“Seein’ the sights, eh?” the man said. “Strollin’ through the mines, I hear.”
So then, the mineswereguarded. Just not by the coppers. He recalledthe glint he’d seen on the hill. “Scurry mines are famed,” he said. “Thought we’d take a gander.”
“I’ll bet,” the man said darkly. He had a voice like gravel. “Lookin’ for some stray terranium, were you?” he said.
“Somethin’ of the sort.”
The man glanced over his shoulder. “Search ’em.”
Two men came to shove hands into their pockets and feel along their sleeves. “Ah, this one’s got a tender touch,” John said, chuckling. The miner with his hand entrenched in John’s back pocket withdrew quickly, grimacing.
Patrick balanced the cigarette between his teeth and held his hands out to the side. “Pulls out too quick, though.”
John barked a laugh. This was a performance they’d perfected.
When they got to Nina, Patrick resisted the urge to knock them flat.
But it wouldn’t serve to show his hand like that, so he grit his teeth.
“Nothin’,” one of the young lads mumbled, then retreated.
“You’re as unlucky as the rest of us, then,” said the man Patrick wagered was once a foreman. He’d fit the shoes proper—imposing, head full of gas, stature like a block of flats. A puffed up, cock-swinging boor of a man, strong-arming the pack. Gunner would have him on his arse in the space between two breaths.
“You can hop the next train back to your own parish, now,” he said to Patrick. “Stick to your own holes. Don’t see none of us bent over to welcome you into ours, do ya?”
So then, he didn’t recognize them. Patrick grinned. “What’s your name?” he asked.
He lifted his chin. “Kicker.”
“That ain’t your real name.”
“It’s the only one you’re gettin’.”
“His name is Harland Seymore,” Nina said, clear as a bell. Patrick groaned internally.
Patrick felt her step to his side so that her face was visible, and hefelt the stern exteriors of several men buckle. They shifted in their seats. Chuckled low.
There was a slow whistle from the man named Harland Seymore. “Well, well,” he leered. “And who’s that there? Hard to see your face in the dark, darlin’. I didn’t father no bastards by yeh, did I?”
It was met by snorts and hoots.
Nina stepped farther into the glow.
Harland’s face turned from mocking to incredulous.
A name formed on the man’s lips, the rounding of the letters all wrong. “Rose?” he murmured, brow pinched.
No putting the genie back in the bottle now. And no point, if this man was in fact the foreman they sought. “Close,” Patrick said. “Have another go.”
Harland’s eyes swept warily to Patrick and away. “Not the kid?” His eyes widened at Nina.
Nina inhaled deeply. “Hello, Uncle,” she said.
Harland Seymour flinched like he’d been stung by a hornet. For several moments, he simply sealed his great jaw back together, considering Nina from afar while his men grew wary. “Your pa says you went off to swank city,” he said.
“I did,” Nina replied.
Harland chewed on that a little longer. “Never believed him, if I’m honest. Thought he probably gave you to some orphanage in the west.”
