The Hunchback Assignments by Arthur Slade Read Free Book Online Page B

confused and uncertain of what to do.
    And then, from behind him, a voice cut through the fog.
    “’Ere’s a pritty lad. Come’n let me see yeh.”
    Modo spun around and leapt back in fright. A deadhorse stared blankly from the back of a knacker’s wagon. From around the other side lurched an old woman, her eyes glazed with madness. A smile twisted across her chapped lips, revealing black, broken teeth. “Come ’ere, laddy,” she rasped, reaching for him with gnarled hands. “Why you wearin’ a mask? Let me ’ave it.”
    Modo stumbled, caught himself on a lamppost, then, in a frenzy, ran down one cobblestone street after another, deeper into the city.

6
Secret Life
    S ix months later a letter arrived at the Langham Hotel. The bellman slid it under the door of Room 443 where it was picked up by a young but slightly calloused hand. The letter was read once, its contents committed to memory, then it was burned. Octavia Milkweed chose a blue bonnet and matching crinoline dress, applied a light dusting of rouge to hide her freckles, and used the hotel pen and ink to write down the name of a man and his address. The ink was a cheap kind and she had to go over her writing twice. She waited for the note to dry before placing it in her purse, then left the room, umbrella in hand. She rode the lift down to the lobby and had the porter hail a hansom cab. When she told the driver their destination, he furrowed his thick brow.
    “Seven Dials? Are you certain?” he asked.
    “I am always certain,” she replied with a degree of haughtiness.
    The cabbie shook his head. She felt the cab jerk and shake as he climbed into his station at the back and flicked the reins. The horse trotted down the granite-paved street.
    Octavia grinned. She knew that being confident and dressing in such finery intimidated lower-class men. The cabbie probably thought she was twenty years old. Maybe even twenty-five. Her own best guess at her real age was that she was fifteen. No one had written down her birth date at the orphanage, so she would never know for certain.
    She had rehearsed the instructions in the letter several times, creating both a new persona and a plan. Acting had always come natural. She didn’t much like being herself, most of her childhood years. Better to invent someone new.
    It was still light out when they drove through Seven Dials; seven streets met at a junction with a sundial in the center. It was a nasty neighborhood, and Octavia knew it well. She’d eaten and drunk in the gin shops and pubs, hidden in a cellar nearby to avoid Picklenose, a particularly nasty copper. Any of the ragged children with their dirty hands pressed up against shopwindows displaying third-hand dresses, could have been her a few years before. Even the sundial brought back memories: It was the first place she’d kissed a boy, a young gentleman. She had stolen his watch and wallet that day. A good haul.
    Two horses snorted as they pulled an omnibus past Octavia’s cab, clerks in derby hats gawking out the windows. Below them was emblazoned an advertisement forOakey’s Knife Polish. The omnibus nearly collided with a knacker’s wagon. Octavia wondered what madman had designed such an intersection. Ruffians ran in front of her cab, paying no mind to the danger presented by horse hooves. She directed the cabbie to a nearby pub.
    “Please, hurry and do your errand, Madam,” said the cabbie. “These streets ain’t safe.”
    She offered him a threepence. “This will ease your mind.” He coughed gently into his gloved hand and she dropped a few more coins into his palm.
    When she entered the Red Boar, a cloud of burned bread, burped beer, and thick smoke made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. The pub was lit by one large oil lamp. Three customers, already sodden, were slumped against a table. One lifted red-rimmed eyelids to take her in. She told the portly innkeeper her purpose, giving him her kindest smile.
    “Oh, you want to see Mr. W, do