Beneath a collapsed thatched shelter, a small figure lay curled up on a damp pile of straw.
Six-year-old Irene had a fever.
Her short hair clung to her flushed cheeks, and her left hand still clutched the small piece of black bread her brother had begged for the night before.
He had gone hungry to save it for her.
She had come down with a fever after getting soaked in the rain last night. It had lasted all day, and now her lips were cracked and pale. She could barely swallow food.
The high fever left Irene's mind hazy.
In her daze, she seemed to see her mother smiling at her. "Mama... water..."
The simple words set off a fit of muffled coughing in her throat. Her blue eyes were veiled by the haze of fever.
From afar came the sound of uneven footsteps.
They drew closer and closer.
Irene struggled to lift her heavy eyelids. Instinctively, she shoved the bread into the most hidden pocket of her ragged coat.
It was for her brother. She couldn't let anyone take it.
A cane planted itself right in front of her.
Irene struggled to raise her head.
Reflected in her deep blue eyes was a wide grin and a pair of eyes staring at her greedily.
"Little thing... come with Grandpa..."
The man's rotten, alcohol-laden breath washed over Irene's face, but she no longer had the strength to turn away.
"Get away from her, Old Cripple! Stay away from my sister!"
Billy suddenly burst through a hole in the shelter, like a tiny beast driven into a frenzy. He clutched a sharp piece of broken roof tile, his thin frame shielding Irene.
Old Cripple stumbled back a step, irritation flashing in his cloudy eyes.
He grinned, baring his yellow, rotten teeth. "You little brat, what good will it do to protect her? She's dying anyway. You might as well sell her to Old Parker and get a few pennies to fill your belly..."
"Shut up!"
Billy's hand shook around the tile with fear, but he stood firmly in front of Irene. "Touch her, and I'll cut your throat!"
"You think you can?"
Old Cripple laughed darkly and slammed his cane against the ground. "You little bastard, just wait till Scarface gets back. Let's see if he doesn't break your legs—"
Before he could finish, a rough curse rang out in the distance. The other children in the shelter scattered in every direction like startled rats.
Billy's expression changed.
Scarface was back, and from the sound of it, he seemed especially bad-tempered today.
Irene coughed weakly, her little hand trembling as she tugged at Billy's trouser leg. "Brother... run..."
Billy gritted his teeth and glanced down at his sister's burning-red face.
He knew that if they didn't escape now, Scarface would sell Irene. He might even toss her straight into one of the filthy ditches in the slums.
Billy abruptly bent down and scooped Irene up.
His thin arms could barely bear her weight, but he held her tight and turned to squeeze through the hole behind the shelter.
Old Cripple roared and reached for them, but Billy kicked him in the knee. The old man stumbled and fell.
Just as Billy was about to get away, a scarred hand shot out and seized him by the hair.
The ten-year-old boy was dragged from the shelter like a rag doll.
The pain in his scalp made Billy's vision go black, but he didn't loosen his hold on his sister.
Billy was slammed hard onto the ground. A coin jingled as it rolled out through a hole in his trouser leg. Struggling to lift his head, he saw Irene crawling toward him through his blurred vision.
Scarface sneered and planted a foot on Billy's back, pinning him in place.
"Little thing, your brother can't afford to keep you anymore." He bent to pick up the coin, flipping it between his fingers. "Look at that. A whole day has passed, and all he's managed to steal is one shilling."
Scarface's mockery cut like a dull blade scraping against bone. Despair filled Irene's eyes.
"Your brother didn't keep his promise."
Irene shook her head desperately, broken sobs spilling from her throat. "No... please... I don't want to leave my brother..."
Pinned beneath Scarface's foot, Billy struggled so hard his fingernails dug into the mud. "Let her go!"
Scarface only scoffed. "You've got some grit."
A short club slammed into Billy's back. In front of Irene, Scarface grabbed him by the nape and lifted him into the air like a butcher hoisting a rabbit for slaughter.
"But don't worry, lucky girl. A well-dressed gentleman has taken a liking to you. You'll live, and you might even get the good life you've dreamed of."
At that, Old Cripple, who had been watching the show, paled. "Scarface, you promised me..."
"Shut up, you old beast!"
Scarface dropped Billy, then sprang forward and kicked Old Cripple into the mud. "Listen, the children here can be bought for work, but not to fill your filthy pit!"
He swung his club and slammed it against a rusty iron barrel beside him. The deafening clang sent a chill through the air.
"I'd sooner feed her to the fish in the River Thames myself."
Old Cripple struggled to prop himself up and spat on the ground. "Scarface, stop pretending you're some kind of good man. We're all rats in the gutter. What business is it of yours what I buy her for?"
"I've already made a deal with Madam Martha of the George Inn. I'm supposed to bring her a clean girl."
At that, Scarface's eyes turned cold.
"I don't care what deal you made. But if you're on my turf, you follow my rules!"
"Of course, of course. I only hoped to get a bargain." Frightened by Scarface's vicious stare, Old Cripple immediately put on an ingratiating smile. "Maybe that sickly little brat won't even get better, and I'll have thrown my money away."
"Get lost."
Scarface waved him away in disgust.
"I'm going, I'm going!" Old Cripple picked up his cane and crawled toward the entrance, hunched over. As he turned, a spiteful glint flashed in his eyes.
Damn Scarface!
He'd make sure to badmouth him to Madam Martha later and make the arrogant bastard regret turning him down.
Old Cripple used his cane to slowly get to his feet.
He was just about to leave when a brick struck him squarely in the forehead.
"Who...?" Old Cripple swayed. His eyes rolled shut, and he collapsed onto the ground.
Scarface noticed something was wrong and spun around.
He was about to call for his men when a flying throwing knife shot down and buried itself in the ground beside his foot.
The men rushing out with clubs stopped in their tracks.
The children in the shelter stirred. A few of the older ones even leaned halfway out, eyes alight with excitement.
Billy scrambled to his feet and hugged Irene. They huddled in the straw, peering through a tiny gap with wide blue eyes, astonishment and hope in their gazes.
"Police! Hands in the air!"
A tall, slender figure stood at the mouth of the alley.
He was a young man in his early twenties. His black trench coat snapped in the wind, and he held a revolver in his hand.
Beside him, a squad of police officers in blue uniforms spread out in a fan. Their leader, a middle-aged man in a brown overcoat, surveyed the shelter. When he saw the children trembling in the corner, his expression changed at once.
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