Her November, a newsies fanfic

Her November

Her November

By Princess MacEaver

**Disclaimer** Newsies and all its characters belong to Disney and I am shamelessly ripping it off. Hey Mr. Disney-lawyer man, this will not be making me any money so please don't sue. Also, all original characters—you know which ones those are—belong to me. ~Princess

Dorothea rolled over onto her stomach and flipped the page eagerly. Any page now they were sure to reveal the murderer… Oh, that French maid had done it, she could feel it in the pit of her stomach. Dorothea bit her lip. That detective talked too much! Wouldn't he just announce Lucille had done it already? She jumped when a knock came at the door.

"Miss Dorothea?"

Dorothea quickly shoved the forbidden mystery novel under her pillow. "Coming," she called, rolling off the bed and shaking out her skirts.

The door opened a crack and Katie's large dark eyes peeked into the room. "Miss Dorothea, it's time for your walk."

Dorothea cast a look at the dreary wintry scene outside her window and made a face. "In this weather?"

"It's stopped snowing, Miss Dorothea, and your father said every day…"

"I know," Dorothea interrupted, still looking out at the snow banks that lined the street in front of her house, the icicles that had formed on her wrought-iron gate. She sighed resignedly and followed the maid down the marble staircase to the front door. Katie lifted Dorothea's heavy black cloak from its hook and settled it over Dorothea's shoulders. Dorothea stood still as Katie's long brown fingers fastened it at the neck with a large brooch.

"Your gloves, Miss Dorothea," Katie said quietly, and Dorothea accepted them and pulled each one on listlessly. "And your muff, Miss." Dorothea obediently looped the muff's ribbon around her wrist. "Are we ready to leave then, Miss Dorothea?" the maid inquired.

"Yes, Katie," she replied reluctantly, and let George open the door for her. Despite her nine layers of clothing, she shivered when a cold gust of wind blew by and hurriedly pulled the hood of her cloak up over her flaxen-blond curls. This is supposed to keep me well, Dorothea thought to herself, slipping her hands into her muff, but you'd think in weather like this I'm bound to get ill all over again. When she had first returned from the sanatorium where she had spent the last two years, she hadn't minded the daily walk her father insisted on her taking. But that had been back in September, and now that it was November the weather had suddenly turned harsh. She couldn't remember it being so cold spending the last winter in the Adirondacks, but then she had been bedridden and always next to a blazing fireplace.

"Quickly, Miss Dorothea," Katie politely reminded her mistress, and Dorothea picked up the pace obligingly. The sooner they circled the pond, the sooner she would be back home and could cuddle with her cat by a crackling fire. Gert would make hot cocoa, and, if her father wasn't home to catch her, she could finish the novel she had left waiting. It was a nice thought and Dorothea almost felt warmer just imagining it.

They followed the lane of maple trees around the pond and Dorothea automatically glanced up at the water. "It's frozen over, hasn't it," she observed, noticing the skaters on its surface.

"Yes, Miss Dorothea," Katie replied dutifully, but Dorothea wasn't paying attention to her maid. She cupped a gloved hand over her face and blew hot air into it, warming up her frozen nose, and stared out at the lake. She was too far away to actually see the skaters very well, but it looked like they were having great fun. She tried to visualize herself out on the ice with them, wearing little white skates with buttons up the side, gliding beside her fellow skaters in the wide circle. Maybe twirling arm and arm with a young gentleman, the crisp cold air fogging as they laughed.

"Do you think father would let me do that?" she asked doubtfully, her mind on the fictional young man, though the maid assumed she referred to ice-skating.

Katie pursed her lips and managed to look much older than her nineteen years. "You'll have to ask him."

Dorothea sighed and turned away from the lake. Everything she'd ever wanted to do, her father had always said she was too young. Now that she was sixteen and rightfully old enough to do what she wanted, his excuse was that she was too ill. "Now Dorothea," he'd say sternly, "I only want what is best for my daughter. The last thing you want is to get ill again and have to go back to Saranac Lake." Then she would sigh and duck her head and wonder if her time spent at the sanatorium had really been that bad. True, her first months had been dull, as she stayed in bed all day and the only entertainment her father had sent her with was an embroidery hoop and a collection of boring novels, like those terrible Jane Austens. But once she was well enough to get out bed, she had met her first real friends, fellow patients like herself. Sam had taught her all the new dances, and Francine had had an easel and paints that she was very generous with, and Gregory had a huge collection of mystery novels, the first books she had ever enjoyed. When it came time for Dorothea to go home, he gave her all the ones he knew she had liked the best. He knew Dorothea's father wasn't the type to let her read anything but 'literature'.

