Chapter 48

She stares at me a moment longer and then nods. She knows I’ll not have that in here. I’ve stood up for her before, I have the scars to prove it—emotional scars that cut deeper than the scratches from McBane’s belt that cross my lower back, scars that ache worse than the bones he crushed in my wrist that never quite healed.

When another of the men calls out for service, I nod at Delia and whisper, “Go on. The sooner they’re fed, the sooner they’ll leave.”

Maeve twists her hands in her skirts and watches Delia push through the service door that leads behind the counter. “I’ll mind the soup,” she calls out, ever eager to please. She’s only fifteen, Delia’s charge, picked up from an alley not far from here one day some years back, and the child didn’t want to speak or eat or even live until Delia convinced her otherwise. Another war orphan, like the rest of us.