Free Razorhurst by Justine Larbalestier

you’d bottle ’em and they’d barely blink! They’d keep coming at you, like nothing had happened. Might as well walk up to ’em and say,
Give me a hiding, please
.
    It would’ve taken at least two big men to surprise Palmer. Snowy worked alone. Everyone knew that.
    Palmer asked why he couldn’t touch anything. Kelpie didn’t say,
Because you’re dead, you arse-brained bugger
.
    He was so stupid he could have mistaken Snowy for someone else.
    Kelpie didn’t doubt that one of Mr. Davidson’s men had killedPalmer. Why wouldn’t Davidson’s men be killing Glory’s men? Or Glory’s killing Davidson’s? That’s what hard men did: killed each other.
    “Is that thing like me?” Palmer pointed to where the faded ghost wafted past him. “Is that where I’m heading? Turning into a wispy cloud trapped in someone’s kitchen?”
    Mrs. Darcy handed Dymphna a cloth, and she used it to dry herself.
    “How do I look?”
    Like an angel
, Kelpie thought. Dymphna had no scars or pimples or cysts or moles or warts or freckles. Her skin looked like it had never been touched by anything, not even the sun.
    “Too beautiful for this place,” Palmer said, scowling.
    “You’ll do,” Mrs. Darcy said, laying down the skirt. “I’ll get more water.”
    When she was gone, Dymphna said, “I’ll take good care of you. Unless you really want to stay here.”
    “Tell her about Snowy and Davidson,” Palmer said. “Before the old lady comes back.”
    Kelpie shook her head slightly, answering them both.
    “You’ll leave with me?”
    Kelpie nodded. Leaving with her didn’t mean
staying
with her.
    Outside was awake now. All the factory whistles had blown. The morning was filled with the splutter and roar and clip clop and buzz of automobiles and trucks and carts and horses and a thousand different conversations up and down the length of Foveaux and Albion, and Elizabeth Street too, with the hammering and shuddering and staccato whirr of sewing machines, giant fabric cutters, the thunderous clap of barrels at the brewery slammed together. Tommy might still be yelling at Kelpie from Belmore Lane, but she could no more hear it than she could hear a butterfly in the backyard.
    Dymphna stood and removed her torn stockings.
    “Look at those legs,” Palmer said. Kelpie did not look at them.
    “Those are done for,” Mrs. Darcy said, closing the door behind her and putting a fresh bowl of water in front of Dymphna. “Silk, eh?” She touched them reverently.
    Dymphna nodded. “Toss them. Plenty more where those came from.”
    Mrs. Darcy slipped them into her apron pocket. Kelpie was pretty sure she’d be keeping them.
    She handed Kelpie a cloth, a sliver of soap, and a bowl of water.Kelpie hated soap. It got into her scabs and cuts and made her eyes sting.
    She ignored the sliver, wetting the cloth with the icy water and rubbing at her face while watching Dymphna pick up her hat, brush the dust off, and carefully push the tiny thing back into shape. She borrowed Mrs. Darcy’s shears to trim the veil, then turned the hat around several times, adjusting it, dabbing at it with a cloth. When she put it down, the hat looked like nothing had happened to it.
    “She’s an artist,” Palmer said. “I bet she could make her own hats if she wanted to. Probably made that one.”
    Kelpie didn’t think so. It had a little label stitched inside. She’d seen them sewing labels into clothes in the factories on Foveaux. If you made something yourself, why would you put a label in it? She rubbed her hands together in the now-grey water.
    “There’s no fixing those,” Mrs. Darcy said, pointing at Dymphna’s gloves lying on the kitchen table. Two of the fingers were torn, and they were filthy. White gloves were stupid.
    “I won’t be a minute.” Mrs. Darcy went upstairs.
    “I will keep you safe,” Dymphna said.
    Kelpie said nothing, wishing there was more food.
    “She’ll do her best,” Palmer said. “But if you’d tell her about