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London never slept, and neither had Eva. They’d gotten a late start on Monday after her stop at the tax office and her secret visit to Mr. Toffit. She and Bram arrived too late the previous evening to visit Penny, and though she ought to have been weary from the eight-hour drive, sleep had eluded her all night. Even now as she descended the stairs to the lobby of the Great Eastern Hotel, she still wasn’t tired. Too much nervous energy bubbled inside her at the thought of seeing her sister, which was silly, really. Now that she’d declined Mrs. Pempernill’s lady’s companion position, she could visit her little sister any time. Mrs. Mortimer might frown upon it, as might the headmaster, but hang it all—she missed Penny, and she would see her, if only for a few minutes.

Eva descended the last stair, clutching her copy of Good Wives while scanning the busy entryway. An ornate chandelier cast a warm glow over the scene, each crystal shimmering with light. Plush velvet curtains framed the tall front windows, and though it was morning, not much light seeped in from the grey day outside. Several gents strolled out the door with newspapers curled beneath their arms. Some ladies huddled near the restaurant entrance, the clack of flatware against china plates drifting out.

Finally, her gaze snagged upon a familiar figure. Bram stood tall and resolute by the front desk, his presence commanding attention even amidst the bustle of other guests. His shaggy hair framed his face in a tousled halo, lending him a rugged charm she found endearing. Despite the grind of yesterday’s journey, he appeared refreshed. He smelled as such, too, for when she drew close, she inhaled the crisp scent of sandalwood shaving tonic on his skin.

“There you are.” He grinned down at her. “Would you like breakfast?”

“I could not eat a thing. I am too excited to see my sister.”

“It has only been four days since you said good-bye to the little imp, but I expected as much. I had the pony cart brought round to the front.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Heart warmed by his intuitive thoughtfulness, she placed her gloved fingers on his sleeve. “Thank you.”

They stepped into a December morn devoid of colour. Dusty stamped a hoof at their approach, tossing his head as if to say he’d had enough of this dirty city and its noise. Bram helped her to the seat, his fingers lingering a beat too long against hers after she sat. Her heart fluttered. An easy smile spread on his lips as if he knew. And when he leapt up to the driver’s seat and his thigh brushed against hers, that flutter turned into a full-fledged gallop. Sweet heaven. It may as well be an August afternoon for all the warmth surging to her cheeks. She averted her face as he urged Dusty to walk on. Better to study the passing buildings than reveal what an effect he had on her, for no doubt he’d have something to say about it.

They drove in silence for some time, he directing the pony cart in a river of traffic and she trying to ignore the rhythmic press of Bram’s body against her side as the cart bumped through ruts and potholes.

Tiring of watching the passing buildings, she turned to him. “How do you know where to go? Do you frequent London often?”

“I have been to the British Museum several times. Other than that, no.”

“Ah, I see. Your sense of direction stems from an extra keen awareness, the kind that locates relics at a dig, eh?”

He cut her a sideways glance, one brow arching. “Would that impress you?”

Everything about the man impressed her. Not that he need know, however. She clutched the seat as they juddered along. “Were you wanting to impress me?”

“If I could be the one to turn your head, I would die a happy man.” His lips broke into a charming smile. “But the truth is, I showed the address you gave me to the desk clerk at the hotel. He was very helpful with directions. We should be there shortly.”

Her gaze drifted to the sooty buildings leaning against one another on each side of the road. They’d left behind the tidier streets, and now the tang of coal smoke was thick on the air. Neglect walked these grimy lanes, as thoroughly depressing as the somber-garbed labourers scrambling to their workplaces. “Are you sure we are going the right way?”

“I thought so.” He produced a slip of paper from inside his coat and handed it over. “But maybe you had better check.”

She glanced at the handwriting, then searched for the next street sign. Sure enough, Woolpack Lane stood out in white letters against a black background. “It says here Spindle Street is where you turn left.”

