Ryan glanced at the flat stare the man gave him, knowing the raider captain wouldn’t do anything that he didn’t figure benefited him first. For the moment Gehrig wanted whatever he could get from Ryanwithout a direct confrontation. But the one-eyed man also got the impression that none of them was free to leave New London without Gehrig’s permission. Even to save Mildred. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Ryan said.
DOC WANDERED the streets for most of an hour, drinking in the sights. He consciously stayed within the inner hub of New London, taking in the lines of the collapsed buildings, remembering what things had been like. They were more like the life he’d known.
A small shop, the windows filled with curios, caught his attention. He crossed the street, avoiding the horses and the carts, the clopping of the hooves echoing between the confines of the tall buildings on both sides. The window display was arranged on four wooden shelves wider than Doc could stretch his hands apart.
In the middle of the second shelf, next to a box kite done up in bright blue paper, was an old-fashioned wooden top. The string, obviously bleached but still looking gray, was wound tightly around the top.
Doc leaned against the window and felt the pain. He’d given such a top to his children, had spent a few delightful evenings playing with them while Emily watched on, saying how she had three children instead of the two.
His breath was tight in his chest, and he was close enough to the panes that it frosted the glass when he exhaled. His vision blurred with the tears as he whispered their names. Reality blurred with it, and he was only shaken out of it by the tapping against the glass.
Pushing himself back, noticing the gray old man his ghostly reflection assured him he’d become, Doc glanced at the source of the noise.
The shopkeeper stared at him from inside the store, with close-set, inquisitive eyes like those on a small bird. The test of the man reinforced the impression thin and gangly, narrow shoulders humped up like folded wings.
“Are you all right?” the shopkeeper demanded as he opened the door. One hand stayed out of sight under the leather carpenter’s apron he wore.
It was a sad time, Doc reflected, when toy sellers had to go armed, as well. “I’m fine. Just a bit fatigued, my friend. I saw the toys in your window and got lost in a few memories.”
The shopkeeper appeared to consider that for a moment. He shifted restlessly from foot to foot, then seemed to arrive at a decision. “I’ve got some tea brewed. If you’ve an interest.”
“English tea,” Doc said in delight. He felt his smile tight on his face. “Sir, you’re a gentleman and a scholar.”
“It’s not Earl Grey,” the shopkeeper said as he ushered Doc in. “And I’ve a few biscuits and a bit of honey, as well.”
“Sounds like you’ve a well-laid table,” Doc said. He introduced himself and offered his hand.
“George,” the little man said. “George Ellison. And the honey is first-rate. Not many beekeepers in this part of the country now, you know. But I’ve a little arrangement with a lady in the ville who has a number of children. A hardworking lass, she is, but there are few toys for the children without a bit of bartering.”
Doc stood at the high counter in the back of the store. The place smelled of woods and paints, varnishes and lacquers, wood smoke and pipe tobacco. It was a man’s place, untouched by the finesse of a woman.
“Your place?” Doc asked.
Ellison nodded. “And my father’s before me.”
“Both toy makers?”
“Aye. A slim trade, but an honest one. Not an easy thing to find in these times.”
“I will warrant not,” Doc agreed, taking the cup of tea the other man handed him. He also made a selection from the tray of small biscuits that had been kept under a glass cover on a flowered plate.
“You’re one of the newcomers.”
“News, I see, travels fast here.”
“What little of it there is,” Ellison agreed. “I myself have not laid eyes on someone from outside New London these past seven years.”