The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Vera’s customers were quick to realize Ganor O’Donnell knew everything about the penny dreadfuls. He was in the shop on his second day of working there, having spent the morning unpacking the latest arrivals and helping get the displays in order. He’d even taken up the job of arranging window displays, something she’d not yet had the time to do that day. All respectable print shops had eye-catching displays. Having that part of the business sorted would bring in more print jobs, and Ganor’s easy and personable discussions of the serials would bring in more penny dreadful customers.

Hiring him had proven a stroke of genius. And yet she couldn’t shake a nagging sense of uncertainty. His knuckles bore the heavy scarring of one who’d seen more than his share of brawls. He was a fighter, though likely not a professional pugilist. She was not unacquainted with men who swung fists as a matter of course, but it still made her a touch nervous having one working in the shop.

Ganor worked hard, but there was an air of distraction about him. Sometimes his mind wandered enough that he didn’t respond when she called out to him. His eyes would take on the strangest look when someone mentioned a penny dreadful author—didn’t seem to matter which one. And he asked a lot of questions.

Still, having him there to lug and deliver things made everything run better. It also allowed her a few more unguarded moments where she could read the penny dreadfuls she loved, despite her feelings of lingering guilt. The stories Papa resented having in the shop gave her a sense of friendship and adventure. She wasn’t certain she could entirely give them up, even for him.

She was rereading the first installment in Mr. King’s latest offering, searching for the clues that he always managed to sprinkle in his writing. Vera took pride in being able to sort out the mystery a little ahead of the story.

“Enjoying it?” Ganor plopped onto the chair beside hers, the both of them sitting at the table near the back of the shop where print orders were taken.

“I always like Mr. King’s stories,” she said. “The mystery and romanticalness.” She stopped a minute. “I’m not certain that’s a word.”

He tossed back one of his heart-fluttering smiles. “Seems to me it ought to be.”

“You have a nice way with the customers,” she said. “Talking with ’em about the penny dreadfuls and helping ’em sort out which ones they’d like best.”

“Are Mr. King’s the ones you like best?” He motioned to the story she still held in her hands.

“I like most all of them.”

“So do I.” They were having a rare quiet moment in the shop, a lull between waves of customers. “Seems odd to me, though; you selling stories when your da is so opposed to ’em.”

She glanced toward the back doorway, wanting to make certain her papa wasn’t near enough to overhear. “The shop weren’t doing well. We sell a good amount of parchment and pens and such things. But, without enough print orders coming in, we needed something else. I knew the penny dreadfuls were popular, and I’d read plenty enough of them to know how to go about selling them. He was spitting fire over it when I first brought ’em here. He still ain’t happy about the whole thing. But it’s kept us afloat.”

Ganor leaned his arms on the table, appearing to settle in for a cozy chat. How long had it been since that had happened with anyone at all? Papa was sometimes talkative over their evening meals, but outside of him she didn’t have a lot of gabs.

“Why is it your da, a man who despises books and tales and the written word, plies his trade as a printer? Seems a contradiction to me.”

“He was a printer in Russia. It’s the trade he knows and the skills he has.” She shrugged, her hands held out to her side. “He never prints any books or stories or bits of fiction. He limits himself to documents and advertisements and pamphlets.”

“Pamphlets are written by writers,” Ganor pointed out.

“I know it’s a contradiction, but I don’t press him on it. If he limited his jobs even more, we’d be in the suds for sure and certain.”

“Money remains tight, does it?”

“Always.”

His ginger brow pulled as he focused more closely on her. “You’re certain you’ve the funds for paying me? Don’t misunderstand, it’s grateful I am for the income as I’d not care to live with m’sister for the rest of m’life. But I don’t want to be the reason your shop sinks beneath the waves.”

“With how many penny dreadfuls you sold today alone, I’d wager you’ll more than pay for yourself.”

He grinned broadly. The man had a shockingly beautiful smile. “I’ve a fondness for the tales.”

“I twigged that.”

Still looking as amused as ever, he asked, “You ‘twigged’it?”

“Sorted it out,” she explained. “South London shows up in my words still.”

He nodded. “Ireland wriggles its way into mine now and then.”

She snorted. “‘Now and then.’”

“What is it you’re trying to say, lass?” he asked, eyes twinkling with laughter.

“That I’m not sure you know what the phrase ‘now and then’ means, that’s what I’m saying.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled so much chatting with someone. “It’d be like me saying I crave hot roasted chestnuts ‘now and then.’”

“Fond of roasted chestnuts, are you?”

“Desperately fond.”

Papa’s voice echoed from beyond the back door, raised in a way that told her he was talking as he approached rather than being present already. “Have you read the paper, kotik?”

Vera lowered her voice and said to Ganor, “Another product of writers he’s willing to endure.”

Ganor nodded solemnly.

“I haven’t, papishka,” she called back just as Papa stepped through the doorway.

He didn’t come all the way inside. She’d wager his distance was part of his ongoing protest over the presence of the penny serials. Vera rose from her seat and crossed to him. Ganor, thank the heavens, set himself to tasks on the other side of the shop. Papa had accepted his presence there, but he’d not seemed overly pleased at the need for hiring someone.

