Page 17 of I Will Steal You the Stars
Chapter Nine
Enzo looked across the street at the two storied building with a painted symbol above the door that matched the one stamped on his letter.
Hotel Hempel.
What a ridiculous name.
Enzo leaned against a lamp post. The decorative ridge of iron pinched his brace buckle. He shifted his weight so that it aligned with his spine.
That was honest work, in an iron foundry. Stoking boilers or handling a press or heating strips of metal and curving it into swirls for railings and balconies. Or perhaps, making door knockers or streets signs or even lampposts, so that the people of London could find their way through the night, or to light the days when the smog settled thick and close to the ground, and it was impossible to see beyond the tip of your shoe.
His back itched. He rubbed a little against the ridge.
Hard work, too, in a factory. A man might lose a finger working a forge. Many did, like Jonathon Thomas, who often laughed he’d have to take off his boots to be able to count past 7.Working in a factory was almost as bad as the shipyards, where young Billy had been employed, and a crate had crushed his foot. He had to have it amputated at the knee when gangrene set in.
They laughed about it though.
They laughed because they knew the alternative was worse.
Mostly.
Hotel Hempel was an utterly ridiculous name for an establishment, but the location was exceptional. It sat one block back from a crossroads and close to every place a toff might want to go. The opera, the park, the gaming hells they pretended to not know about were all close by, while the main street, the Houses of Parliament and their stupid tearooms were far enough away that a rich family could justify calling a carriage, but those with tighter purses might pretend they chose to walk. It was the perfect location for those coming in from the country who didn’t have their own townhouse, but still wanted the luxury of a staff. A place to be seen, but also, a place to hide.
Enzo pulled the envelope from his pocket and traced the precise longhand with his fingertip.Lawrence Hempel, Duke Street Orphanage.
He’d read the letter inside more times than he cared to admit. With its explanation about a sick mother, and the belief that he would only be at the orphanage for a short time, and they’d always intended to claim him, but life had turned dark and now his father wanted to make amends. The letter was dated mere months after the day he’d shouted at Matron that he refused to lick anyone’s boots, and he’d scaled the fence and run away.
Duke Enzo ruled the Wild Court Rookery. It was not a fair world, or pleasant, or even equitable. But it was a world where he had carved out a space and made a name for himself and become something.
He’d created a kingdom, and the rookery was his court. A kingdom for a duke.
But was he a king? Or only a rabbit? Because now his kingdom seemed more like the curl of a blackberry vine, and for all its familiarity, the thorns scratched against him. They kept him as captive as the gates of Duke Street had.
The hotel was not a bad type of structure. Old without being dated, elegant without carrying the pretentiousness of the past. Heavy wooden doors, solid columns, and a line of gilt trim.
Quiet.
That’s why the trim remained. It might be a good location, but he’d wager that not many people stayed at Hotel Hempel, so not many grifters came through looking for an easy spree.
The front door opened, and a man in a grey and blue embroidered waistcoat emerged. He held a solid straw broom and made busy sweeping the portico. He bent his head and worked diligently, but with a light skip to his step. He gave a satisfied flourish as he deposited slips of dust into the gutter. Enzo chuckled at the performance.
The man looked up.
Enzo had never owned a mirror. He knew his reflection from greasy windows and oil slicks in puddles.
And now, he saw almost that same face across the way.
Before Enzo could slink back into the shadows, he locked eyes with the man, and with barely half a raise of an eyebrow, recognition lit his features. Enzo tugged his cap over his forehead and spun so fast the pavement scraped against his thinning sole.
‘Wait!’
He should run. He should cut a path through alleys and side streets and retreat to the rookery. He should turn his back and go buzzing uptown. But instead, he stuck out his palm and clasped the lamppost and swung to a stop.
Because of Mina. Bloody Mina.
He’d encouraged Mina to break free of the brambles, and she had. But then he’d tried to hem her in again, and she’d recognised what he refused to see for himself—he was just another rabbit stuck in the blackberry bush, with the thorns closing in. If he didn’t find the courage to break free, if he stayed in what was familiar, he’d stay there forever, and she would hop across fields and through woodlands and never even turn to sniff the air in his direction.
The man took the gap across the road with a half limp. ‘Lawrence? Really?’
