‘Not long, I hope.’ He’d always given them honest, serious answers, never talked to them like children. ‘So much depends on how quickly she heals. She’s in good hands with your mother and Jane and Mrs Shields.’

  For a long moment the news left them subdued. Then they were hurrying up the stairs to their room, shoes clattering on the floorboards.

  The clock showed six when Rosie arrived, drained but hopeful, much of the tension vanished from her face.

  ‘It’s good news,’ she said as they all sat down to a makeshift meal of bread and cheese. He saw the twins brighten. ‘Sally keeps waking,’ she went on. ‘Only for a few seconds, then she’s out again. But that’s all welcome, an excellent sign. She’s still very confused, not sure about anything. But she’s beginning to talk a little more and she moves her head to look at whoever else is speaking. Her eyes are clear.’ The relief showed in her smile. ‘She’s coming back.’

  ‘Why is she confused, Mama?’ Richard asked. He was frowning, forehead furrowed.

  ‘That can happen after someone’s been badly hurt,’ Simon told him. ‘The mind is hurting and it needs to’ – he struggled for a phrase – ‘to find some balance again, for things to settle back into place.’

  Darkness came late in summer. He saw the boys settled in their beds and stood in the doorway. Rosie looked up at him.

  ‘Sally really did look much brighter when I left. I wasn’t just saying it for the boys.’

  ‘I know.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Still a long way to go, though.’

  ‘She’s made a start, Simon,’ she said as he stood. ‘Are you going out to ask questions?’

  ‘I have to.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘Find them.’

  Jane sat with Mrs Shields, watching Sally. The last time the girl had woken, she’d known who they were, where she was, and asked for a drink, smiling at the taste of the cordial. Piece by tiny piece, she was returning.

  She complained that she hurt, pain all through her from the beating. Looking thoughtful, the old woman stood and crossed into the kitchen, steadying herself with her sticks. She knew what she wanted, a little from this jar, a pinch from another, a sprinkle from a third, all into the pestle.

  ‘You’ll need to crush them, child. My wrists aren’t strong enough.’

  Jane pounded them together with the mortar, scraped it all into a piece of cheesecloth, tied the neck and placed it in a mug of water.

  ‘Let it infuse,’ Mrs Shields said. ‘Once she drinks it, everything will ease for a few hours. It will give her a chance to rest so her body can heal.’

  ‘You need to teach me all this.’

  ‘You’ve watched me enough times; you’ve learned.’ Her eyes shone. ‘You really did very well last night.’

  ‘But that …’

  ‘… was no different from any of this.’ She extended a small, thin hand and tapped Jane’s head. ‘You’ve seen me do things and you’ve remembered. You’ve understood. I have a book of remedies and their ingredients. It will be there when you need it.’ She smiled. ‘Now, you give her this, and she’ll sleep. Then you go.’

  ‘Go?’

  ‘It’s right there in your eyes, child. You need to be out there. You have that hunger in your eyes.’

  The woman seemed to read every thought in her head. Jane was desperate to find the children; they could help her hunt down the men who’d done this to Sally. But one part of her was reluctant to leave. Mrs Shields was still fragile from whatever had passed through her. What if something happened while she was gone? How could she ever live with that?

  ‘Will you …’

  Gently, Mrs Shields chided her. ‘Don’t fuss, child, it makes you sound older than me. I’ll be fine. As soon as she’s drunk the medicine, you do what you need to do.’

  By eleven, Simon knew no more than when he’d left home.

  The dramshops and the taverns had brought nothing. No one had heard about a girl being beaten. Nobody cared. Even the quiet conversations at the inns brought no rumours. No gloating, not even a mention.

  Standing on Kirkgate, he wondered whether to try one or two more places. The Yorkshire Grey? Maybe not; it was late and he felt drained. Simon turned towards home, his mind drifting as he walked down Sheaf Street. A little cooler in the darkness, but the summer air was still close and sticky.

