Free The Whatnot by Stefan Bachmann Page A

getting away, away from wars and faery hunters and horrid people like Missus Jackinpots. He wasn’t going to give up now.
    Forcing down his fear, he said, “I do have business, guvn’or. I got something to sell to you.” And then he opened his hand and held up the gem for all to see. It came to light, pale gray and glimmering. Beautiful as ever.
    The gentleman leaned in. The three ladies did as well, and they smelled like such a draft of pomegranates and cold soap and powdered petals that for an instant Pikey thought he might sneeze. Then Mr. Millipede (because that was who the gentleman was) plucked the gem from Pikey’s hand. He pulled a mechanical monocle from a little drawer behind the counter and fitted it to his eye. The monocle clicked as it focused, the lenses swiveling and realigning. The ladies stepped back, whispering among themselves.
    Mr. Millipede stared through the lenses for several seconds. His tongue darted out, running over his lips. Then he took the monocle from his eye and snapped it shut.
    â€œWhere did you get this?” he asked. His voice was very high and very strained.
    The question made Pikey’s arms go to gooseflesh. He hadn’t really thought that anyone would ask him this. If he had stolen the gem, he would have understood. Then he would have been guilty and he would have invented a whole web of lies and tales to protect himself. But he hadn’t stolen the gem. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was suddenly aware of how he must look to the gentleman, to the shopkeeper’s assistant and the ladies. All muddy and snowy and pathetically hungry. His heart pounded. He hoped they couldn’t see it beating against the filthy wool of his jacket.
    â€œSomeone gave it to me,” he said. “As a gift.”
    Mr. Millipede arched an eyebrow. “A gift. Of course. Well, you must be quite the wonderful boy to get such a fine gift. Do follow me, and let’s do business.”
    That was more like it. It was quite a fine gem, after all, and if Mr. Millipede was too good to pay for it, Pikey could always bring it to a different jeweler.
    Pikey followed the gentleman, stalking past the three ladies with as much dignity as he could gather. They turned their heads to watch him pass, the feathers in their hats fluttering.
    â€œThis way, if you please,” Mr. Millipede said, ushering Pikey down a corridor, past a great brass speaking machine. “To the money room.” They stopped at a door at the end of the corridor. The jeweler unlocked it and gave a little bow as it creaked open.
    Pikey peered in. The room was dark and square and very small. One grimy window looked out from high up in the wall. The floor was a jumble of old crates and chairs and portraits wrapped in string and wax paper.
    Money room, my foot.
    Pikey turned to tell the gentleman exactly that, and then Mr. Millipede shoved him. Pikey flew forward, banging to his knees. The door slammed behind him and the key clanked in the lock.
    â€œHoy!” Pikey shouted, whirling and beating his fists against the door. “Hoy, what— Help! Kidnappers, help me !”
    He kicked and yelled and rattled the handle. The ladies would hear. They were such a little ways away. They couldn’t possibly not hear him.
    He leaned his head against the door, listening. No sound. No sound of ladies hurrying down the corridor to rescue him. No shrieks, or shouts of shock and outrage. The only thing he heard was the whirr of the speaking machine as Mr. Millipede cranked its handle, and the brass ping as the call went through.
    â€œYes. Yes, Mr. Millipede’s, Number 41, Dover Street.” The gentleman’s voice had lost all its politeness. It was brisk and businesslike, and it made Pikey want to punch the jeweler in his horrid, false face. “A guttersnipe brought it in. . . . Lady Halifax’s . . . stolen . . . Come right away.”
    Then Pikey wanted to punch