9. Chapter Nine

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?'

Enzo shoved his hand into his pocket and fished out the envelope before presenting it as some type of proof. ‘I don't live there no more. I left earlier than most.'

‘The Matron said. She also said her charges had a way of finding their way back when they needed to. And to leave the letter. I guess she was right.'

‘Don't tell her that. She'll be so bloody smug about it.'

‘I got that impression.' They both laughed. He wrung the broom a little, before tentatively extending his palm. ‘I'm Robert. Unless you'd rather call me—'

‘It's a bit soon for that,' Enzo snapped, but still took the offered hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘Robert will be fine.' He shoved his hands into his pockets, then nodded at the hotel. ‘Nice place.'

Robert grimaced. ‘I'm afraid I have no windfall for you. No secret fortune. Only a failed dream and a growing pile of debt. I probably shouldn't tell you, as you'll run. It was a silly idea, to try to make a hotel as swish as the Langham, but smaller. I thought it might appeal as more discerning. Exclusive, like, because it had fewer rooms.'

‘It's not a bad plan,' Enzo offered in consolation. ‘The only thing toffs like more than showing off to their enemies, is showing up their friends.'

‘I can't quite get things right. I should have stuck to tea, or gin. Those aristos. I don't understand what they want. But who does?'

‘I do.' Enzo huffed. Robert frowned in confusion. ‘I was raised to learn how to serve them,' he explained. ‘What they like. Don't like. And running the… niche line of work we do in the rookery, we watch them, all the time.'

Robert juggled his broom from hand to hand. ‘I understand this is a lot. But would you like a cup of tea? We don't have to talk family. But to start with, could we talk business? You might be able to help me understand where I'm going wrong.'

‘Coffee?' Enzo asked.

Robert nodded. He rolled his lips like he was suppressing a grin.

‘Firstly,' Enzo pointed at the sign over the entrance. ‘We've got to do something about that name.'

Enzo shook the Duke Street gates, pressed his face between the bars, then hollered. His voice bounced off the red brick walls.

A small boy, as short and thin as he had once been, ran across the courtyard. He pulled up before the stairs.

‘You there, kid. Go get Matron,' he called.

The boy's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

‘Tell her Enzo is here.' He pulled out his last half penny and flipped it through the air. It bounced off the pavers, then rolled. ‘I need to speak to her. Please.'

The boy scurried after the coin, flipped it and shoved it into his pocket. He took the stairs two at a time, before disappearing into the building.

Mina hadn't been at the boarding house, and she hadn't been in the park. He'd even slunk by the townhouse on Grosvenor Square, but amongst the flurry of staff packing crates and boxes, she had not been there. Worry dripped icicles through his skin.

Matron appeared at the top of the stairs. She scanned the gates, and when she spotted him, folded her hands in front of her apron with quiet observation.

‘Mina,' he called. ‘Have you seen her?'

Matron took the steps at a steady pace. ‘We don't shout greetings, Lawrence. Especially when we haven't seen someone in six years.' She looked at him as she always had, with that expression somewhere between care and disappointment. ‘Mina called in earlier today, to say goodbye. She's leaving to go to the estate with her employer. Interesting co-incidence, he was your sponsor—'

‘When?' he demanded, his voice straining. The poor didn't have the luxury of waiting, of thinking, or reconsidering. When a chance came, they had to grab it, because there might never be another one. It had only taken him a few hours to come to his senses, but perhaps he'd taken too long.

‘She left not long ago. It was a little odd though. She said she was for Suffolk with the family, then took off in a hurry saying she didn't want to miss her train.'

‘Which station? Please Matron, this is important.'

‘Paddington, I imagine. It's the closest to here.'

Matron's chastisement chased his back as he ran. Ears straining, he tried to catch a whistle, or a grinding clunk of wheels, but in a city like London, everything sounded like industry. Enzo traced a line of alleys and side streets in his mind. If Mina left, she'd never look back. She'd leave London and cast a new dream for herself and her baby, and before she arrived in whatever grotty city she'd set her sights on, she would have fabricated a new dream for the two of them, and he would not be a part of it.

He had to get to her and convince her that he could, perhaps, dream too.