George pointed in the direction the boy had run off in. The man thanked him and resumed his pursuit. No one joined in the chase. "I'd help him," George said, looking after the man, "but the thief will be long gone."

Even if the child was only one street away the man probably wouldn't have enough breath in him to catch up going by the way he puffed heavily. "How much further is the school?" I asked, walking on. I sidled closer to George and clutched my reticule tighter.

"Just around the corner." He eyed me carefully. "Are you all right, Emily? I say, that was a nasty business to witness just now. I daresay you're not used to such scenes."

"Not really, no." I'd never thought of the area in which Celia and I lived as being particularly modern or fashionable but walking through Clerkenwell made me realize how safe it was, and how we were far better off there than anyone living here. Exhausted faces watched us from doorways which appeared to be mostly swept clean, something which surprised me. Even here the folk had some pride in their homes and wanted to offer a welcoming entrance. It was a reminder that this wasn't the worst place in London. Poor certainly, but not the most degraded or depraved. That label surely belonged to Whitechapel where the shape-shifting demon had attacked its first victim. Clerkenwell was mostly working class where men, women and sometimes children squeezed out a living doing whatever work they could find. If the child-thief was any indication, that work wasn't always honest.

We found the North London School for Domestic Service easily enough. Whereas most of the buildings on the street were a motley mixture of timber and brick and barely one room in width, the school was grand in appearance with its solid red brick façade, tall windows and at least three times as wide as its neighbors.

George turned to me before knocking on the door. "If I might be so bold as to suggest I ask the questions." He had the good sense to look sheepish about his suggestion. It didn't stop me from giving him a withering glare.

"I may be only a girl but I assure you I am used to dealing with men older than myself." I was used to no such thing but I wasn't going to tell him that. I'd lived in an adult world ever since Mama had died and I was used to speaking and thinking for myself, not have someone else do it for me.

"Yes, of course." He tugged on his necktie and cleared his throat. "But, well, perhaps the master might be more inclined to speak to me. It's merely a thought." He pulled so hard on the necktie knot I thought it would unravel. "We'll see, shall we?"




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