  He sensed something even before they came from the shadows at the side of a building. They moved quickly and easily, with the supple grace of young men. Hats pulled low, kerchiefs tied around the bottom of their faces, knives in their hands.

  Simon watched them. He hadn’t been in a fight since his stabbing a year ago; his mouth was suddenly dry and he felt the prickle of fear spread across his skin. He couldn’t run; with this leg they’d be on him before he managed five paces. No choice but to go against them. He gripped his stick by the shaft and breathed slowly, preparing himself. The knob was good, solid metal; it could cause plenty of damage, and there was a secret inside.

  Twice she began to turn back. First at the end of Green Dragon Yard, just as she set foot on the Head Row. What if something happened while she wasn’t there? She forced herself on. Then later, down by Bean Ing Mill, to the camp the children had used, abandoned now. She should go home and tend Sally, let Mrs Shields rest.

  But the children must be somewhere. They hadn’t vanished from Leeds. Finding one would lead her to the others. Jane’s eyes flickered around in the darkness, searching for any sign of a fire. Then, hurrying along Dock Street on the far side of the bridge, smelling the wood shavings and pitch from the boatyards, she sensed someone behind. Her hand slipped to her knife. Ten yards ahead, she turned a corner and disappeared into a patch of deep shadow.

  He was cautious, each step slow and measured. Jane could see his outline, a black shape against the night. Unarmed, hands at his sides. She waited until he was close, then stepped out and said: ‘Who are you?’

  His voice trembled. ‘Wilfred, miss. I haven’t come to hurt you.’

  She remembered seeing him with the other children. ‘Why are you following me?’

  ‘We saw you looking. I offered to come.’

  ‘You know who I am?’

  She could just make out his nod.

  He could have been twelve. A year or two older, perhaps, but still as thin as a child. A pair of shoes with most of the leather missing, a grubby shirt and ragged trousers.

  ‘Where did you all go? Why?’

  ‘We heard that Sally was dead,’ he said.

  The words shook her. Rumours, fears, moving like lightning.

  ‘She’s not dead. She was badly hurt, but she’s waking up and talking now.’ Jane took a step towards him. Without thinking, he shrank back. ‘You’d better take me to where you’re staying.’

  It only took a few minutes, down by the edge of Hunslet Moor. Someone had been keeping watch; they were ready for her. Faces in the crackling firelight. One stepped forward. She recognised Hannah, a girl she’d noticed before when the young men came. A fighter with a fierce expression on her face. Someone who’d already lived too much. She had a blade in her hand.

  Jane took a breath and let her gaze move over them before she spoke, loud enough for them all to hear. ‘I don’t know who told you Sally was dead, but it’s not true. I was speaking to her before I came out.’ They needed to know that more than anything. There was a buzz of voices.

  Hannah moved a pace closer, fists clenched. ‘Why should we believe you?’

  It wasn’t anger burning through her, Jane realised. It was fear.

  ‘It’s true. I swear it is. She’s alive. She’s healing.’ Jane stared around all the faces, so many looking lost, hopeless. ‘You know me. You know I’m Sally’s friend. You saw me stand up and fight beside her when those men attacked you. I’m the one you came to fetch when she was hurt. You trusted me to look after her. You know how badly hurt she was, but she’s starting to recover. That’s why you should believe me.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘People kept saying … we thought …’

  ‘Be patient.’ She felt them all watching her. ‘A few of us are taking care of her. She’s going to need time to heal.’ She felt their doubts begin to ebb. ‘I’m going to find the men who did that to her. Do you know them? Did any of you see who attacked her?’

  None of them had.

  ‘Sally left to go home,’ a boy said finally. ‘Some of us went to look for more wood for the fire. We heard noises. It sounded like a fight. We ran, but by the time we got there, she was on the ground. The men who did it had gone.’

  ‘Men?’ Jane asked. Maybe he’d spotted something after all, and just not realised it.

  ‘It had to be, didn’t it?’ Hannah said. ‘Who else? More than one. The men who’d come for us.’

  But Jane was staring at the boy. His mouth became an O as he remembered something.

