More immediately, the checkpoint presents a problem. In a pocket sewn into the inside of my shirt, I carry my identity papers, but showing them here is likely to cause trouble. They might not even believe me; young ladies of the Second Ward simply don’t turn up at Eleventh Ward draft checkpoints. I definitely don’t want someone sending for Ofalo to spring me from a prison cell.
On the whole, it seems easier to take the long way around. I hop down from the wall and start pushing through the crowd again, heading for the entrance to an alley between this building and its neighbor. It looks like a dead end, but there’s a broken slat in the fence on the far side if you know where to look, and a quick climb will take me into the back lot of a building on Fishmonger Row. From there it’s easy enough to cut the corner and get to Grandma’s.
The crowd spits me out into the alley like a broken tooth. There’s not much here, just a long stretch of dirt between two buildings, smelling heavily of piss and rotting trash. Halfway along there’s a stack of wooden boxes, the ones that hold cheap jugs of rice wine, and beyond them an alcove with a back door into one of the buildings.
I let my power sweep the alley, carefully. Opening my senses with so many people crowded so close can be distinctly uncomfortable. But there’s no one hiding in the darkened corners, so I jog past the stack of crates to the crooked fence at the rear. Just as I remember, one of the boards pops off, revealing some easy-to-climb slats. I’m about to scramble up—they’re splintery with protruding nails, making me thankful for my big stompy boots—when I feel several people in the alley behind me, their minds glowing with ugly suspicion.
If you’re going to move, move fast. Isoka drilled that into me, before she left me to be educated as a lady, and I never quite forgot. I don’t have long enough to get myself over the fence, so I duck to the side of the alley, flattening myself in the doorway behind the crates. I’m pretty sure that gets me out of sight, and it’s dark enough they probably didn’t notice me.
Probably. My heart is suddenly beating fast, and I feel the hard shape of my knife in its hiding spot. Probably they’re not looking for me, either. I hear rapid footsteps, and focus my attention. There are three people, one close and scared, two suspicious and bored, farther back toward the mouth of the alley. Peeking out, I can see a shadow darting toward me, and the light of a lamp further along. Before I have the chance to make out much else, the shadowy figure rounds the crates and slams into me shoulder first.
I stagger back into the doorway with an oof. For a moment, I think of the knife, but I don’t feel any menace in the stranger’s mind, just high, tinkling worry. He—it’s a young man, probably not much older than me—presses himself against the boxes and puts a finger to his lips, his eyes frantically begging for silence.
At the end of the alley, two older men are reduced to black silhouettes by the lantern one of them carries. As they approach, I can hear them over the babble of the crowd.
“—sure he went this way?”
“I saw something moving. He’s a quick little rotscum.”
“Blessed above, it rotting stinks.”
One of the pair raises his voice. “Hey! Get out here!”
The boy stares at me, eyes wide. He has a broad, honest face and unruly hair with a hint of curls. His clothes are odd, though—he has a worker’s leather vest like mine, but I’d swear the shirt underneath is silk.
Still, it’s obvious enough what’s happening. He must not have his draft papers, and so the Ward Guard are after him. That’s … not good. If they come after him, they’ll find me, too.
“Listen, kid,” one of the guards says. “If I have to come back there and get shit all over my boots, you might have a little bit of an accident on the way back to the cells, you understand? Just rotting come out already.”
Moving slowly, the boy slides away from the crates, coming closer to me. I shuffle backward, keeping my distance, but he’s just trying the door handle behind me. It’s locked, of course. I see him spit a silent curse.
Footsteps echo down the alley, and the light is coming closer. There’s no chance of us staying hidden once they round the crates.
Rot. If you’re going to move, move quickly, right?
I push the boy into the doorway, shush him, then hand him my cap, letting my hair tumble down my back. He watches, openmouthed, as I shrug off the vest and hand him that, too. This idea is sounding worse and worse the more I think about it, but there’s no time to change now. I tug the first few buttons of my shirt open, then one more, fighting a blush. I may not be able to pass for a boy but I’m still not … generously shaped. Not much to be done.
I step out from behind the crates. My heart is beating harder now than when I thought someone was going to attack me. I hope they’ll take the red in my cheeks for paint.
“There he—Hold on.” The two Ward Guards come to a halt and raise the lantern. I resist the urge to flinch. “What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for a little rotting privacy.” I try to let the cultured accent I’ve spent the last few years perfecting slip away, putting on a Sixteenth District drawl. “Do you mind?”
The guard’s lip twists skeptically. I wouldn’t believe me, either. I’ve met streetwalkers at the hospital younger than I am, but …
“It’s just that you’re making my gentleman … nervous.” I give them a raised eyebrow that I hope conveys weary amusement, but probably just looks like a facial spasm. Oh, rot. “And I wouldn’t want him to catch cold.”
“Did you see anyone run through here?” the other guard says.
“Nobody. It’s a dead end.” I nod to the fence.
“Rot.” The guard looks at his partner. “You were supposed to keep your eye on him.”
“How was I supposed to know he’d take off?” The other guard shakes his head as they both turn away. “Sergeant’s not going to like it.”
“We’ll just tell him the records got mixed up…”
Their voices fade as they rejoin the crowd. I lean against the pile of crates for a moment, breathing hard, skin feeling very warm.
It worked. I can’t believe that worked. I try to picture Ofalo’s face, if he saw me, and nearly laugh out loud. Who’s an innocent child now?
“Have they gone?” the boy says, in a whisper.
I spin to face him. I’d almost forgotten he was there. He’s still clutching my cap and vest to his chest, and at the sight of me his cheeks go crimson, and he looks firmly at the ground. I hurriedly do up my shirt, then clear my throat.
“Can I have my things?”
“Oh! Of course.” He hands the cap and vest over, and I work on fixing my hair back in place. “That was brilliant. Brave. Both. I never would have … I mean, you…”
“Thanks. I wanted to make sure they didn’t think I was a boy.”
“They might—I mean, you’re not—” He seemed to be having some difficulty, and took a deep breath. “Obviously you’re not a prostitute.”
“I know.”
“I just … I mean, I know. It was a bluff. I just wanted to be sure you didn’t think I thought … right.”