Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
T he bricks of the alley wall dug into Simeon’s back as he coughed, pulled his knees more tightly against his chest, and coughed again. He’d been cold for so long that he suspected warmth was only something he’d invented in a fever-dream. His lungs felt as if they were stuffed with cotton and shards of glass, his head seemed to be filled with smoke, and his weak limbs felt constructed of cardboard. Ah, but his belly still demanded to be filled.
He used the wall to laboriously pull himself to his feet. He stood swaying for a minute or two, gathering strength to walk out of the alley and onto the street. Along the way he almost fell twice, but he was able to steady himself and continue.
He needed a stick. In his imagination it was carved of smooth wood and had a handle so he could hook it jauntily over his arm. The handle was silver, cast in the shape of a crow. He’d always been rather fond of the noisy, busy birds. In his better days, he would have stolen such a stick from a toff who used it to push rudely through crowds. Of course, in his better days, Simeon hadn’t needed a stick. Now that he did, he lacked the strength to steal one.
The street was thick with people this afternoon. None of them paid Simeon any mind. With his rags hanging on a withered frame, he clearly had nothing to offer anyone. It was funny, he thought as he crept up the street, but a bloke could be entirely surrounded by men, women, and children, and yet be utterly alone.
A block from the alley that Simeon had recently been calling home, he saw a fabric awning stretched over the bed of a cart. The man in attendance looked to be about Simeon’s age, although slightly chubby and with a red bloom on his rounded cheeks. “Beautiful whelks, a penny a lot,” he called, gesturing to the filled baskets and bowls nearby.
Simeon didn’t have a penny, but as he drew nearer, his stomach growled at the sharp scent of vinegar, and he had to try. “Pardon me,” he said to the costermonger with what he hoped was a smile. “I’m short on cash at the moment, I am.”
“I won’t do credit. Not with the likes of you.” The man sounded almost apologetic.
“I understand. Perhaps I could trade some work for it?”
“I’ve no work to be done. And beggin’ your pardon, but you look as if you can hardly stand.” He sighed. “Don’t mean to be cruel. But I’ve barely enough to support my family as it is.”
Simeon nodded. “Thank you for your courtesy, at least.” Other vendors sometimes swore at him, called him names, or threatened to call the coppers, even though he wasn’t breaking any laws. He didn’t want to end up in Newgate, where gaol fever would surely do him in before consumption had the chance.
There was a market several blocks farther on. He might be able to beg something edible there or scrounge some discards from the refuse. But he’d gone only a few steps when he heard music. Someone nearby was playing a hurdy-gurdy, although Simeon couldn’t see them through the crowds. He liked music and had sung with a street band for a time when he was a boy, but he’d been able to make more as a thief than as a singer, and so he had given it up.
Now as the notes reached his ears, he imagined a roundabout with children atop brightly painted horses, parents standing along the side and waving. The children’s faces and clothes were sticky from sweets. The girls’ careful plaits were starting to come undone, some of the ribbons already lost. But everyone was smiling and laughing and happy. Joyous , whispered a voice in Simeon’s head.
This was foolish. He’d never been to a fair, never ridden a roundabout, never had parents who called and waved to him. It must be the smoke in his head.
He walked a few more tentative steps and was nearly bowled over by a boy dashing past on an errand. Simeon fell back against the nearest building to catch his breath. He was forgetting something, but he didn’t know what. It had to do with feathers. Was it about a pillow? He hadn’t had one in ages. Or maybe a fancy hat such as the ladies who visited the foundling home used to wear? Perhaps the songbirds he’d once freed from their cages, back when he was very young? No, it was the feathers stuck in his throat, making him cough. He didn’t have a fogle to cough into. He should steal one. Later. When he wasn’t so tired.
Simeon sank to the pavement with his back against the wall, careful to pull his feet out of the way of pedestrians. He closed his eyes and sought for a memory…. Yes. A tall man with pale hair and ice-blue eyes, his mouth pulled down in a scowl but his strong arms wrapped around Simeon. His accent—as he spoke of corn and of sitting on a porch to watch the sunset and cool off with a bowl of ice cream—was ex otic to Simeon’s ears. The man smelled of fresh hay and fried dough and grilled meat and beer.
Another dream, then—even better than the roundabout. Not a memory, alas, but it would do. Simeon seized on it fiercely. “I miss Aunt Helen,” he murmured to the dream man.
The man smiled at him. “Me too. I think we ought to