“I’ll bet they do. Notice also that all the second-story
windows are barred?”
“More decorative wrought iron,” murmured Jon-Tom,
his eyes roving over the upper floors.
“Decorative is it, mate?”
“This is a rough city,” said Roseroar. “Orphans are
vulnerable. Perhaps the bans are to keep thieves from
breakin1 in and stealing youngsters to sell into slavery.”
“If that’s the case then the ‘Friends’ of the Street ‘ave
done a mighty professional job o’ protectin’ their charges
from the outside. Observe that none of these trees over-
hang any part of any of the buildin’s.”
That was true. A cleared expanse of street formed an
open barrier between the nearest orchard and the outermost
structures.
“But what does all of it prove?” Jon-Tom asked the
otter.
“Not a bloody thing, mate. But I’ve been around a bit,
and I’m tellin’ you that my gut tells me somethin’ ‘ere
ain’t right. Me, I’d be curious to *ave a little chat with one
or two o’ the occupants without that piranha-faced squirrel
o’ our charmin’ guide Chokas about. I’ve ‘card descrip-
tions o’ orphanages, and this place makes the best o’ them
look like mat dungeon we fled in Malderpotty. That’s wot
bothers me, mate.” He gazed up at the silent walls. “It’s
too sweet.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Look, guv. Cubs is dirty. They make filth the way I
makes sweat. ‘Tis natural. This place is supposed to be
full o’ cubs and it’s as clean as milady’s intimates.”
Roseroar spoke softly as she studied the barred upper
windows. “Ah did think it uncommon neat fo such an
establishment. Almost like a doctah’s office.”