  ‘Voices,’ he said eventually. ‘They were shouting. Deep voices. Men.’

  ‘Could you tell how many there were?’

  ‘No.’ He frowned as he concentrated. ‘I think there were three or four of them.’

  Nothing she hadn’t already guessed. Had Andrew Barton been one of them? She needed to know the names and faces. To be absolutely certain.

  ‘I want to find them. Anything you can discover about these men might help me. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a tiny scrap.’

  As she started to turn away, the children crowded around, brimming over questions about Sally. How did she look? What had she said? How long before she’d be walking and able to come and see them?

  Jane told them what she knew. She spotted Wilfred standing to the side.

  ‘Come to the cottage in the morning,’ she told him. ‘You can see her, then tell the others.’

  As she walked off, Hannah dogged her steps with questions of her own.

  ‘You know where I live. Come with Wilfred tomorrow and you’ll see for yourself. I promise.’

  SIXTEEN

  The pair knew a little about fighting. They moved apart, ready to attack from different directions. All he could see was their eyes between the masks and the hats. Both of them watching him, looking calm and controlled. Simon tried to swallow, his throat dry.

  The one to his left took a chance. A swift dart forward, just a test, but carrying enough power to hurt if he connected. Simon took a step back. He didn’t think, just swung the stick low. If he could damage one of them now … He heard the crack as the metal hilt connected with the man’s knee, and felt the shock rise up his arm. A short, stifled cry as the man fell. From the corner of his eye, Simon saw him try to struggle to climb back to his feet. But he couldn’t.

  It was satisfying. A small, quick victory that he needed to even up the odds. But it wasn’t the whole battle. He turned to face the other man, backing just far enough away to watch his feet. Simon took the stick in both hands, turned the knob clockwise to unlock it and pulled out the sword hidden inside. It was a poor weapon, no real weight to it, but it would make his opponent wary.

  Disabling one of his opponents had been luck. It couldn’t happen a second time.

  ‘What do you want?’ Simon asked.

  ‘To give you a warning.’

  He hadn’t expected that. ‘Warning? About what?’

  ‘The girl got what she deserved. You’d do better to let it go.’

  He thought of Sally, lying helpless on the bed. ‘If I don’t?’

  ‘Then you’ll suffer worse than she has.’

  Simon’s mind was racing as he worked things through. They weren’t hired knifemen. These two had helped to give Sally her beating. Locals. A halfway educated voice; smooth, not rough.

  But if they imagined they’d deter him, they were very wrong.

  ‘Fine, you’ve said your piece,’ he said. ‘Now you can collect your friend and go.’

  The man shook his head. ‘You still need your lesson, Mr Westow.’

  Simon flourished the sword towards the man crawling around and whimpering on the cobbles. ‘Take a look. You can see him. Do you think you can do better?’

  It was a gamble, but the best choice he had. Could he bluff his way out of this, or would the man feel confident enough to take the risk? He waited, seeing the man’s gaze slide over to his groaning friend and back.

  ‘You’d better make up your mind. The watch comes down here regularly.’

  He had no idea if that was true, but it might force the man’s hand.

  A long moment passed where Simon was uncertain what would happen. If the man decided to attack, he’d probably win. He was younger, quicker. All Simon had on his side was experience and desperation and the tricks he’d learned over the years. It probably wouldn’t be enough.

  The man slid his knife into a sheath on his belt and raised his hands. ‘It’s over. I’m going to help him.’

  Simon stood, sword still in his hand, cautious as the man pulled his friend upright and helped him away. Only when they were out of sight, the awkward shuffle of their footsteps fading into the night, did he feel safe enough to put the weapon away and stand easy again. He rested his back against a wall, waiting until his breathing started to slow and the pounding of his heart gradually returned to normal. But he stayed alert for the smallest movement.

  Simon exhaled. He felt weary and battered, as if life itself hurt. This time a single, swift blow had been enough. That and a bluff. But luck wouldn’t always be so generous.

