Free Wicked as She Wants by Delilah S. Dawson Page A

door after us, the black cat twining around her legs. “If you succeed, remember where to find the greatest costumer in the world, eh?”
    I waved royally until Keen slapped my hand. “You’re not in a parade. Tone it down.”
    When I let out a warning hiss, Casper stepped between us. “She’s right. You’ve got to pretend you’re nobody.” And that’s when I was given the bags to carry and the trunk to pull. I was so furious at being treated like a servant that my palpable rage probably scared off more potential attackers than Casper’s walking cane and Keen’s blade.
    The walk to London’s southern gate was dark and dirty. The streets were mostly empty at night, aside from some Pinkies and Bludmen too dull with drink to note the danger all around. Singing and shouting carried on the heavy air, surging out from under the doors of orange-lit bars and inns. Bludrats hissed from every shadow, and sometimes screams would ring out, followed by the sound of rending flesh.
    We stuck to larger roads lit by an endless string of gas lamps. Most trouble avoided us, although Casper did have to club a scrawny old Bludman who staggered out from a dark alley, hands outstretched, muttering, “Oh, middlings. Dark and deep, dark and deep.” He fell to the ground, bleeding from the temple and mumbling tohimself with a toothless mouth. I had never seen anything more pathetic.
    After that, Casper hummed forcefully to himself, the same tune he’d been playing when he’d found me, the one about “Hey, Jude.” The song was becoming familiar to me, and I caught myself humming along once and quickly covered it up with a cough.
    As we walked farther and farther downhill, an ominous form loomed over us. Of course, I had heard of the huge walls the Pinkies erected around their cities in Sangland, but it was another thing entirely to find myself dwarfed by the ugly, imposing structure of brick and barbed wire. These fortifications had been designed to keep the monsters out—the bludstags, the bludbunnies, the wolves that were always crying with hunger. And they kept the soft, edible creatures safe inside—the cows and chickens and pigs, not to mention the Pinkies themselves.
    But it was hideous and unnatural, blotting out the stars like that, even if the sky was garbled with smoke and pollution from the factories and machinery. The celebrated city of London had shown me nothing but fear, repulsiveness, starvation, and horror, and I would not be sorry to leave it.
    As we passed a cattle lot, the fool creatures screamed and bawled and rolled their eyes, skittering away from me and huddling in the shadows, wearing shawls of their own droppings. My prey in Freesia had always been so elegant, so pretty and poised, wild animals and carefully groomed servants. These dumb creatures had nothing to fear from me, no matter how hungry I might have been. I still had standards.
    We finally entered the alley by the wall, and Casper led us along under its shadow.
    “Here are the rules,” he said. “For the bank and for whatever we find after that. Princess, you pretend to be a common Pinky. Deferential, meek, frightened even. Don’t speak unless you have to. And don’t stare too long at exposed skin, if anyone is stupid enough to have it. Do you have an alias?”
    “How about Anne Carol?” I could hear the sneer in Keen’s voice. I kept my face carefully blank and shrugged as if I didn’t care what they called me.
    Casper thought a moment. “That’ll do. Anne Carol it is.”
    He stopped and spun Keen around, nudging her under a gas lamp and using her skinny back as a writing desk for a piece of worn brown paper. He scribbled something with a brass fountain pen and waved the page in the air to dry the ink.
    “So that’s done. I’ll be posing as your uncle, since you look like you’re eighteen and have hair a similar color to mine now. I’m chaperoning you en route to a job as a governess to a baron’s house in Muscovy. I’m a