And, like any South Londoner who’d been brought up by the Kincaids, she ducked down the first back alley she came to. The dim passage led to another—one with a low brick arch and rooms built above. The only points of light were at either end.
The arched walkway spilled into a walled courtyard, overgrown with weeds and grass, without a single cobblestone or bit of discarded glass to remind Mother Nature that London was no place for her. Few people came to this hidden bit of the city. And those who did were careful to leave no trace.
Gemma moved along the edge of one of the walls to where it appeared to meet another. But if a person looked closely enough, like she always did, it was clear that the two walls only touched at the top. Nearer to the ground there was a gap that seemed far too small for a person to pass through. But it was all a trick of the eye. Even the walls in Southwark knew how to lie.
Gemma stepped through sideways, as that was the only way to manage the thing.
The space beyond was a hodgepodge of fallen walls and supporting beams. The building was only standing out of sheer stubbornness. But that had been true for many years; something in it must’ve been sturdy and steadfast.
Gemma slipped carefully around leaning walls and the thick, rough-and-tough beams holding them up. Halfway through the maze of building carcasses was an overhang, another puzzle piece one had to know about to find. She slipped underand turned left. Tucked beyond a barrier of almost complete darkness, a length of fabric hung from the sagging ceiling.
“Leti, soroka,” she called out softly. Mr. Sorokin had told her to use that Russian phrase if ever she needed his help but couldn’t risk anyone knowing.
While she waited for a response, she didn’t make a sound. Resurrectionists depended on stealth, and she’d learned to be as silent as the very graves they’d dug up.
She heard footsteps, but only because resurrectionists also learned to listen very, very closely. On the other side of the curtain was someone as skillfully quiet as she.
The fabric pulled back, revealing a silhouette. Taller than she was—a decided advantage. And the man’s eyes’d be adjusted to the dark—even more of an advantage. She had her knife, though, and she’d a knack with it.
“Leti, soroka,” she repeated.
“Gemma Kincaid?”
They’d each said only two words, but both had twigged the other. She’d found Mr. Sorokin, and he’d remembered her. Blimey, that was a relief.
“I’m in bad loaf,” she said. “I need help wrigglin’ out of it.”
He took her by the arm, then pulled her into the darkness. He kept firm hold, guiding her into an open space, broken up only by more hanging fabric. Old windows missing their glass were covered with thick burlap. Peepers wouldn’t manage to see in, but a bit of light did slip through.
“It’s a friend,” Mr. Sorokin said, the flavor of Russia seasoning his voice. “All’s safe and well.”
Two children climbed out into the open from hidey-holes she’d used herself years earlier. One child was a girl, likely thirteen years old, with hair as black as night and eyes that trusted no one. The other child was a boy, eight at most, with sand-coloredhair jutting out in all directions and an expression that said he saw more than he let on and knew more than he ought.
“This is Gemma,” Mr. Sorokin told them. “I’ve hidden her here before. You have no reason to fear her.”
Gemma kept mum. His word would hold more power with these urchins than hers ever would. Trust and distrust were opposite sides of the same coin, and it could be flipped without warning.
The children nodded. The boy laid on his stomach and opened what looked like the latest from Baz’s “Bodies of Light” series. The girl held Mr. King’s most recent offering, its peach cover giving it away.
Mr. Sorokin hooked his thumb toward a rough-cut table with a few rickety chairs around it. They both sat. Gemma loosened her grip on the chiv in her pocket, knowing she was safe. She’d only ever felt that with one other person, and he thought she was pitiful.
“What is it that you need, Gemma?”
“The front and back of it is, I need to die.”
Mr. Sorokin was not the sort to be discombobulated by much of anything. “I don’t kill people.”
“I ain’t needing to be dead literally. I just need certain people to think I am.”
His intelligent eyes narrowed on her. “Which people?”
She shrugged. “The government. The church. My ... husband.”
“When did you get married?”
“Three years ago. I had a bit of time on me hands, thought, ‘Ah, toss it,’ and went and done it.”
He almost smiled. She didn’t remember him doing that often. “This husband of yours isn’t in your family trade, is he?”