THIRTY-EIGHT #2
“I’d been caught burgling a rich fellow—nothing he’d even notice was gone, really, just a few trinkets—and he came at me with a broken wine bottle.
He got one really good slash in, right across the belly.
So I went to hospital. And then I tore out all the stitches and almost bled to death climbing out the window when the police showed up, because apparently stealing from a rich person is a greater crime than nearly disembowelling a poor one. ”
Calum ducked his head, looking at her. “That won’t happen this time. Besides, I’ve never set a dislocated joint before, and I doubt Sorcha has.”
Aly winced at the thought of either of them trying.
She could go to Leslie. It was a risk to potentially link herself to a fire in Yvaani’s smuggling tunnel; Yvaani had made it known that Aly worked for her and as such was under her protection, and that news had likely spread far beyond Grant and percolated through the criminal underworld.
But Leslie was discreet, and no one outwith Yvaani’s own crew would know about the tunnel.
And even if Leslie did hear of it, they didn’t think Aly was thick enough to burn her own employer’s wares.
Nausea rose in Aly’s throat. Yvaani had been good to her, far better than Aly deserved, and she had trusted her.
It had even, in recent days, begun to feel like the ease and affection of their old friendship was returning.
And Aly had not only stolen the single highest-value item from her haul, but had destroyed the remainder of it.
She didn’t even want to think about how much money she’d cost Yvaani.
It was a poor repayment for the friendship Yvaani had extended to her.
Aly shook her head. It was no use fretting over that now, when Calum was still peering at her with concern creasing his eyes.
“We’ll go to Leslie,” she said. It was a compromise.
There was still a risk that Leslie would figure out what she’d done and it would get back to Yvaani, but Aly had always got on well with Leslie, had always felt like Leslie understood the choices she made better than most. And she certainly trusted them more than she trusted strangers at the hospital.
Calum raised his eyebrows. “Does this Leslie know how to set a dislocated shoulder?”
“Aye. They’ve got medical training.”
Calum looked at her for a long moment, then let out a sigh. “All right, fine.”
Aly led him down a narrow staircase and into the bowels of the slums. The streets grew more crowded and louder the further they got into the poorest part of the city, despite the late hour.
Aly’s shoulder ached as she walked over increasingly uneven cobblestones, pain jarring through her when she stumbled into a hole where a stone should have been.
Calum shot her a few looks as they walked, but he didn’t broach the idea of going to hospital again, for which she was grateful.
Aly pushed open a slender door, the colour of its flaking paint impossible to guess in the sparse torchlight. They climbed the steep staircase to the garret at the top, Calum crouching under the low ceiling.
Leslie was with a patient when they arrived, winding a bandage around the scarred and bleeding arm of a salch who sat in the room’s sole flimsy chair. Calum paled at the sight, looking ill.
“The fuck happened to you?” Leslie said, looking up from their patient. Their long dark plait swayed with the movement.
Aly shot a meaningful look at the girl in the chair. “I’ll explain in a moment.”
“All right.” Leslie nodded at a bench next to the door. “Sit down and I’ll be with you soon.”
Aly slumped onto the bench, Calum so close beside her she could feel his left arm pressing against her right.
Fatigue washed over her, and her head lolled against his shoulder.
Beneath the acrid smell of smoke was the musky, herb-tinged smell of him, the smell of the sheets she’d slept so soundly in last night.
She woke with a start when Leslie approached them. “The pair of you reek of smoke.” They held a wrist against their nose.
Calum stood, rising gently to avoid jostling Aly’s shoulder. “My apologies. Would you like me to open a window?”
Leslie waved a hand. “It’s fine. I’ve smelled worse.
And sit down, you’re making me feel trapped the way you’re hunched under the eaves.
” Their accent had crisped up after Calum spoke, gaining the timbre of the sort who were taught elocution at school.
Aly shouldn’t have been surprised. Leslie had once been of a similar social standing to Aly’s mother, after all.
It made sense they spoke similarly to her.
Leslie turned to Aly, reaching for her lapel. “Let’s get this off, shall we?”
Between the three of them, they managed to ease Aly’s coat off, though pain darkened the edges of her vision as her arm slid out and flopped against her side.
“Dislocated shoulder, eh?” Leslie said, taking Aly’s wrist and elbow in their hands. With a twist and a thrust, pain exploded in Aly’s shoulder.
“How did you manage that?” Leslie asked, when Aly had stopped swearing.
Aly had come up with an excuse on the walk over. “You’ve heard about me and the Wulver?”
Leslie turned to a cabinet on the wall next to the door. The varnish had chipped away in places, showing pale wood below. “That you’re no longer working for him? Aye, I heard. I doubt there’s anyone in the underworld who hasn’t at this point.”
“Well, it shouldn’t surprise you to learn he doesn’t let go of his possessions easily,” Aly said, rubbing her aching shoulder.
Leslie raised their eyebrows. “He did this?” They shook their head. “Odious man,” they muttered under their breath.
They handed a small metal tub to Aly. “A teaspoon in a cup of hot water, steep for five minutes, twice a day, understood?” They picked up a length of linen and began tying Aly’s arm into a sling.
“And keep it immobilised for three days.” They lowered their voice, jerking their head at Calum as they tied the sling behind her neck. “Who’s this?”
“Just someone who found me,” Aly said.
“Aye, right. You brought him here, and then you fell asleep on his shoulder, but he’s just someone who found you,” Leslie said.
Aly glanced at Calum. “He’s a friend, but he’s not—he’s not involved in anything criminal. Certainly not the Wulver or anything like that.”
Leslie peered at her, their green-flecked hazel eyes holding her gaze. They were tall enough that Aly had to tilt her chin back to look them in the eye. “But he knows what you are?”
The scars on Aly’s arms stung. “Mostly. He knows about me and the Wulver, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Leslie stared at her a moment longer, then fetched a bottle of something that looked—and smelled—like swamp water, pouring it into two chipped mugs. They held them out to Aly and Calum.
“Drink this. It’s for the smoke inhalation.”
Aly took the mug, clumsy with her right hand, and downed the liquid before she could gag on it. It really was foul. Beside her Calum coughed, spluttering.
Leslie took the mugs back and placed them in a sink. “That’ll be three shillings.”
Aly suppressed a curse. Of course Leslie charged for their services; they weren’t state-funded like a hospital. She fumbled in her pocket, her heart sinking as she knew she didn’t have three shillings, but Calum had already pulled out three silver coins and deposited them in Leslie’s hand.
When they had stepped out into the damp street, Calum turned to Aly. “I didn’t see the person before us pay.”
“Leslie charges on a sliding scale,” Aly said.
Which was why Leslie had never charged her before.
But they would charge a man who spoke like Calum and who had no links to the criminal underworld—no links other than being friends with the Wulver’s former deputy, anyway.
“Salching injuries are always free, because anyone who could afford to pay Leslie wouldn’t be salching. ”
Calum’s brows drew together as he tilted his head.
His face didn’t hold any of the disgust Aly had seen earlier, and for a moment—a single, sparkling moment of hope—Aly thought he was going to say something in agreement, something that would make her think that she could show him her scars and he wouldn’t recoil in revulsion. But all he said was, “And me?”
Aly swallowed her disappointment, forcing a smile to her face as she nudged him with her elbow. “You got a discount because Leslie likes me.”
A smile flitted across Calum’s face that sent starlight through Aly’s veins. “No accounting for taste, then.”
Aly stuck her tongue out at him. He’d never accept her scars, but maybe this—this friendship, this companionship, whatever this was—was enough.