone that much before. “The history is my papa’s. I’d be playing him a terrible trick to share anything more.”
Beyond that, Papa thought they needed to be careful still. She’d not risk more trouble by making their history known.
“Sounds a great deal like m’sister’s feelings about the blue-bottles,” Ganor said.
“Your sister don’t like the police?”
Ganor pounded a nail in before answering. “Not so much a matter of not likin’ them as worrying over them being too nearby.”
He’d said her reasons were similar to those Papa had for worrying about writers. “The police caused her trouble at some point, did they?”
He nodded. “The both of us. We had a spot of trouble with the Peelers—that’s what we call the police in Dublin—and we’d no choice but to, as you put it, make like the waves.”
“What was your spot of trouble?” she asked.
He shook his head quickly and firmly. “That’s a seven-magpie story, that one.”
“I don’t twig you.”
He explained. “That old rhyme about the magpies and what it means to see a particular number of them.”
“Ah.” She understood now. But what was the meaning of seeing seven magpies? She’d read the latest installment of “The Dead Zoo” recently enough to remember without much thought. “‘Seven for a secret, never to be told.’”
“That’s the front and back of it, lass.”
“A seven-magpie story,” she repeated. “That’s a right clever turn of phrase, that is. I’ve said it before, but you’re something of a wordsmith at times.”
“I do try,” he said with a laugh.
“Fortunately for you,” Vera said, “there are two magpies present just now. Two is for joy, not secrets.”
His dipped-brow expression told her he’d not the first idea what she meant.
Vera took pity on him. “Sorokin is a name that comes from the Russian word for magpie.”
“Miss Vera!” Olly’s voice rang out from the street in tones of absolute terror. “Fire, Miss Vera! Fire!”
They ran to the door where the boy stood, frozen with terror. Across the street, smoke poured from the front-facing windows of Overton’s barbershop.
“Cricum jiminy.” She looked to Olly. “Run downstairs to the printing room. Tell Papa.”
He obeyed without argument.
Vera turned to Ganor. “We’ve buckets out behind the shop fit to purpose, and there’s a pump down the street.”
He nodded and rushed off to the back. Vera darted across the street, reaching the barbershop just as Peter stumbled out with Mr. Overton.
“Anyone else inside?” Vera asked.
Peter shook his head. “Everyone’s out, but the fire’s spreading.”
“Mr. O’Donnell’s fetching buckets of water. Has anyone else nipped off for water?”
Her question was answered by the arrival of the Okekes with water-laden buckets. They ducked inside to toss their loads on the flames. The scene replayed with two others. Then others. Ganor joined their ranks as well.
Vera did her best to keep curious onlookers at a distance, all the while listening to the pop of flames and the smoky coughs of her neighbors.
Several fire brigades arrived on the scene with their water pumps. Vera searched the façade of the barber shop for a fire marker. Few businesses in the area could afford to pay the insurance needed to receive the help of the brigades.
Ganor appeared out of nowhere, eyeing the building as well. “No fire marker.”
Fear clung to her heart like a thornbush. “They’ll let it burn if there’s not a marker.”
“We’ll do what we can for him.” Ganor accepted an empty bucket from one of the neighbors just stumbling from the building.
Buckets were nothing compared to the might of the brigades’ pumps. Mr. Overton would lose everything. There’d be no salvaging his livelihood or saving his family from the poorhouse.
The barber sat on the edge of the pavement across the street, watching as his entire life was reduced to ashes. Vera crossed to him and sat at his side, without the first idea what to say to him. How did one comfort a man who was watching the destruction of everything he owned?
They sat in silence as the brigades left, not having offered the least assistance. Mr. Overton hadn’t purchased fire insurance—he no doubt couldn’t afford it—and so they wouldn’t help. That was the horrible, tragic way of things.
“Should’ve paid,” he said, his voice raspy.
“Not a one of us pays for the fire brigades,” Vera said. “How can we? We’re hardly covering our costs as it is.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mean the fire insurance. I didn’t pay the Protector.”
She pulled her eyes from the smoke and looked directly at him. “You didn’t?”
He dropped his head into his hands. “I needed new razors for the shop. Long overdue. I bought them instead.”
“And you think having those extra eyes would’ve helped prevent this?”
His posture slumped with defeat. “A man came to collect my quid. When I told him I couldn’t pay this week, he said that was a shame and that robberies weren’t the only trouble businesses and people needed protecting from.”
There was nothing untrue in that.
“Then he said it didn’t take much for a life to ‘go up in flames.’”
Even with the heat of the nearby fire, cold creeped over her. “You think the Protector set the fire?”
Mr. Overton nodded, his sooty fingers leaving prints along his temples. “I was meant to remember those words. Now, I’ll never forget them.”
Vera pulled in a breath, the ash in the air only making the effort more difficult. “Didn’t take much for a life to go up in flames.”
The street, then, wasn’t paying for help like they thought. They were being extorted.
Pay or suffer.
Pay or be targeted.
Pay or their lives would go up in flames.
