usually were.
‘All right, Rag?’ Chirpy asked with his usual smile. Migs was silent as ever, looking out from beneath the long fringe that fell down almost to his nose.
‘Yeah,’ Rag answered, but she knew she wasn’t. Another failed day in the market meant they had another night with nothing to eat. She could only hope that Fender would bring them something later – if he decided to come back at all.
Tidge climbed into the shack and sat beside her, resting his head on her arm. She hugged him close, looking through the cracks in the wall of the shack and out across the city.
Below, from the streets surrounding the inn, came the sound of the corner girls plying their trade, their sweet voices full of promise and allure. Rag felt both disgust and envy. She resented them for giving their bodies away so easily, degrading themselves for a few coins, but deep down she knew they only did it to survive; if they had an alternative they’d take it. She was jealous too – jealous that she’d been born so pig ugly, so awkward and unsightly. There was no way she’d make any money on the street corner even if she could lower herself enough to try. Not that she ever would.
Back in the dim past, Rag’s mother had been a corner whore – and a beautiful one too. They had lived in a room back then. Not a big room, and it was none too clean, but they had a roof and walls and it was warm. There’d been food on the table and all Rag had to do was make herself scarce while her mother did the business. She’d been called Morag then, Morag Rounsey; a real name for a real girl. That had all changed after her mother met the man from Silverwall. He wore fancy clothes, had a sweet smell about him and flashed his pennies around like he was someone that mattered. Rag’s mother had told her she was going off with the man, back to Silverwall to be with him, but she’d return soon enough to take Morag with her. Then they’d both move to Silverwall to live with the fancy bloke in his fancy house.
Rag had stayed in that room for days – she couldn’t remember how many. After a while the landlord come to turf her out; she didn’t have any coin and where her mother was weren’t none of his problem, any road. She’d hung round the building for weeks after, always waiting, begging for scraps, selling what little she had left for food. It was a while before she realised her mother weren’t ever coming back.
And so she’d become Rag, a thief and a beggar. She’d learned harsh lessons – who were your friends and who weren’t, where to go and where not, who to thieve from and who to avoid – and now here she was with a crew of her own, for what they were worth. Orphans all, and none of them any good at stealing, apart from Fender of course, but they were her crew, and they loved each other in their own way. She felt like they were family and she’d do what she could to look after them for as long as she was able.
A sudden noise made her jump up. Tidge gave a squeal as he fell sideways, and Chirpy and Migs grabbed each other even tighter.
Rag moved to the doorway and peered out. Relief washed over her as she saw Markus walking across the roof. He gave a wave and a smile.
Markus entered their shack with a jolly ‘hello’, sitting on the little woodpile and looking round as if he was one of them, as if he belonged. It was obvious to anyone with half an eye that he didn’t. The boy was clean for a start … well certainly cleaner than any of the street kids he was sitting with. His clothes had no holes and had been washed within the past week and his hands weren’t grimed with filth, the nails white, not black from scrabbling through garbage for food. He’d been hanging round with them for weeks, and Rag hadn’t seen the harm in it. He wasn’t an orphan; he lived with his father in the Trades Quarter, but Rag had found him wandering the streets, sad and alone like a lost puppy. Of course she’d taken him under her wing –
‘All right, Rag?’ Chirpy asked with his usual smile. Migs was silent as ever, looking out from beneath the long fringe that fell down almost to his nose.
‘Yeah,’ Rag answered, but she knew she wasn’t. Another failed day in the market meant they had another night with nothing to eat. She could only hope that Fender would bring them something later – if he decided to come back at all.
Tidge climbed into the shack and sat beside her, resting his head on her arm. She hugged him close, looking through the cracks in the wall of the shack and out across the city.
Below, from the streets surrounding the inn, came the sound of the corner girls plying their trade, their sweet voices full of promise and allure. Rag felt both disgust and envy. She resented them for giving their bodies away so easily, degrading themselves for a few coins, but deep down she knew they only did it to survive; if they had an alternative they’d take it. She was jealous too – jealous that she’d been born so pig ugly, so awkward and unsightly. There was no way she’d make any money on the street corner even if she could lower herself enough to try. Not that she ever would.
Back in the dim past, Rag’s mother had been a corner whore – and a beautiful one too. They had lived in a room back then. Not a big room, and it was none too clean, but they had a roof and walls and it was warm. There’d been food on the table and all Rag had to do was make herself scarce while her mother did the business. She’d been called Morag then, Morag Rounsey; a real name for a real girl. That had all changed after her mother met the man from Silverwall. He wore fancy clothes, had a sweet smell about him and flashed his pennies around like he was someone that mattered. Rag’s mother had told her she was going off with the man, back to Silverwall to be with him, but she’d return soon enough to take Morag with her. Then they’d both move to Silverwall to live with the fancy bloke in his fancy house.
Rag had stayed in that room for days – she couldn’t remember how many. After a while the landlord come to turf her out; she didn’t have any coin and where her mother was weren’t none of his problem, any road. She’d hung round the building for weeks after, always waiting, begging for scraps, selling what little she had left for food. It was a while before she realised her mother weren’t ever coming back.
And so she’d become Rag, a thief and a beggar. She’d learned harsh lessons – who were your friends and who weren’t, where to go and where not, who to thieve from and who to avoid – and now here she was with a crew of her own, for what they were worth. Orphans all, and none of them any good at stealing, apart from Fender of course, but they were her crew, and they loved each other in their own way. She felt like they were family and she’d do what she could to look after them for as long as she was able.
A sudden noise made her jump up. Tidge gave a squeal as he fell sideways, and Chirpy and Migs grabbed each other even tighter.
Rag moved to the doorway and peered out. Relief washed over her as she saw Markus walking across the roof. He gave a wave and a smile.
Markus entered their shack with a jolly ‘hello’, sitting on the little woodpile and looking round as if he was one of them, as if he belonged. It was obvious to anyone with half an eye that he didn’t. The boy was clean for a start … well certainly cleaner than any of the street kids he was sitting with. His clothes had no holes and had been washed within the past week and his hands weren’t grimed with filth, the nails white, not black from scrabbling through garbage for food. He’d been hanging round with them for weeks, and Rag hadn’t seen the harm in it. He wasn’t an orphan; he lived with his father in the Trades Quarter, but Rag had found him wandering the streets, sad and alone like a lost puppy. Of course she’d taken him under her wing –
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