“Which ought to be the upcoming crossroad.”

Bram guided the horse around the corner. She stifled a moan. Factories loomed like titans of progress, sucking in human souls and spitting out commodities all crated and ready to ship. Her nose burned, a metallic tang of chemicals and machinery coating each breath like a filmy oil that couldn’t be scrubbed off. Inside each great beast they passed, pistons pounded and gears whirred, the drone climbing inside of her bones, shaking her from the core outward. It was surreal, this cheerless, hopeless, strangling district of commerce.

She scooted closer to Bram. “Why would a school be in this neighbourhood?”

He did not meet her gaze. “Cheap rent, I suppose.”

Good thing she wore gloves, or her nails would be chewed to nubs, especially when Bram halted the pony cart in front of a monstrous building. The bricks were held together with grime and despair, a high bank of windows at the top cranked open, the glass opaque with a smoky pall. The placard above the wide front doors read Greenwell’s , but this was no merry institution of higher learning or academic gleanings. This was a grotesque shell of horror.

“I—” Bram cleared his throat. “I am sure it is much more polished inside.”

Hah. What a lie.

They stepped into a grinding, clacking, vast expanse filled with rows of tables and labourers, machinery and pulleys, and so much dust it coated the lungs. Dim light made it hard to see faces, giving the shadowed workers an eerie appearance, like ghosts in a graveyard. It smelled of linseed oil and sweat, the only fresh air leaking in from windows high on the walls. Just like all the other buildings they’d passed, this was a factory, and judging by the lint floating in the air and buzz of sewing machines, it was some sort of garment manufacturer.

A half-wall partition sectioned off a reception area of sorts, where a needle-nosed fellow perched on a stool behind a counter. Lint covered his suit like a late-winter snow, all grey and mottling into patches on his shoulders. He narrowed his eyes at them.

Rising to her toes, Eva spoke into Bram’s ear to be heard above the noise of the place. “This cannot be right.”

“Are you sure Mrs. Mortimer gave you the correct address?” he rumbled back.

“Oy! You two.” The man at the counter aimed his pen at them, his voice as rough as the factory floor. “This ain’t no gatherin’ place. State yer business or be off.”

Eva approached the counter, but even standing so close to him, she raised her voice. “We are looking for Greenwell’s School for the Blind. Do you know where it is?”

A great guffaw rolled out of the fellow, his sharp-edged shoulders shaking with the force of his mirth. “Is that what this is now, eh? A blind school? Hah! What a corker, that one.” He slapped his hand atop the counter, a puff of dust rising like smoke.

“Pardon us,” Bram grumbled. “We are clearly in the wrong place.” He guided Eva around with a touch to the small of her back. “Let’s go. We will telegraph Mrs. Mortimer and sort this out.”

Disappointment weighed like wet wool, dragging Eva’s steps. She’d so hoped to see Penny this morning. Near the door, her foot slipped on some of the collecting lint, and when she flailed her arm, her fingers let loose of the book she’d meant to give Penny.

“Oh!” She dashed after the thing, swooping down to pick it up, but then she paused, her gaze locking on to a small rock. She picked it up along with the book, a mix of terror and fury rising like bile up to her throat. The pebble was smooth. Oval. Shiny where a finger had rubbed it, worn with a notch on one end.

And it had a reddish grain to it.

“Bram?” She glanced up at him, his name a shiver on her lips.

And yet somehow he heard. “What is it? You look as if you have seen a spirit.”

She held up the rock on an open palm. “I think Penny may be here after all.”

Bram tensed, recognition crawling beneath his skin like fire ants, leaving a hot trail of fury. Squaring his shoulders, he stomped to the front counter. “Where is Penny Inman?”

The clerk merely sucked on his teeth, making him look more like a ground squirrel than a man.

Bram slammed his palms against the wood, the sharp report of it louder than the machinery. “I asked you a question! Where does Penny Inman work?”

