“I think I’m lost,” he said, looking around. He avoided her eyes; that would spook her. “I’m looking for Emma Street, do you know where that is? The bakery, I’m supposed to pick up a white loaf for my wife.”

He shot her a puzzled smile. She didn’t smile back. But she didn’t run, either. He allowed himself to relax slightly. Feigning interest in the warehouse, he approached its open doorway. “Was this a bakery, do you think?” he asked.

“Bakery?” the girl replied scornfully. “Not unless you eat bricks. This’s the brickworks. Was.”

She hefted a brick and heaved it. He blinked as it smashed through another window. “Good aim,” he said.

For the first time she looked at him. Her braids had come undone, and she swiped her hair impatiently from her face. She had mistrustful blue eyes and appeared older than he’d first thought—thirteen at least. His fingers clenched and unclenched as he stared at her blue gingham dress, dusty and ripped from the fight with her sister. The torn bodice would be easy to stitch up, once he was back in his room.

“That wasn’t very nice, what your sister did,” he said.

She looked at him sharply. Then she laughed. “What are you, after Brigid? She’s with Lester now, you’ll be wasting your time.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“I seen you before, I think.” She yawned, raising her arms so that her dress slid up, exposing a fringe of torn petticoat and scabbed knees. “At McKracken’s there.”

“That’s right.” He nodded, withdrew a tin of lemon drops. He popped one into his mouth, closed the lid, and made to replace it in his pocket, before hesitating to glance at her. “I’m sorry—I should have offered. Care for one?”

“What is it?”

“Lemon drops.”

She made a face. “I don’t like ’em.”

“Me neither, usually,” he said. “But these are very good.”

Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the tin. “All right, I guess I’ll try one.”

She plucked out a lozenge and put it in her mouth. “Tastes like cherry,” she said, “not lemon.”

He offered her another. She chewed it and said, “This one’s nicer.”

“Please, help yourself.” He held out the tin.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, and grabbed a fistful.

Chapter 72

Chapter 72

DESPITE ITS FANCY name, the Comique wasn’t a movie palace like the Hippodrome, or even a nickelodeon like the Kansas Cyclone, with its piano accompanist and movie projected on sail canvas, but a long barnlike structure with a screen door that banged every time someone entered or left.

“Won’t be anyone here this early,” Pin said as she held the door for Glory. “Except for Gus.”