The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 142

“Where are we to meet?”

“Near Tower Bridge.”

The night is smeared with hazy light. Kartik is close enough to touch. His shirt is open at the neck, exposing the curve of his throat, the delicate hollow there. The cab feels warm. My head is as light as down. I require some distraction before I go mad.

“How did you arrange the meeting?”

“There are channels.”

Kartik offers no further comment, and I ask no more questions. The cab falls into silence again save for the horses’ quick clip-clop shuddering through me. Kartik’s knee falls against mine. I wait for him to move it, but he doesn’t. My hands tremble in my lap. From the corner of my eye, I see him looking out at the streets. I do the same, but I cannot say that I notice the scenery. I am aware only of the warmth of his knee. It seems impossible that so small a collection of bones and sinew could produce such a thrilling effect.

The driver stops short, and Kartik and I alight on the streets just below the Tower Bridge. The bridge has been in operation for only two years, and it is a sight to behold. Two large towers rise like medieval buttresses. A walkway is suspended between them high over the Thames. The bridge lifts to allow the passage of the ships that come into port—and there are many. The pools of the Thames are crowded with them.

An old beggar woman sits in the damp muck on the walk. She shakes a beaten tin with one penny in it. “Please, sir, spare a copper.”

Kartik places a sovereign in the lady’s cup, and I know that it’s likely all he has.

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

He kicks a rock on the ground, balancing it nimbly between his feet like a ball. “She needed it.”

Father says it isn’t good to give money to beggars. They’ll only spend it unwisely on drink or other pleasures. “She might buy ale with it.”

He shrugs. “Then she’ll have ale. It isn’t the pound that matters; it’s the hope.” He kicks the rock in a high arc. It skitters down some stone steps. “I know what it’s like to fight for things that others take for granted.”

We’ve reached the pools, which are crowded with vessels of every type, from small dinghies to large ships. I cannot see how they make their way in and out, as the ships are crowded so closely together that one could easily step from the bow of this ship to that one without getting wet at all. They line the wharves and docks waiting to unload and receive their cargo.

Small steps lead down to the bank. I wait for Kartik to offer me the aid of his arm. Instead, he starts down without me, his hands bunched in his coat pockets.

“What’s keeping you?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, taking the stairs at a fairly quick clip.

Kartik rolls his face heavenward. “Why do ladies refuse to say when they are angry? Is it a skill they teach you? It’s terribly confusing.”

I stop and face him in the weak blue light. “If you must know, you might have offered me your arm at the top.”

He shrugs. “Why? You have two of your own.”

I struggle to keep my composure. “It is customary for a gentleman to help a lady down the steps.”

He smirks. “I’m no gentleman. And tonight, you’re no lady.”

I try to protest but find I cannot, and we follow the Thames without another word. The great river laps against its banks with a rhythmic sloshing. It rises and falls and rises again, as if it, too, should like to be free for a night. I hear voices coming from below.

“This way,” Kartik says, running toward them. The voices grow louder. The accents are hard and rough. The mud thickens as the fog lifts. In the water are perhaps a dozen people of all sorts—from old women to dirty-faced children.

One of the old women sings a seafaring song, stopping only for the violent coughing fits that rack her body. Her dress is little more than rags. She is so caked in mud she folds into the murk like a shadow. As she sings, she dips a shallow pan into the Thames and brings it up. With quick fingers, she picks through the pan while shaking it, searching for what, I’m sure I don’t know.

“Mud larks,” Kartik explains. “They sift through the Thames for whatever they can find of value to sell or keep—rags, bones, a bit of tin or coal from a passing ship. If they’re lucky, they might find the purse of a sailor who met with a bad end—that is, if the riverman’s hook hasn’t found him first.”

I make a face. “But to wade into the Thames…”

Kartik shrugs. “It’s far better than being a tosher, I can tell you that.”