Free Curse of the Midions by Brad Strickland

swipe the hair out of his eyes. “Never show a tipper your ticket, or you’ll get nipped sure’s anything. But if anybody else gives you any bother, just flash it and tell’em you’re off work right now and runnin’ some errands for Master Cook, right?”
    As long as they didn’t go out after curfew, the two boys could wander around the crowded streets with something like invisibility. The beaten-down people creeping to or from work seemed too exhausted even to give them a glance, and the Toffs pointedly ignored them. Jarvey soon got the hang of recognizing the Toffs, the well-dressed men and women whose carriages rumbled over the cobblestones, drawn by horses that looked healthier than most of the people. Now and again, Charley would grandly rush to open a door for a rich-looking man and woman, sweeping his cap away from his tangled hair and crooning, “Remember the porter, governor!” And sometimes, not very often, the man would drop a small coin into his cap without looking directly at the dirty, grinning Charley. With a wink, Charley said, “Never go for a man alone, or worse a woman alone, mate. Couples are the ticket. A man wants to show off a bit before his lady, see? A woman alone, she’d scream for a tipper, and a gent alone would clout you with his walkin’ stick. But couples, they’re easy pickings.”
    The two boys could wander into a storehouse where wagons of vegetables or pastries waited to be unloaded, with Charley bawling, “Robertson? Got a message for a Robertson! Robertson, are you here?”
    And sometimes a Robertson would call out, “Hey, over here!” It always turned out to be the wrong one, though. Charley would ask, “Are you Artemus Fairweather Robertson, then?” No, he was Bob Robertson, or George Robertson, or some other Robertson. While Charley created the diversion, Jarvey would snatch something, a couple of apples, even a head of cabbage, while no one was looking. A cabbage was dinner. Potatoes were a celebration. A sweet roll was heaven.
    Nights chilled them in the walled-off alley, because their fire had to be very small. Gradually the kids of Betsy’s gang accumulated blankets, old cast-off rags, even bolts of cloth stolen from under the Toffs’ noses, to create a kind of unruly nest where they could all burrow for warmth.
    But Betsy was a hard, demanding leader. At night, when Jarvey felt ready to drop, she would have him tell her about his day, criticize his decisions and his movements, and demand that he think of some way to use the book.
    â€œI can’t,” he told her one evening weeks after they had made their move. “Look.” He pulled the book from its hiding place and handed it to her. “Open it,” he told her.
    She jerked her hands off the book as if it had suddenly caught fire. “You crazy, Jarvey? This thing could send me to—”
    â€œTry,” Jarvey said wearily. “You’ll see what I mean.”
    Betsy was nothing if not brave. She glared at him, the firelight gleaming in her green eyes, and then said, “Right, then.” She took one deep breath, grasped the book, and then drew in a sharp gasp of surprise. “What’s wrong with it?”
    â€œYou can’t open it,” Jarvey told her. “I can’t either.”
    â€œIt’s like a solid block,” Betsy said, running her finger over the edges of the book’s pages. “Like it’s glued shut. Reckon it takes art to open?”
    â€œIt must take something,” Jarvey said. “But I don’t know what it is. And I can’t think of any way of finding out, except one.” He shivered. He didn’t want Betsy to ask the question that he knew she would ask.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIt’s the Midion Grimoire,” he said in a low, unwilling voice. “And you said one person here knows how to use it.”
    â€œNibs,” Betsy