Page 2 of An Artful Dodge
“There,” Mary said, dangling the necklace between her thumb and forefinger. “Did you truly not feel it?”
“Not a thing,” I said honestly. “You’re better at touch work.”
At the center of the room, Amelia clapped her hands crisply. “That’s enough for today, yeah?” We all broke off, and amid the chatter that burst out after several hours of intense concentration, we emptied our pockets, reticules, and hairnets of practice objects. Amelia took up four empty trays and began filling them with goods. We all started toward the stairs that led down to the first story, which consisted of the goods room, where we unloaded our poke each day, and the costumes room, where we stored our thieving clothes. Josie gave one last twirl of the walking stick before she vanished through the door.
“Kit,” Amelia said as I reached the threshold.
I stepped back. Mary shot me a meaningful look that I returned—Don’t worry—and Mary departed with the rest, shutting the heavy door behind her.
The afternoon sun coming through the window caught the silver threads in Amelia’s dark hair, the fine lines around her mouth. She laid the last of the bracelets on the third tray and tucked it into the hidden wall safe before she met my gaze. Her blue-gray eyes were steady. “Well? Is Mary ready?”
“Aye,” I said. “It’s been four months, and she says she’ll go stark raving if she’s kept out much longer. She’s used to working.”
“I know.” Amelia transferred the fourth tray, handkerchiefs and reticules, into the safe, spun the lock, and shut the wooden panel. “But it won’t do her or you any good, if her nerves aren’t steady.”
The thought of Mary’s mother knifed twice under the ribs and left to die in an alley still unsteadiedmynerves, if I let myself think on it.
“You can skip today, if you want,” Amelia said. “Given the constables.”
“We’re fine,” I said. Even if Mary wasn’t quite ready, she was a skilled thief, and I wanted to let her return in the shops, where we’d succeeded a hundred times. Besides, I’d be the lead today; Mary was the decoy. Even if she was caught, they’d find nothing on her.
“I don’t want you covering for her, Kit,” Amelia added. “And they’ve just stationed a plainclothes at Bradley’s, so take Pickford’s instead, yeah?”
Amelia had a source at the Yard.
“When will we begin doving?” I asked.
“Soon,” she said. “After tomorrow, I’m pulling you all out of the West End.”
Recalling her sharp tone during our practice, I asked, “Is something the matter? Besides the extra constables?”
A flicker in her eyes came and went. “No.” She tucked a dark lock of hair back into her hairnet. “Just being cautious. Elsie had to run for it, and Harriet would’ve been caught if not for Gus.”
That hair tuck was Amelia’s tell. But the set of her jaw told me I’d get nothing more, so I said only, “That’s what I heard. Gus set his dog on the constable.” Harriet had told the story for a laugh in the pub room, but her voice had held a shrill note.
“Aye.” Amelia glanced up at the clock, and I followed her gaze. Half past one. Three hours before people headed home for tea, the crowds thinned, and thieving was harder. “All right, then,” she said.
I took it as a dismissal and started for the door.
“Wait, Kit. How’s Sarah? Is she doing better?”
I turned back, feeling a warm glow of gratitude at her concern. Amelia knew my younger sister had just taken a position as a scullery maid, where the work was hard. “I think so, but—well, she hasn’t sent her usual letter, though she’s home tomorrow.”
Amelia saw my worry. “No doubt she’s busy working,” she said reassuringly. “And knowing her, she’s likely making friends with any time left over.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Amelia.”
“Ádh mór ort,” she replied with a wave of her fingers.
The ring’s founder, Patty Wirth, had been Irish, and though she’d been dead these fourteen years, this phrase was still how we wished each other luck.
Downstairs in the taproom, I found Mary sitting at a corner table with Josie and Bea, who were drinking pots of golden ale with a thin layer of froth, drawn fresh from the taps. Mary was not; we never drank before a dodge, not even ale. As I approached, Mary rose and stepped away from the table.
“She asked about me?” Mary murmured.
“She did, but there’s something else troubling her,” I replied, my voice low. “She wouldn’t say.”
“Hm. Well.” Mary turned to beckon to her nephew Sid, her palm up, her quick fingers folding in twice. He slouched away from the table where he sat with other boys.
