As he neared Mrs. Evans’s stable, a whore leaned out of one of the doors, leering at him. Christian ignored her. Several of the pimps in the Alley had already offered him free use of their girls; the great Lazarus would be a high-profile customer, and on some nights, when he couldn’t sleep and his cock stuck up like a steeple beneath his trousers, Christian could feel the great pull of such offers. But he distrusted sex almost as much as he did morphia, for he had already observed that both were dreadfully addictive. And as much as he didn’t—couldn’t—feel sorry for his opponents in the ring, he did have sympathy for the whores. They had all been shopped down here, none of them given a choice, and if the Creche was the lowest of vice districts, then it was also a tapestry, a vast weaving in which they were all joined by the tightest of threads. Christian fought because he must, but if he made use of the girls in the Alley, he would be no better than Wigan, or the dozens of hungry johns who swarmed the tunnels every night.
Crofter was on the door today. He was a big, misshapen man, but he seemed to have a genuine concern for the girls in his care. He never bothered Maura for a free run, as some of the other enforcers did, and Christian had never caught him asleep at his post. All of Mrs. Evans’s enforcers knew about Christian’s friendship with Maura, but only Crofter seemed to understand that Christian intended no mischief with his visits. The rest were less flexible.
“Go on, boy,” Crofter rumbled, his voice deep with phlegm. “She’s not engaged.”
Christian darted past the front room and down the long hallway of private chambers. Not so private; the doorways here were covered only with flimsy sheets of brown wool, and Christian could hear the sounds of sex all around him, grunting and panting and an occasional high moan that made him shudder in revulsion.
May I never sound such a fool.
Maura’s chamber was the seventh on the left. Christian knocked on the wooden panel outside, feeling suddenly and absurdly guilty, as though he were a john himself, waiting eager and slobbering outside the door. The sickly-sweet smell of morphia made him wrinkle his nose. Several of the whores in Mrs. Evans’s stable were on the stuff, but Maura at least had the good sense to steer clear.
“Come in!” Maura called, her voice not the seductive lisp she used with the johns, but a clear and friendly chirp.
The bed was made, which was a mercy; Christian hated to come in and see the sheets disarranged. He turned to scan the rest of the room, and someone clapped a hand over his eyes.
Christian’s reaction was both instantaneous and involuntary. He shoved backward, driving with his legs, and heard a crunch as something slammed into the set of shelves that held Maura’s clothing. He turned and found Maura, sprawled in a pile of clothes and shelving.
“Ah God,” she moaned. “My head.”
Christian scrambled to help her up. She should have known better than to sneak up behind him; they had discussed such things before.
But you should learn to control yourself as well, his mind cautioned, and he felt suddenly ashamed. He had made his life in the fighting ring, but what good was that, if he could not leave his instincts behind when he needed to?
“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling Maura to her feet. Only then did he see the tiny cake smashed on the floor beside her, a mess of sultanas and crumbs.
“And a happy birthday to you, too,” Maura grumbled.
“Birthday?” Christian asked, startled. He had forgotten.
“If I’d known you planned to destroy your cake, I might have bought you a present instead.” She picked up a chunk of cake, then tossed it into the tiny basket beside the bed. “No, on second thought, I wouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. It wasn’t his real birthday, of course—neither of them had the slightest idea of when they’d been born—but long before, Maura had picked two dates at random and deemed them birthdays. She insisted on celebrating, pretending that they were still family long after Wigan had sold her to the Alley. The year before she had made Christian a small raspberry scone, though God alone knew where she had gotten the raspberries; fresh fruit was as rare as sunlight down here.
Christian had never gotten Maura any presents. It was a sore spot, but he didn’t have the money to buy her anything nice, and couldn’t imagine bringing her something cheap. He visited her as often as he thought was prudent and tried to bring her extra food whenever he could. This was vast altruism, at least by Creche lights, but each “birthday” stood as a stark reminder that it wasn’t enough.
“Ah well, I’m not sure it was any good anyway,” Maura replied cheerfully, tossing the last of the cake into the basket. “Thing about birthday cake; you can’t taste it first and make sure it’s good.”
“I’m sure it was good.”
She straightened then, smiling, a tall girl of twenty-one who looked much younger. She was merely pretty, Christian supposed, but for her hair, long and blonde and ethereal, glowing almost white in the torchlight. He understood from Alley gossip—though he wished he did not—that Maura’s hair made her a very popular buy. Mrs. Evans certainly thought so, for she took scrupulous care of Maura’s hair, washing it often, buying the most expensive apothecary products to keep it straight and shining. Maura would have aged out of the Creche long ago, but for that hair and the fact that Mrs. Evans worked so hard to make her look young. Thank God Maura hadn’t shouted as she fell; the fact that it had been an accident would not weigh with Mrs. Evans. She would only see damage to an investment.
“Well, then,” Maura said, “no cake, no presents, have a kiss instead. You’re twenty today.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and against his will, he smiled. The johns might have a lot more of Maura, but that kiss, small as it was, had been real. No one had paid her to do it.
Maura turned back to the shelves, fitting them back into their grooves and picking up her fallen belongings. Christian sat down on the floor and began to fold the pile of clothing. This task was more difficult than it should have been; he had won on Saturday night, as he always did, but the opponent had gotten in one good blow that nearly dislocated his shoulder, and Christian’s arm hadn’t felt right since.
“Is your head all right?” he asked her.
“I’ll live. How’s the ring?”
“Same as ever.” He handed her a neatly folded dress.
“I heard you won again on Saturday.”
“I always win,” Christian replied flatly. He didn’t want to talk about the fights, not here. But neither of them was eager to discuss Maura’s work.
“Do you ever think about topside?” Maura asked abruptly.
“No,” Christian replied, bewildered. “Why would I?”
“Well, there are always stories, you know. Girls and boys who escaped the cribs and made something of themselves in the upper world. Probably lies, but I always liked those stories as a baby. Old Marie used to know a few of them.”