“It’s about von Brunnow.” Papa pointed to an article on the page he’d folded back.

“And what does the paper have to say about Russia’s ambassador?”

“Rumors of a falling out with Lord Chelmsford.” More curiosity sat in Papa’s tone than alarm.

“Odd, that. They’ve something of a friendship between them.” She took the paper from him.

Papa scratched at his beard. “I’ve heard whispers he’s been acting strange.”

“Which one? The baron or the ambassador?”

“The ambassador,” Papa said as he pushed back his spectacles.

Vera scanned the article, looking for indications of oddity in Russia’s representative. “Where’ve you heard these whispers? You haven’t much contact with the Russian community here.”

He stiffened. He always did when talk turned to his countrymen. She ought to have known better after so many years. But his bringing up the ambassador had lulled her into thinking the topic wasn’t as forbidden as it usually was.

“I suppose von Brunnow will sort things with the baron soon enough,” Vera said, hoping to end the discussion before Papa worked himself into a huff. “We’ve done a vast deal of business today. One of our most profitable.”

“We’ll have more print business soon enough, you’ll see. Then you can get rid of all those—” He looked over at the display of penny dreadfuls. His nose scrunched as if he’d come across a putrid smell, sending his spectacles slipping once more.

“They’re only stories, Papa. None of the people who write them are here, and they never will be. We’re a small shop in Soho. We’re too far below any of their notice.”

But Papa was shaking his head in that mechanical way he did when dismissing an argument even as it was being made.

Little Olly hopped into the shop in the very next moment, offering a much needed distraction. “What’ve you got new today, Miss Vera?”

“Piles and piles, Olly.” She stepped away from her papa, knowing he’d disappear downstairs. “You remember Mr. O’Donnell.” She directed the boy’s attention that way.

“You bought us a story last time.” Olly popped Ganor one of his cheeky salutes.

“What’d you think of it, lad?” Ganor asked, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his thick arms folded across his chest, light falling on the thick scars on his knuckles.

“It’ll be frightening, I know it. All them dead animals.”

Ganor nodded. “I suspect it will be.”

Olly dropped his voice to a whisper. “Who do you think’s taking the missing animals?”

Ganor matched the boy’s volume. “If I knew, I’d not tell you, lad. ’Twould ruin the story.”

That brought Olly’s eyes to Vera. “Have you sorted it?”

She shook her head. “It’s a mystery to me.”

Raised voices echoed outside, pulling all their attention. Ganor stood nearest the door and was the first outside. Vera was there an instant later. A bit of commotion had broken out in front of the tobacconist’s shop a few doors down.

Peter, the costermonger who worked on the street, stood in his usual spot just outside the print shop.

“Any notion what’s happened?” Vera asked.

“I heard shouts of ‘thief.’ I’m guessing Mr. Bianchi’s been robbed,” Peter said.

“A common thing on this street?” Ganor asked.

She shook her head. “We’ve crime, sure enough. But thievery ain’t much heard of.” Vera hooked a thumb in the direction of her own shop. “Keep an eye on the place, will you? I mean to go learn what’s happened.”

“Surely will, Miss Vera,” Ganor said.

No objection to being asked to remain behind while a woman investigated the danger. There weren’t many men who’d accept that arrangement, especially those with a brawler’s history.

Vera dipped her head to a few neighbors she passed, all of whom were watching the proceedings outside the tobacco shop with worried curiosity. She reached the doorway in a matter of moments and eyed the scene.

The shop was a bit broken up. Mr. Bianchi sat atop an overturned crate with a wet rag pressed to one eye. Mr. Overton, the barber from across the way, stood beside him, a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“What happened?” Vera asked.

“A couple of roughs demanded money of him, then tossed the place around.”

“Because he wouldn’t pay?”

Mr. Bianchi shook his head.

Mr. Overton answered. “He gave them what they demanded. They tore the place to bits anyway.”

The damage didn’t look irreparable, but it was a full mess. “I’ve extra hands at my shop today. I’d bet Ganor’d be willing to come help you set the place to rights.”

“I’ll not take away your employee,” Mr. Bianchi said. “You’d be paying him and getting nothing for it.”

“Not a bit of truth to that. Having your shop running as it ought and showing anyone wishing to follow these roughs’ example that they’ll not manage much are both well worth doing.”

Whether Mr. Bianchi and Mr. Overton believed her, she couldn’t say, but she kept her word. Ganor was more than willing to head to the tobacconist’s and clean and sort things, though he too expressed concern about being paid by her for work he wasn’t doing for her. While she was grateful so many people were concerned for her, she was a little frustrated that no one seemed to take her at her word.

She was still considered new in the area, and she was younger than a lot of the local merchants. Papa’s gruff standoffishness likely didn’t help. And, though she sounded London, she was told often enough that she looked Russian that she wondered if that might also be considered by some people a mark against her. There were plenty enough immigrants in this corner of London; it ought not to have been a point of trouble.

In time, she would find a way of forging connections here. She would make a home of this bit of Soho.

She would stop being so painfully alone.