Lord of Sin. Susan Krinard
she’d gi’us the clothes off ’er back, wou’n’t she?”
“That’s enough,” Harold said. “You’ve no right…”
“An’ who’re yer, then? One o’ them’s fancy boys?”
“It’s all right, Harold,” Nuala said. She joined Frances and looked from one hostile face to another. “We will be back again with more as soon as possible. Are there any among you who require medical treatment?”
“It’s our bellies needs fillin’!” the troublemaker shouted. But he was not supported by all the onlookers. Two men and a boy squeezed through to the door and hovered there, uncertain. Nuala put her hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What hurts?” she asked simply.
The boy raised his arm, where a torn sleeve revealed an infected dog’s bite. Nuala cursed her lack of power to soothe his distress, but she comforted him as best she could. His fear somewhat relieved, the boy continued on to receive Frances’s ministrations.
The next was an elderly man complaining of pain in his joints. Nuala knew that there was little to be done for him, though once she might have eased his pain. Now all she could do was send him to stand and wait behind the boy.
The third was a lad in his early twenties, only a little older than Deborah…not tall, but wiry with muscle, his hair very black under his cap. As soon as he spoke, Nuala recognized him as a Welshman, an outsider among outsiders.
Tipping his cap, the young man held up his hand. Two fingers had been badly broken at some time in the recent past and had not been set.
“Can ye help, madam?” he asked in a soft-spoken voice.
Deborah came up behind Nuala and sucked in her breath. “It must hurt terribly,” she said.
The Welshman looked into her eyes. “Not so bad as all that, madam.”
“I’m certain that Lady Selfridge can assist you,” Nuala said, gesturing to Frances. “Please join the others.”
The young man did so, moving with a loose, upright stride in spite of his pain and poverty. Deborah stared after him.
“It doesn’t seem as if he belongs here,” Deborah said.
“He probably came to London from Wales, seeking a way out of the mines,” Nuala said quietly. “The city doesn’t always welcome those who are different.”
“If only there were more we could do,” Deborah murmured.
“Yes. Once we have the drivers and more volunteers, we—”
“Oy! Wot’s a wee gal loik yer doin’ ’ere, missy?”
The troublemaker had been ignored too long, and now he’d found fresh prey. Before Nuala could tell Deborah to ignore him, the young woman turned to face the man.
“If you are only here to cause trouble,” she said, “you should leave.”
The man burst out laughing, his spittle flying in Deborah’s face. “Quite th’ bold un, ain’cher?” He bent to peer more closely into Deborah’s eyes. “Yer looks roight familiar, a’ that. Sure yer ain’t never been spreadin’ yer legs fer them wot can pay?” He rubbed greasy fingers together. “I got a pence er two ter spare….”
“Enough.” The Welshman, his hazel eyes flashing, pushed his way between Deborah and the lout before Nuala could do so. “It’s all jaws ye are, Bray, and we’ve no desire to hear more of your foul talk.”
“An’wot’ll yer do abou’i’, wif yer crippled hand?”
“I’ve another,” the Welshman said, raising his left fist.
It almost seemed as if Bray would back down, but instead he reached into his frayed coat and withdrew a knife. He sliced the air in front of the Welshman’s face, then lunged toward the younger man’s injured hand. He withdrew the blade in a blur of motion, leaving a red line across the back of the Welshman’s knuckles.
Deborah gasped. Without thinking, Nuala concentrated on the knife and made a light gesture with her fingers. Snarling an oath, Bray dropped the knife and shook his hand as if it had been burned. He cast an evil, speculative glance in Deborah’s direction, turned and barreled through the diminishing group of waiting men.
Nuala stared at her own hand in astonishment. Surely it hadn’t really happened. Pure chance that Bray had dropped the knife just after she had chanted the spell. Mere coincidence…
Deborah rushed back to the table to fetch her reticule and returned with a handkerchief. “Oh,” she said to the Welshman. “Oh! Your poor hand.”
He glanced at the blood seeping from the wound. “It is nothing, madam.”
“Nothing! You saved my life.”
The boy’s jaw locked. “He would never have hurt you.”
But Deborah was in no mood for argument. She seized the Welshman’s hand and pressed her handkerchief to the laceration. He tried to withdraw, but she kept a firm hold.
“Do not struggle so,” she scolded. “You must let Lady Selfridge bind it, and splint your fingers.”
There was a look about him that suggested he wished only to flee the scene of what he very likely regarded as his humiliation, but when Frances came forward to chivvy him toward the table, he didn’t resist.
Reluctantly, Deborah returned to distributing the remainder of the food. Nuala watched over her while Frances finished cleaning and stitching the first boy’s infected wound, gave the old man a liniment for his joints and went to work setting the Welshman’s fingers. He didn’t flinch as she snapped them into place.
“You’re fortunate, young man,” Lady Selfridge said as she splinted and bound the fingers together. “A longer wait, and you might have lost the use of them.”
“It’s grateful I am, madam,” he said.
“You must change the bandages daily—here, take these—and keep the wound clean. It is not deep, and should heal quickly.”
“I shall do as you direct, madam.”
She muttered under her breath and began packing her supplies. The Welshman headed for the door.
“I beg your pardon,” Deborah called after him.
He turned, his eyes shaded by the brim of his cap. “Madam?”
“I only wished to thank you again.”
“It is not necessary, madam.”
“What is your name?”
“Ioan Davies.”
She offered her hand. “Deborah…Lady Orwell.”
After a moment’s hesitation he took her hand with his left and made a little bow. “Lady Orwell.” He released her hand quickly and was out the door before she could speak again.
Clearly distressed, Deborah turned to Nuala. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” she said.
“What happened was not your fault.”
“But that man…” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Did he actually call me a…” She trailed off, flushing. Nuala took her hand.
“They were only words, Deborah.” Only words. As Nuala’s little spell had been “only magic.”
It was not real. It couldn’t have been.
ALL THE WAY BACK to Belgravia, Deborah was very quiet and lost in thought. Nuala could well understand why. She had seen ugly things in Whitechapel: the worst sort of misery and poverty, pain, hatred. She would see it again. Her previously sheltered life was coming to an end.
“Do you suppose we’ll see Mr. Davies