Dorothea was blinking back sudden tears when an unexpected gust of wind almost knocked her off her feet.

"Careful, Miss Dorothea," Katie cautioned, taking Dorothea's elbow.

"I'm fine," Dorothea replied, gritting her teeth and jerking her arm away. She wasn't so frail that she could actually be blown away by a little breeze. Katie only tried to be kind, she knew, but the constant fretting and warning drove her mad. And if she heard 'Miss Dorothea' one more time, she would scream. Dorothea shivered again and tried to walk even more quickly, burying her hands in her thick furry muff. "Can't we go home now?" she asked Katie.

Katie shook her head. "Once around the path, you know that. It keeps your legs strong and your lungs clear."

They're my legs, and my lungs, Dorothea thought fiercely. Her stupid lungs. If it weren't for them, she could be out on the ice like everyone else. Or would her father just make up a new excuse to keep her from having fun? Her shoulders slumped and she stared at her feet, counting the steps as they circled the lake, her light blue skirts flaring out with every tiny step of her dainty black boots.

Two hundred and four, two hundred and five, two hundred and six—she heard a shout and her head snapped up.

"What was that?"

"What was what, Miss Dorothea?" Katie asked, concerned.

Dorothea paused on the path. Hadn't she heard something? She pushed her hood away from her ear and listened closely. A shout came again and she was convinced she wasn't imagining it. She spun and raced in its direction, and Katie followed helplessly.

"Miss Dorothea! You mustn't run! Miss Dorothea!"

Dorothea ignored Katie's shouts and veered off the path, hoping she was heading in the right direction. Her boots crunched on the frosty ground and branches stung her face as she whipped by, but she heard another shout and kept running. Finally she saw what she had been looking for. A few feet away from the lake's edge there was a jagged hole in the ice. And someone's hand waved desperately above it before it slipped under the frigid black water.

"Miss, Miss Dorothea," Katie panted, running up behind Dorothea and clutching her side. "Your lungs… Your father…"

To the devil with her lungs and her father! "A branch, grab a branch," she commanded frantically, running to the edge of the lake and leaving Katie bewildered. Realizing Katie was helpless, Dorothea cast her muff aside, picked up a branch off the ground and knelt as close to the ice as she could get, peering into the dark water. "Run and get help, Katie!"

"But, but—" Katie stammered, confused.

"Just run!" Dorothea snapped, and the maid took off. Dorothea couldn't guess whether Katie was running to the police or to tattle to her father, and she didn't care. There was someone under the ice, and she had to help. She watched the hole with bated breath and prayed the hand would reemerge. Suddenly the water began to churn again and a head burst out of the water. It was a boy of about eleven, gasping for air and fighting to keep his head above water.

"Oh thank God," Dorothea whispered, stepping to the edge of the snow. "Grab on," she urged him anxiously, thrusting the branch toward the boy. He reached up for it, but when his arms stopped thrashing in the water he sank back below the surface. Dorothea panicked. "Somebody help!" she shouted. "Somebody!" Her voice cracked and she blinked several times fast. She was going to have to try to save him herself.

She threw the branch aside and tried to make her way down to the ice. Her foot slipped and she fell onto the lake. Fortunately, the ice supported her slight weight, and she crawled nearer to the hole on her hands and knees. Dark cracks spread around the hole in every direction, looking just like a spider web- or a net, laying in wait to snare Dorothea and pull her down too. She bit her lip with fear but crawled as near as she dared, her knees going numb through her skirts. An instant later, the boy's head reappeared, a frightening shade of blue above the water's white froth.

"I'm going to try to grab you," Dorothea told him, fighting to keep the tremble out of her voice. "Stay above the water as long as you can." She slid herself forward a little bit and plunged her arms down into the water. She gasped with the cold of it, a freezing firey sensation surging up through her veins. She bit her lip and, with every ounce of strength she had, fought to pull the kicking boy out of the water.

