He liked having her around; she knew he did. He was friendly and kind, and they got on proper well. It made it all the worse that her heart broke so easily at knowing there weren’t likely to be anything more between them than that. She’d have given almost anything to have a bit of kindness these past years. From anyone else, it would’ve been more than enough.

Three days after starting the job Móirín had found for her, three days of pleasant evenings with Baz that never tiptoed beyond a comfortable friendship, Gemma ended her workday early and spent a few of her coins to take a hackney to Southwark, a place she’d vowed she’d never return to. She and Baz had been invited to supper at the Donnellys’ flat and planned to meet there in the evening. This was her best chance of making a much-needed journey south of the Thames with no one the wiser.

Gemma asked to be let down a bit away from her actual destination, not wanting to risk rigging the jig. She walked down the street, knowing how to avoid attention. The Kincaids were brilliant at it. A person could be jaunting down the pavement and not realize a member of her infamous family was within arms’ length. Gemma was as good at it as the rest of them. Some families passed down heirlooms; hers bestowed on their children a talent for criminality.

Why wouldn’t Baz be ecstatic to tie himself to that for a lifetime? she asked herself dryly.

Gemma eyed the people she passed, though none of them noticed her. Her father was dead, but he had two brothers who were still living. He’d never been the most dangerous of the three. It’d be best not to cross paths with either of her uncles if she could help it.

She slipped around the back of the workhouse, following Marshalsea Road to a quieter area, a darker area, a corner of Southwark where people could hide with ease. Blimey, but there were a lot of dark corners.

With her hands in her coat pockets, she likely looked as if she were trying to keep warm, when, like any South Londoner with half a brain, she had a chiv in her pocket. Knives were handy things, especially when wandering the back alleys.

And, like any South Londoner who’d been brought up by the Kincaids, she ducked down the first back alley she came to. The dim passage led to another—one with a low brick arch and rooms built above. The only points of light were at either end.

The arched walkway spilled into a walled courtyard, overgrown with weeds and grass, without a single cobblestone or bit of discarded glass to remind Mother Nature that London was no place for her. Few people came to this hidden bit of the city. And those who did were careful to leave no trace.