But he still had to find a job, doing something to pay for his apartment and groceries, and he still intended to spot and turn in every pickpocket and confidence artist he could find. And somewhere, down one of the station’s gates, his dearest friends in the world were hiding for their very lives. Marcus and Ianira and their beautiful little girls . . .
He didn’t yet know how, exactly.
But Skeeter intended to find them.
And bring them safely home once more.
* * *
Jenna Caddrick sat beside the window of her bedroom in the little house in Spitalfields, listening to the angry shouts in the streets outside, as word of the latest murder in Whitechapel spread through the East End. She’d sat in almost this same spot for a whole week, now, exhausted and trying to recover from the gunshot to her skull. Jenna could no longer doubt Ianira’s pronouncement that she was carrying a baby, either. Even with the stress of the past few days, she should’ve started her period by now and hadn’t. And she’d never felt so monstrously queasy in all her life, had been feeling nauseated for days, right through the pain medication Dr. Mendel had prescribed. She hadn’t wanted anything more than dry toast in days, had been forcing herself to eat, terrified that she’d lose the baby if she didn’t choke food down.
Below her window, angry working men shouted at a police constable, demanding better patrols through the area, and frightened women huddled in doorways, clutching shawls about their shoulders and crying while they talked endlessly of the madman stalking these streets. Jenna brought her eyelids clenching down over wetness. What am I going to do? She was in disguise as a man, with fake mutton chops and moustaches which the time terminal’s cosmetologist had implanted. That false hair would require a cosmetic surgeon to remove. Not a single doctor anywhere in this city would begin to understand if a seemingly male individual showed up ready to deliver a baby, for God’s sake. Talk about attracting unwanted attention . . .