A Broken Vessel Read Online Free Page A

the hearth and began to stir the coals. She drained her glass, took off her bonnet, and hung it on a nearby chair. Her hair, which had come unpinned in her struggle with Blinkers, spilled over her shoulders. Her skirt was twisted uncomfortably round her legs, so she gave it a vigorous shake.
    The secret pocket, overburdened with coins, came loose, flew off, and hit Mr. Kestrel right between the shoulder blades. He looked around, brows raised. She bubbled into laughter, her hands to her mouth. At the same time, she was a little frightened. What would he do when he found the stolen handkerchiefs?
    He picked up the gaping pocket. “You appear to have lost something.”
    “And you wants to know what it is, I expect.”
    “It’s quite evident what it is—some coins, and a few handkerchiefs that you found before they were lost.”
    “How do you know they ain’t mine?” she said challengingly.
    “Three men’s handkerchiefs?—one of them with a monogram, CFA ?” He pointed out the neatly stitched letters in the corner of Blue Eyes’s fine cambric handkerchief.
    “Well—the coins is mine, anyhow. I earned ’em meself. I expect you can guess how.”
    “I have an idea.”
    “So you might give ’em back to me.”
    He restored the money, but not the handkerchiefs. She eyed him resentfully. “You going to call a watchman?”
    “Why? Do you want one?”
    “You knows what I mean. If you ain’t going to peach on me, why won’t you give me back the wipes? You going to keep ’em?”
    “My dear girl!” He looked shocked. “Russet calico?” He held up the handkerchief that must have been Bristles’s; Blinkers’s was made of coarse silk.
    “Well, what you going to do with ’em, then?”
    He considered. “I’ll ask Dipper to find some worthy charity—a society for interfering in the lives of contented Africans, or some such thing.” He started to tuck the three handkerchiefs into his pocket—then he looked at them more closely. “Here.” He took out a folded paper from among them and handed it to her. “I didn’t see this before.”
    “What is it?”
    “Isn’t it yours?”
    She unfolded it and frowned at the writing inside. She could not read very well. “I never seen this before. You sure it come out of me pocket?”
    “It was here, among the handkerchiefs.”
    She looked up, suddenly enlightened. “I must’ve pinched it from one of them coves along with his wipe! I wonder which?” She held out the paper. “What’s it say?”

CHAPTER
3
A Remedy for Boredom
    M r. Kestrel read the letter aloud:
October 1824
    Saturday evening
    I hardly know what to say to you, how to tell you where I am, or how I came to be here. It’s just as well I’m obliged to write it: how could I speak to you or look you in the eyes, even if I were permitted to leave this place and had the means to find my way home? I do not think I could face anyone I know, ever again—not you, nor anyone else in our family, nor him I once thought I loved. Please forgive me! I’ve been punished so much! I am punished again every day—not so much by the miserable life I lead, as by the memories I can’t banish: of my happiness, my hopes, my innocence—and of the stupid, stubborn, ungrateful rashness that swept them all away!
    My ruin has not been all my fault. I can’t write about that—I can only say that I never knew there was such evil in the world as I’ve known since I left you.
    When you know where I am and what has happened to me, you may not ever wish to see me again. I will understand. You can’t despise me, reject me, hate me, any more bitterly than I hate myself. But if you wish to know once and for all what has become of me, come to No. 9, Stark Street. You need not come in, or speak to me. I will never seek you out, or force you to support or acknowledge the thing I have become.
    I have not told anyone here my name, or put into this letter anything that might reveal who I am. People spy on me in this place—I’m