She shrieked as the ice below her cracked loudly and began to give way. Her arms still firmly around the boy's chest, she tried pulling him up again, but she felt the icy water surround her knees, soaking through her dress. Panicked, she let go of the boy, but fell forward anyway. Time seemed to stop as she saw the dark hole looming before her, looking all the world like a gaping mouth, surrounded by giant jagged teeth, ready and eager to swallow her. But before she splashed into the water, two strong arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her backwards. She collapsed against the firm ice and breathed hard. She had just seen her life flash before her eyes before she joined the boy in his icy trap. Was the boy still in there? Had her rescuer grabbed him too?

"I— I —" she stammered, her eyes filling with hot tears as she clambered to her knees. "The boy—"

"Hold da goyl!" a male voice shouted, and Dorothea felt someone grab her arm and pull her back. Bewildered, she turned to see a small black boy kneeling on the ice beside her, skates slung over his shoulder and a cap pulled low over his eyes.

"It's okay, lady," he told her comfortingly. "Don' worry 'bout it. Jack's gettin' 'im, see?"

Dorothea obediently looked toward the jagged hole, where a boy slightly older than herself was pulling the victim out of the ice. Another boy, kneeling a safe distance away from the cracks that spanned the ice, held a rope that was secured around the rescuer's waist. The older boy took the young boy in his arms and crawled over to the snow bank, out of harm's way. The boy holding the rope, the black boy, and Dorothea all followed. In a dazed, disconnected way, as she struggled to take everything else in, Dorothea noticed that a light snow was beginning to fall.

"Is 'e okay, Cowboy?" the boy with the rope asked as they clustered around him. Dorothea started as she saw for the first time that his left eye was covered with a brown patch.

"Chance'll be fine," the boy called Jack assured them, but he didn't look very confident. The rescued boy lay perfectly still except for his violent trembling. His numerous freckles faded into his ghostly-pale skin. It didn't look good. "But we gotta get him someplace warm quick," Jack added, and lifted Chance into his arms. The boy's head lolled back, and Jack cradled it close to his chest.

"Gimme yer coat, Boots," Jack said, his own teeth chattering slightly as the lake water soaked through his jacket. The black boy quickly began to unbutton it, but Dorothea interrupted.

"Here," she offered through chattering teeth, her numb fingers working on the brooch at her neck. "Mine's warmer." She finally got the clasp undone and slipped the heavy cloak off her shoulders. No one protested as she bundled it around Chance.

"T'anks," Jack said, tucking the cloak tighter around the boy in his arms. Dorothea wrapped her arms around her chest and tried not to shiver, but her soaked sleeves were so cold, and the snow was catching in her hair… Her father would most certainly not approve.

"Heah, take mine," the eye patch boy insisted, placing his coat around her shoulders. It wasn't much better than nothing at all, but Dorothea was grateful. The snow was falling thicker and faster, turning the sky into a white blur around them.

"We takin' him to da hospital, Jack?" Boots piped up as they set off hurrying through the snow.

"We ain't nevah gettin' dat far in dis weathah," Jack responded, shaking his head as a gust of wind blew the snow into their faces.

"Da nuns, den?" the other boy suggested.

"I think our best bet is da lodgin' house," Jack said firmly.

"Da lodgin' house? But who's gonna take care a him?"

Jack turned to Dorothea, who had been following silently. "You know anythin' about takin' care of a sick kid?"

Dorothea was about to respond with a firm "no", but then she saw the hopeful look on each boy's face. She hesitated. "I guess I could try," she said uncertainly, tugging the coat tighter around her.

"We'll just hafta trust in da goyl heah, den," Jack said. "What's your name?"

"I'm Dorothea," she replied. "Dorothea Graveston."

"I'm Jack. Also known as Cowboy. Dat's Boots, an' dat's Blink," he told her, jerking his head to each of the other boys in turn. "You'll meet da othas at da lodging house."

"Is it far to your lodging house?" Dorothea asked, raising her voice to be heard over the shrieking wind.

"Not too far," Blink said. "Closa dan da church or da hospital." The other two nodded grimly.

"Heah, just up dis way," Boots said, pointing. Dorothea looked but couldn't see anything but snow, snow all around them.

