The Transference Engine Read Online Free Page A

the door. “Charlotte and Addie. We’ve brought Mickey,” came the quiet reply.
    I twisted the latch and yanked open the door. My fingers curled around the boy’s collar and pulled him inward even as I scanned the alley for any sign that Violet lingered there, perhaps frightened she might lose her job for returning late. Finding no sign of the girl I needed, I made way for the two young women I’d rescued from a life of prostitution at the ages of eleven and twelve and found them places with the milliner down the lane. Then I slammed the door closed again and reengaged the locks. “Mickey, what are you doing out so late of a Monday afternoon? And why couldn’t you find your way back here alone?”
    Mickey looked scared. Therefore, I needed to be as well.
    â€œWe found him huddled in our alley behind the dustbin, crying like the world was ending,” Charlotte said. “We brought him to you and now we have to go home before our mistress discovers we aren’t crimping blue ribbons and twisting red ones into roses.” She and Addie looked to each other as if some silent communication passed between them, then left quickly and quietly together. Arm in arm—more than just friendship between those two, but I’d never say that out loud.
    â€œYou be closed ’a Monday. Cain’t come sooner, or you’d no be here,” Mickey wailed with a trembling lip and a nose just snotty enough to tell me the eight-year-old orphan who knew the back streets and alleyways of London better than I did had cried for a good long time but hadn’t cried away all his tears.
    â€œWhat has happened to upset you so?” I pumped water onto a dishtowel and handed it to him so he could clean his face and hands. Then I used another dry cloth to protect my hands while I drew forth the baking from the oven. Mentally I counted the numbers and hoped this would suffice for my guests.
    Mickey rubbed at his embedded grime diligently. He knew the rules of working for me, even if he’d only been tamed a few weeks before. Many of my boys, orphaned guttersnipes, one and all, were like feral cats who had to be tempted back to civilization with tidbits of nourishing food, a discarded blanket, and an occasional foray into the warmth. I pushed them toward a full bath by insisting on clean hands and faces indoors—even if the occasional dishtowel had to be discarded, too grimy to ever come clean. Trust came hard between us, so I let them stay a bit wild. They kept their familiarity with the streets better that way. If they ever showed signs of wanting to stay inside, they lost their usefulness to me. That’s when I found them apprenticeships and permanent shelter. No sense littering my nice clean café with muddy boot prints and ragged clothing. Boys were messy and rebellious. Too much trouble past the age of twelve.
    Except for . . .
    â€œCain’t find Toby,” Mickey said around a sniffle.
    I gestured toward the damp and now very hopelessly grimy towel.
    â€œToby is a big boy.” The biggest of my boys, pushing sixteen and all arms and legs and feet. The slight uptilt of his eyes and round face made him an endearing cherub long past needing his first shave. Keeping him in shoes was getting to be a problem, though his castoffs did help the littler ones.
    â€œToby can find his way home when he wants.” I sniffed this time. Lately Toby had shown a streak of dependence and a need to sleep by the fire that indicated I’d have to find him new employment before long. Who else would take on his slow mind? His extreme loyalty to me would be hard to transfer.
    â€œBut that’s just it, Missus. He gets lost. Cain’t read the road markers like I kin. Toby don’t know up from down without me tellin’ ’im,” Mickey protested.
    There was that problem. A boy with a body too big for his mind.
    â€œHe allus stays real close to me. Holdin’ me