A great scowl carved deep lines into the man’s brow. “There’s no names ’ere. Just numbers. Once a body steps onto that floor”—he hitched his thumb over his shoulder—“they’re part o’ the machine. Ye’d have to ask ol’ Greenwell himself what number she was assigned.”

“She is a twelve-year-old girl, not a number!” Bram lunged over the counter and grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him to his feet. The smack of the stool cracked against the floorboards. “She has dark hair, darker eyes, and she is blind.”

Beneath Bram’s grip, the fellow’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a snake swallowing a rat. “Sh-she’s in the piecing room, first door on the right. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Bram dropped him like a filthy rag, then turned to Eva. “Stay here.”

He wheeled about and rounded the corner of the wooden partition. Disgust added to his wrath. The people working here—mostly women and children—didn’t make eye contact as he passed. How beat down must they be to live in such fear? Greenwell ought to be hung by his neck from the rafters of this place, and yet such a justice would be a mere drop in the bucket, for all the other factories they’d driven past must surely look the same behind their walls.

Lord , have mercy on these poor souls.

Sickened, he stalked toward the piecing room door.

Just as a brick wall of a man sidestepped into his path, planting his feet for a fight. “Where do ye think yer goin’? Ye don’t work here.”

Bram flexed his fingers. A fight would feel good right about now. “I do not need to work here to find what I am looking for. Step aside.”

“Ye think ye can waltz onto my floor and demand things of me? Turn yer pretty little self around”—he twirled his podgy finger in the air—“and get ye gone. This ain’t no charity house, mate.”

“I am not asking for charity, just for a twelve-year-old girl who has no business being here.” Bram widened his stance. “Now move.”

A sneer twisted the man’s thick lips. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you shall regret it, I promise you that.”

“Ye don’t scare me.” The man spit out a linty glob, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’ve dealt with twaddle like you before, and they all end up pretzeled out on the kerb.”

Bram’s hands curled into fists. He’d have to strike fast and hard, but brute force alone wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to rely on speed, agility, and precision—a lesson he’d learned well as a feral lad.

“Bram?” Eva’s voice shouted hoarse at his back. “Is Penny here?”

Blast. He couldn’t fight with Eva standing so close—and judging by the sneering grin on the hulk in front of him, that man knew it as well. Gritting his teeth, Bram dug into his pocket and pulled out the pouch of his remaining coins. How he’d make it home was anybody’s guess.

“Here.” He thrust the leather pouch into the man’s big hand. “Let us pass.”

Testing the weight of the coins in his palm—and apparently satisfied—the bully shoved the money inside his coat and strolled away.

A great sigh heaved from Bram’s lungs, then he faced Eva. “I told you to remain in the foyer.”

“How could I when I fear Penny is in here somewhere?” Her jaw quivered.

And squeezed his heart. “All right but stay close.”

He led her from the factory floor into the piecing room, which—though he couldn’t believe it possible—was even more dismal and depressing. It was a cramped space, cluttered with piles of fabric and spools of thread. Dust hung in the air, clung to the body, coated the tongue. Long wooden tables lined each wall, the snip-snip-snip of scissors cutting harsh holes into the ear. Most children stood at their workstations, dressed in garments little better than rags. Those too short stood on crates. Those with bent legs or none at all sat on rickety stools.

Bram scanned for Penny’s slight form, and when he spied her in the farthest corner, Eva must have as well, for she took off in a run.

“Penny!” Eva clung to her sister.

He wrapped his arms around the two of them, their weeping breaking off pieces of his heart until nothing but the need to leave this place pounded in his chest. “Come. I am taking you both home.”

By then several other children had gathered around, one of whom tugged on Eva’s skirts. “Mish Inman! Pleash. Take me home too.”

Eva pulled away, bending toward a girl with a deformed lip, and as she stared at the child, she gasped. “Little Ginny? Can it be?”