"Boots, you run ahead. Get dat cot set up by da fiahplace. An' make shoah dere's a fiah goin'. If Kloppman's around, get 'im to make Chance somethin' hot to eat," Jack commanded.

"Alright," Boots agreed readily, and took off through the snow, disappearing into the white in an instant. Watching him run reminded Dorothea of her maid running for help. Had she found help? Was she now at the lake, wondering where Dorothea had gone? Would she get in trouble for leaving her mistress alone in such danger? Did her father know yet that she couldn't be found? Her mind was in a turmoil for the last few blocks before they arrived at the boys' home. She was glad to get out of the wet cold and inside the warm brick building.

Boys milled all around, clamoring to know what happened as soon as Jack walked through the door, Chance in his arms. "Blink, you fill 'em in," Jack ordered immediately. "I'll get Chance to da room. An' you, Miss Graveston, come wit me."

"Call me Dorothea," she said impulsively, following him down a narrow hallway.

"Alright," he agreed, and pushed open the door with his elbow. A boy Dorothea hadn't seen before was stoking a blazing fire, and Boots was spreading white sheets over a rusty cot. "Whatta we do now, Jack?" he asked as they entered the room.

Jack turned to Dorothea. "You're in charge, Dorothea. What do we do?"

"We'll need blankets," she replied promptly. "And some dry clothes."

"Alright. So Boots, you get all da blankets you can from upstairs. An' you, Mush," Jack told the boy by the fire, "gimme dat shirt a yours." Boots left to follow orders and Mush obediently began to unbutton his shirt. Dorothea turned to finish tucking in the sheets, but the boy's bare chest caught her eye and she found herself staring. Her eyes widened but she quickly looked away. She kept herself distracted by hanging the wet cloak and the jacket she wore next to the fire to dry. She only turned back around when Chance was in the dry shirt and Jack had sent Mush out to get re-dressed.

"What now?" he asked, pulling the sheets up to Chance's chin. Chance continued to tremble and his eyelashes fluttered slightly.

Dorothea searched her mind for ways to warm him up fast. "Do you have any brandy?" she asked.

"Not personally," Jack replied, grinning.

"I mean—" Dorothea started, but Jack interrupted her.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. I'll go raid Kloppman's cabinets. I'll be back." Jack left Dorothea and Chance alone in the room. Chance coughed again and Dorothea knelt by his side.

She placed her hand on his forehead. He trembled but smiled up at her, jaw chattering.

"I remember you," he told her, his speech slightly slurred. "You'se da angel."

Dorothea smoothed his damp hair back from his face and shook her head. "I'm no angel."

"Well, ya look like one," he said frankly, and shut his eyes. It was true. Even with her hair wind-blown and bedraggled around her face, her nose red and cheeks flushed with cold, she looked as sweet and innocent as an angel. She had gentle blue eyes, delicate blond lashes, rosy lips, and an ivory complexion. A golden halo wouldn't have seemed out of place above her light blond curls.

Chance shivered, and Dorothea tucked the sheets closer around his neck. "I'll see if Boots has the blankets."

She reached the door just as Boots walked into the room, carrying a hefty load of ragged blankets. A boy with a crutch hobbled in right behind, his own arms heaped with as many blankets as he could carry. Mush was behind him, empty-handed but fully dressed again, as Dorothea was relieved to observe.

"Jack says he's bringin' da brandy. An' some soup. Kloppman ain't heah," Boots informed her, unceremoniously dropping the blankets on Chance. Dorothea hurried to spread them out evenly over the sick boy.

"Hiya," the second boy greeted her cheerily as she took the blankets from his arms. "I'm Crutchy."

"My name's Dorothea. Help me spread those, please," she requested. Crutchy complied readily.

"Dat's a nice name," he said conversationally as he worked.

"She's an angel," Chance said sleepily, rolling over onto his stomach.

"I told you, I'm no angel," Dorothea said, sounding amused and swatting the back of Chance's head.

"I find dat hard ta b'lieve," Mush commented from his place by the hearth, and smiled winningly as she looked up at him.

Dorothea blushed and pretended to have to adjust Chance's pillow, to avoid meeting Mush's eyes.

The door opened again and Blink entered, bottle in hand. "We got da brandy."

"And the soup?" Dorothea asked.