  Why were they so afraid of him asking questions about the men who’d hurt Sally? What answers were they scared he’d hear?

  Names. They’d attacked Sally. The two who’d come for him and who knew how many others. They were protecting themselves. Desperate. He’d find them, each and every one.

  He limped home, letting the questions swirl through his head. The sparks of anger flickered as the weariness rose through his body. He needed time to think about what had just happened, but not tonight. Tomorrow morning he could begin to understand it all.

  Quietly, Jane turned the key and eased into the cottage. As she entered, she heard Mrs Shields’s soft, musical voice and stood for a moment in the warm darkness to listen. She remembered the comforting sound of the old woman reading to her, the way it had calmed her.

  Mrs Shields carried on, turning the page in the middle of a sentence. Sally turned her head, mouth slowly curling into a smile as she saw Jane.

  The girl’s face was a ruin of bruises and cuts, one worse than all the others. The rest would heal over time, but she’d always have the scar across her cheek to mark her. Change her.

  Mrs Shields stopped and closed the book, marking the page with her finger. As she rose, Jane hurried to take her arm.

  ‘It’s time I was in bed. Was it a worthwhile night, child?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘It was.’

  Jane helped her settle under the covers and closed the door as she left. Sally was still awake, but her eyes looked bleary, beginning to lose their focus.

  ‘Where did you go?’ Her voice was heavy with damage and exhaustion.

  ‘To find the children.’

  ‘How—?’

  ‘Someone started a rumour you were dead.’

  ‘Me?’ She shifted in the bed, biting down on her lip to stifle a cry of pain.

  ‘I told them you’re going to be fine.’

  ‘Will I?’ Sally asked with a flicker of fear.

  ‘Yes.’ Jane sat and squeezed her hand. ‘You will.’

  ‘I’ve never hurt this much.’ She reached out, wincing as her fingertips explored her face. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘It’ll fade in time.’ Small comfort, she knew. ‘You’ve been hit before.’

  The girl closed her eyes. ‘Not like this.’

  ‘It’s only been a day. You’re going to need time to heal.’

  ‘Mrs Shields said you were the one who took care of me.’

  Jane shook her head. ‘I only did what had to be done. It was the children who found you. They came to fetch me.’

  ‘But …’ She started to drift, and quickly pulled herself back. ‘Thank you.’

  Sally seemed sharp. She was thinking clearly. It didn’t seem as if there was any damage to her mind, Jane thought with relief, and the body would mend. There were questions she was desperate to ask, but they could wait until morning. Let the girl rest. ‘Go to sleep now.’

  She blew out the lantern and settled comfortably into the dark. No dreams tonight. No screams.

  Saturday morning and people bustling around early as Simon pressed down on the stick as he walked to the coffee cart. No sun today. Just heavy gathering clouds. The air felt like wool in his lungs.

  No interesting gossip to hear. No whispers about beaten girls or young men with damaged knees. Rosie had been asleep when he arrived home last night, and he’d left her snoring quietly when he slipped out of bed and dressed. Ample time to tell her about the fight later. It was still high summer, and light had arrived quickly: from night to pale dawn before he reached the end of Swinegate.

  He drained the cup, relishing the bitter taste, and placed it on the trestle before turning for home. He hadn’t gone ten paces before he sensed someone following him. Two more steps and he turned, brandishing the stick.

  It was Jane, almost invisible in the drab old dress she wore for work, a plain, threadbare shawl gathered over her hair. He felt a sudden panic, a chasm opening up in front of his feet; she never came out here to find him without a powerful reason.

  ‘Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong.’ She must have seen the panic on his face, and spoke as soon as she fell in beside him. ‘Sally’s talking more. Her mind is fine.’

  He exhaled slowly, but felt his heart still racing. Thank God for that, he thought. ‘Have you asked her about the attack?’

  ‘Not yet. But Mrs Shields says people often can’t recall things like that.’

  Rosie joined them at the kitchen table as Jane recounted what had happened the night before: Sally, the children.