“It can be because it is Ginny Novak,” Penny cut in. “Andy Kitman and Lucy Watson are here too. Mrs. Mortimer didn’t find them positions any more than she sent me to school. She sold us all to Mr. Greenwell, knowing we’d never make our way home from here.”

Eva glanced wildly around, then snapped her pale face to him. “She is right. There is Andy on that stool, the one with the clubfoot, and farther down is young Lucy, who cannot hear. Oh, Bram.” She lifted a shaky hand to her mouth. “This is horrible.”

No, this was criminal. And yet not a judge in the land would begrudge a profitable businessman his workers, no matter the age or impediment.

Shoving down a fresh burst of rage, Bram forced an even tone to his voice. “I will carry Andy, and you make a chain of the other children. We will take them all home.”

“What about us?” Three more girls pulled on his sleeve, one of whom held Lucy’s hand. “Can we come too?”

Oh , God. He glanced at the lint-coated rafters. What am I to do?

“We cannot leave them here, not if they wish to go.” Eva’s words may as well have been the voice of the Almighty, for deep in his heart, he knew he couldn’t turn his back on such a plea.

“All right.” He lifted his voice to be heard by all—which might be a mistake, but so be it. “Any who wish to return to their homes instead of working for Mr. Greenwell, clasp hands with the one in front of you and I shall lead you out.”

Without waiting to see just how many would take him up on his offer, he strode over to a towheaded, clubfooted boy and swung him off the stool. “Are you Andy?”

“Aye, sir.” Impossibly blue eyes gazed at him in awe. “Are you really taking me back to my mum?”

“God willing, young master.” He hefted the boy up to his shoulder, then spoke under his breath, “Please be willing, Lord.”

He strode past Eva. “Bring up the rear, if you will.”

“Thank you.” She beamed.

“Do not thank me yet. We have not made it out of here.”

With a firm grip on Andy and not just a little trepidation, he stalked from the room. This time eyeballs did turn his way—and no wonder. What a circus he led. The workers closest to them stood idle, sewing machines forgotten, trouser legs left unsewn. Near the opening to the foyer, the big foreman stood with his arms folded, a smug tilt to his head. Bram swallowed hard. It would take a miracle to make it past that cully. He had no more money.

Surprisingly, though, the man let him pass with nothing but a smirk. That had been easy.

Too easy.

And as Bram neared the front door, he saw why.

Stationed in front of the entrance was a man in a black suit, flanked by henchmen. Greenwell. He’d bet on it.

Blast! Bram stopped in front of the man. “Mr. Greenwell, I presume?”

“Indeed.” Greenwell’s dark gaze swept over him, assessing him as he might a bolt of fabric to be purchased. “And you are?”

“Of no consequence. Allow us to leave, and that will be the end of it.”

A smile lifted a wafer-thin moustache above the man’s mouth. “You cannot take my workers. That is theft.”

“Slavery was abolished fifty years ago, so there is no theft involved. These children are not your property.”

“They are my legal charges. I purchased them.” With a snap of Greenwell’s fingers, the needle-nosed clerk came running and produced a portfolio of documents. “Would you care to see?”

“You may have some fancy paperwork, Mr. Greenwell, but it will not stand against what I intend to see published in the newspaper smearing your name.” Bram sharpened his tone. “Unless, of course, you let us pass.”

Red spread like a bruise up the man’s neck. “That is blackmail.”

“That”—Bram grinned—“is correct.”

Sneering, the man stretched himself to full height. “Fine. Children are a penny a dozen. These will be easily replaced.” His brows drew into an ominous line. “But tell Mrs. Mortimer I am finished with her.”

“Oh, I assure you, I have a great many things to tell Mrs. Mortimer.” Bram sidestepped the man, nerves on edge, but he reached the front door without any more fight. He shoved the scarred wood open with his fist and held it wide, silently counting as children filed by.

There were ten.

Ten young lives.

All in his care.

And he hadn’t a penny left in his pocket.