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Prologue
Black Hollow, Etria
1879
Bellamy held out his basin as a gentleman with an expensive brocade waistcoat flung a coin into it, the clinking sound making his teeth ring. The currency represented food and safety, at least for now. The gentleman must’ve been feeling generous that afternoon, especially since Bellamy had purposefully placed himself near one of the gaming halls on the outskirts of Black Hollow, also known as Beggar’s Hole. He shook the basin to jingle the coins from the day, wondering if he’d make enough to hand over to Gladstone that night. Bellamy shivered a little, thinking of Gladstone’s beady eyes narrowing at him if he didn’t bring him what he needed. Not that he’d ever hurt him—well, not yet—but just the threat of it from him and the other men he employed to watch over them kept Bellamy from straying.
He’d been one of Gladstone’s boys since his mother was killed by a wolf a year before, at half-past his sixteenth birthday. Frightened of returning to the ransacked room where they’d lived, he’d been wandering the streets, alone, when Gladstone found him and offered him a warm corner in an abandoned building, along with some food for his belly.
“Must’ve been a rabid wolf,” Gladstone had told him after hearing his story, which made sense to Bellamy, not only because his mother had always warned him about creatures of the night, but because he could scarcely banish the bloody fangs and matted, gray fur from his thoughts. “If the authorities catch wind, they’ll hunt him down and put him out of his misery.”
Bellamy had gasped—could it be true, what Gladstone was saying, or was the man simply indulging him?
“Have you told anyone about what you saw?” Gladstone had asked.
“No, I…I was too frightened.”
“It’s all right.” Gladstone had patted his shoulder in what Bellamy assumed was a paternal way, one he wasn’t familiar with because he’d been too young when his father died and didn’t get to know him. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Bellamy had believed him, naively, but what other options did he have? In exchange, all he had to do was hold up an empty basin to strangers, pretend to look lost and hungry—which wasn’t much of a stretch—and then hand over the money he earned. He was small in stature, with fine features that made him look younger than his seventeen years. It had always worked in his favor, even with his mother, when he’d pleaded for a favorite delicacy they could scarcely afford.
He understood much better now how life worked, and some days he’d give anything to taste one of the cherry tarts they used to share—let alone feel the warmth of her smile again. In Beggar’s Hole, days blended into weeks, and as time went on, he felt more and more hopeless and useless, accepting any little scraps of praise from Gladstone, depending on how much Bellamy had brought in for the day to help line his pockets.
He’d been indebted to him for far too long and fantasized about leaving one day when he finally came of age. He had plans, meager dreams he hoped to fulfill one day. Living a simple life, earning an honest wage, having a warm bed of his own to climb into at the end of a day. A place where he didn’t worry about his safety and grief didn’t overwhelm him.
His gaze darted across the cobblestone street to Ashwood, another of Gladstone’s lads, and his cheeks heated. Sometimes Ashwood was the only reason Bellamy had to smile or look forward to the day.
As Ashwood leaned against a building, Bellamy noted that his floppy blond hair was growing longer. Gladstone liked it that way—liked them more disheveled—since it meant more money for the poor lads rotating the corners in Beggar’s Hole. But Bellamy secretly liked it too because there was more of it to burrow his fingers in when they huddled together to stay warm at night. His thoughts weren’t nearly as dreary when Ashwood was in close proximity.
Ashwood appeared unassuming to passersby, but Bellamy knew better. As a distracted gentleman in finer threads walked by, Ashwood straightened, then stepped directly into his path. One might not catch it if they blinked, but Ashwood had already pilfered the gentleman’s watch or perhaps some loose coins from his coat. He’d become quite skilled by now, and Gladstone would reward him generously with empty compliments—while appropriating the treasures for himself, of course.
Bellamy watched as Ashwood made excuses for bumping into the gentleman, probably something like, “Pardon me, I didn’t see you there.”
Sometimes Ashwood would only take one of the coins, then pretend the gentleman had dropped the rest. Other times, like now, he would slink off into the alleyway with his treasure and tuck it away.
The gentleman scowled at Ashwood’s back as if he were the same as the filth on the bottom of his polished shoes, and Bellamy’s gut tightened. But that same insidious anger at the unfairness of it all sometimes helped assuage his guilt about what they did. It was a means to survival, and he could berate himself for it later. Some way, somehow, he would redeem himself in this life, but first, he needed to become an adult. Until then, he was too vulnerable and wouldn’t be taken seriously by most in society.
