Free Razorhurst by Justine Larbalestier Page B

not, love. Your coat’s old. That bit of water washed away whatever it was that was holding it together.”
    Kelpie wasn’t convinced. That coat had to last her through the winter.
    Mrs. Darcy wiped her hands on her apron then started rubbing Kelpie dry with a towel. It hurt.
    “So many scabs. So many scars. You’re brown as an acorn. How long you been living wild, lass?”
    Kelpie didn’t say because she didn’t know. Most of her life. However long that had been. When Old Ma had been alive, Kelpie had known how old she was. Old Ma always lit a candle on her birthday. But then she died and only Snowy knew. He’d given her a woollen hat for her tenth birthday, but that had been … two winters ago? Or was it three? Kelpie didn’t think she could be thirteen yet.
    “How long since you had a proper wash?”
    Kelpie didn’t know that either. She’d dunked herself in the pond at Centennial Park many times last summer. But Miss Lee said that didn’t count ’cause there was no soap. She hadn’t had a wash with soap since Old Ma died.
    “We’re going to have to do something about her clothes,” Dymphna said, putting her finger through one of the holes in Kelpie’s coat. “Holes in all the pockets too. Where d’you keep your things?”
    Kelpie had hiding places. She wasn’t about to tell Dymphna about them.
    “All your clothes are falling apart. I can see your knees.”
    Kelpie looked at where they stuck through her trousers.
    Mrs. Darcy reached to undo the buttons. Kelpie stepped away. She wasn’t taking her clothes off.
    “She’s about the same height as my Seamus. I’ll get some of his clothes for her.”
    Kelpie scowled and hugged herself tighter.
    “You’re skinnier than he is, lass. His clothes can go over the top of yours. All right? You won’t have to take them off. You’ll be warmer that way too.”
    Mrs. Darcy returned with trousers, shirt, shoes and socks, and a coat that was bigger and warmer than hers.
    Kelpie started unbuttoning her own. The first button broke apart in her hand. She hadn’t touched those buttons in weeks. The second fell off. The third would have stayed, but the fabric around it disintegrated. Miss Lee had found this coat for her. It had been almost new. For a moment, Kelpie thought she might cry.
    Dymphna squeezed Kelpie’s hand as if she was her mum. Kelpie didn’t know what to make of it. She wanted to shake Dymphna off. She wasn’t a littlie who need comforting. But it felt nice too. Old Ma had held her hand.
    “I’ll wear his coat.”
    “How charitable,” Mrs. Darcy said, but she was smiling.

Snowy Fullerton
    Snowy Fullerton once punched a man twice his weight so hard that the man fell to the ground and didn’t get up again for hours. Snowy was strong, six foot four inches tall, and in a line of business that meant he was challenged all too often by hard men desperate to prove they were made of that fancy new metal, tungsten carbide.
    Always turned out they were more tin than steel.
    Snowy did not start fights. Nor did he hit anyone without provocation. If he believed it was an option, he’d’ve never hit anyone, let alone killed them. But working for Mr. Davidson was all he had ever known. Snowy had a long scar on his left cheek. Six inches long and half an inch thick. It stood up from his face almost a quarter inch. Claimed he cut himself shaving, but everyone knew different. Knew, too, that whoever did it was most likely six feet under. That or fish food.
    People called him Snowy because he bleached his tightly curled hair platinum blond. Because he was that tall his head was like a mountain top. Because you were more likely to get an answer from actual snow if you asked it a question than you were from Snowy. Because they thought it was funny. “Doesn’t make sense,” Tommy complained. “Snow’s white; Snowy ain’t.”
    No one laughed to Snowy’s face.
    Snowy always had food for Kelpie. Though she liked him best when it was peanuts or chocolate