Page 28 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Two years in Pentonville for the crime of existing.” Madam Fortuna's painted face was hard now, her eyes glittering. “Two years of hard labour for being bold enough to love. For meeting another omi in a place where he thought he would be safe. For nothing more than wanting what every straight person takes for granted.”

Two years. It could have been me. Could still be me, any day, any moment. One wrong word, one careless glance, one person who decided to ask questions.

“The sharpies are everywhere,” Fortuna continued. “Police. Informers. Ordinary citizens who think they are doing their Christian duty by destroying our lives. They hide in the shadows of cottages, waiting. They pose as trade to trap us. They read our letters and listen to our phone calls and follow us to places like this.”

The room had gone very still. I thought about Tom, somewhere outside in the dark, and felt my stomach clench.

“We do what we can for Billy's family,” Madam Fortuna said. “We look after our own. Because God knows no one else will.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “So tonight, my darlings, we dance. We sing. We remember that joy is its own form of resistance. And we drink to Billy Marsh, who loved too brightly for this dim world to bear.”

“To Billy,” the room murmured, glasses raised.

“To Billy,” I whispered, though I had never met him, never would.

Dilly beside me was crying openly, tears cutting tracks through his rouge. Maurice had an arm around him, solid and steady.

“He knew Billy,” Maurice said quietly when he saw me looking. “From before. They worked in the same shop in the Dilly, before the war. Lost touch after, but still.”

“I am sorry.”

“It is all of us, is it not? Every time they take one of us, they take something from all of us.” Maurice's voice was low, fierce. “But we keep going. Keep gathering. Keep speaking the parlyaree even when they want to silence us forever.”

The show continued. More songs, more jokes, more moments of defiant beauty. A young man with dark skin and a voice like honey performed a ballad that made several people cry openly, no longer bothering to hide it. Two women danced together, their movements precise and passionate, telling a story that needed no words.

Between acts, Dilly and Maurice taught me new words I had not heard before, regional variations that had evolved since I had last been in these circles.

“Zhoosh,” Dilly said, demonstrating by adjusting his hair. “To fix up, to make pretty. Zhoosh your riah before the sharpy sees you.”

“Ajax,” Maurice added. “Nearby. Keep bijou, love, there is sharpy ajax.”

“And if you need to scarper fast,” Dilly said, leaning close, “you say the bats are flapping. Everyone knows to varda their own and get out.”

I filed away each word like the precious currency it was. A language to survive in. A language to love in. A language to live in when the one the world spoke had no room for us.

The show wound down. People began to drift toward the door, back to the world outside where they would button up their coats and their identities and become whoever they needed to be to survive another day.

Madam Fortuna found me as I was finishing my drink.

“Arthur Pembroke.” She had wiped off some of the stage makeup, though her eyes were still ringed in kohl. Up close, I could see the stubble beneath the powder, the strong jaw, the adam's apple that the high collar of her gown could not quite conceal. “Julian mentioned you might turn up eventually. Said you had been posted somewhere hush-hush.”

“Julian talks too much.”

“Julian talks exactly the right amount to exactly the right people.” She settled into the chair across from me, movements graceful despite her size. “How are you, love? Really?”

“I am...” I started to say fine, the automatic response, the safe response. But something about her gaze, knowing and kind, made the word stick in my throat. “Tired. And scared.”

“We are all tired and scared, darling. That is the baseline these days. What else?”

I looked down at my hands, at the ink stains that never quite washed away. “I think someone followed me here tonight. Someone from the estate.”

Fortuna's expression sharpened. “A sharpy?”

“No. A soldier. He is...” I struggled for words. “He is not lily law. But I do not know what he is. I do not know if I can trust him.”

“Do you want to trust him?”

The question cut too close. I felt my face heat.

“Ah.” Fortuna nodded slowly. “That kind of trust. Is he one of us?”