Free The Shadow and the Star by Laura Kinsale Page B

"There's a jolly for you, miss. And he'll have left something filthy again, but the paper don't say what, o' course. They never do come out and say, but a body can guess, can't she now? It'll be somethin' out of whatever indecent house where he sends the police to find that sword."
    Leda was well aware of this third robbery, and the bizarre pattern of them, in which a priceless piece was stolen from one of the diplomatic envoys come for the Jubilee, and something indescribably lurid left in its place. That was strange enough, but even more peculiar was that this thief seemed to have no interest in the stolen property itself; he sent a note to the police telling them where to recover every treasure—each time in a "house of iniquitous accommodation," as the papers politely phrased it.
    "How very interesting," she said discouragingly to Mrs. Dawkins, turning away to mount the black well of the stairs. Actually, Leda knew considerably more about the unorthodox thefts than her landlady, having taken up the habit of making tea for Inspector Ruby and lingering in the police office until after midnight, thereby giving the impression that she was still employed at the dressmaker's. "Good night, ma'am."
    A quick hand tugged at her dress, holding her back. "Friday, miss. Fourteen shillings the week."
    "It has been Friday only for half an hour, Mrs. Dawkins," Leda said. "I hope you didn't feel you must wait up for me. I will be happy to pay you in the morning."
    Mrs. Dawkins grinned, unembarrassed. "Wanted to remind you, miss. Wanted to remind you. Those Hogginses the floor beneath you, had to run them out today. Plenty of people wants me rooms to let who'll pay proper, miss, just as you do. Them as don't pay, can't expect me to support 'em, can they? I'm no ladies' charity society, I tell you I'm not. Fourteen shillings the week, and no meals included. We're connected to the drains, miss—that's worth half a crown right there, and so I tells 'em."
    So she had told Leda, frequently. Finally detaching herself from her landlady, Leda proceeded upstairs. In her room, she washed her face and watered her geranium on the open windowsill by candlelight. The night heat intensified the smells of the neighborhood, but one of the leaves on the geranium was broken, mingling a fresh, sharp scent with the heavier odors. She trimmed the leaf off with her fingernail and crushed it in her hand, pressing it to her nose to drive away the stench of the breweries.
    She stared out the window into the humid darkness. The great slum that began in the street behind hers—a place she didn't wish to look, refused to look, could not bear to look—she felt it pulling at her, trying to drag her down into it like a gaping maw. She thought of Pammy, who had refused to accept or nurse her baby until Inspector Ruby informed her sharply that he'd have her up on infant murder charges if she didn't show some sense. Leda had a joyless feeling that her own life had probably begun in much the same way, unwanted and ugly, and not at all in the quietly respectable manner that she would have wished.
    How long this charade could continue, Leda dared not think. Of her four dresses, she had determined that only the calico skirt and black silk showroom dress were completely necessary, one for everyday wear and the other for calling. With some regret she had taken the superfluous dresses to the bazaar and sold them. It had seemed agonizingly coarse to argue with a clothes-stall woman over pecuniary matters, and Leda was painfully aware that she had not gotten the full value of her gabardine and silver-gray stockinette. She retained her good bonnet and left the boardinghouse at her usual early hour every morning, dressed in her calico, spending her days walking and scanning the papers and office windows for positions, always seeming to arrive after some employment office had just sent over an ideal candidate, or joining twenty other hopefuls queued up in a hallway, or finding that