Blink laughed. "Jack ain't quite figured out how ta warm it up. He told me to ask you if ya'd be a doll and give 'im a hand in da kitchen dere."

"I'd be happy to," Dorothea replied, heading for the door. She paused to relay some last-minute instructions. "Blink, please get him to drink some of that brandy. We'll need some more firewood, Crutchy, if you could get it. Boots, if you'd be so kind as to show me to the kitchen?" Boots jumped up to lead her out but she stopped one more time in the doorway. "And Blink?" she thought to add, turning back around. "Not too much brandy?"

"I know what I'm doin'," he assured her, and Boots took Dorothea to Kloppman's small kitchen.

Jack, in his efforts to heat the tomato soup, had managed to slop it all over the counter instead of into the pot. A short Italian boy with him was only making matters worse, sloppily wiping it up with an apron and scattering the mess all over. Boys! Dorothea thought with exasperation, taking charge. Maybe she had never set foot inside her own kitchen, but she had common sense.

"Here," she commanded, taking the Italian by the shoulders and moving him away from the mess.

"Racetrack," he said, inexplicably. Dorothea paused a moment, her brow furrowing in puzzlement, before realizing it was his name.

"Um, all right, Racetrack. Take that sponge from over there to clean up. And don't sling it around in such big strokes, that only spreads the mess. Toss that apron in the sink. Jack, are there any other aprons?"

"Just dis one," he told her, holding one up. Dorothea could see straight through to Jack through a gaping hole in its center. The hole was uneven, its edges crispy and charred black.

"Jack? Did you set that on fire?!"

"Don' look at me," he defended himself. "It musta been Kloppman. He's a real lousy cook."

"Now dat's da undahstatement of da yeah," Racetrack agreed, energetically wiping the counter.

"Smaller strokes, Racetrack," Dorothea reminded him as he splattered tomato all over the front of the dress. Oh well, she'd never liked that dress anyway, and the misadventures on the ice had left it pretty much ruined in the first place.

"Heah's da soup," Jack told her, passing her a jar filled with runny orange-red stuff.

"What's left of it, aftah you poured it all on da countahs," Race said, jabbing his friend. Jack socked him back and they traded a few quick punches.

"Don't forget, we have one very sick boy in there," Dorothea gently reminded them, pouring the soup into a pot on the stove and not spilling a single drop. The scuffle ceased immediately. "Which reminds me," she added, "Did anyone telephone for a doctor?"

"We ain't got a telephone," Racetrack informed her, dutifully wiping up the last spot.

"Oh," Dorothea said, a little surprised. "Well… We'll need to send one of the boys."

Jack shook his head. "I don't think so, doll. You taken a look outside lately?"

Dorothea set down the pot and walked over to the window as Jack pushed up the curtain. Outside, the view was pure white as a blizzard raged all around them. Her eyes widened. She hadn't even noticed the storm worsening, but now it was to the point that going outside was unthinkable.

"Oh," was all she could say. A thousand questions raced through her mind. How were they going to get help for Chance in this weather? Would he be okay until the storm subsided? How long would the storm last? How long would she be stranded here? How would she get home? But letting her mind wander wasn't going to help anything. She got a grip on her thoughts and brought herself firmly back to the present.

"Well, let's get this soup made," she said cheerfully, turning away from the bleak view. Through a little trial and error, none of them having really cooked before, they got the stove alight and the soup simmering. Dorothea sat up on a stool, stirring it with a large wooden spoon. Racetrack sliced a thick loaf of bread by the oven, and Jack carefully cut assorted vegetables they had discovered in Kloppman's pantry. Dorothea had decided the runny, watery soup just didn't have enough substance by itself to nourish Chance.

"Does anyone see the salt?" she inquired after slurping a taste off of the spoon.

"Heah ya go, doll," Jack said, tossing a large shaker to her. She automatically flinched and threw her hands up and the saltshaker sailed past, landing with a plop in the soup. Soup splattered onto her face and she shut her eyes tight, feeling the hot soup trickled down her forehead.

"Oh geeze, I'm sorry!" Jack said, rushing over with a dishtowel. He started blotting at her face clumsily. "An', oh, I'm sorry, yer dress too," he started swabbing her chest until her eyes opened in alarm and she shoved his hand away. He grinned sheepishly and was about to apologize when Dorothea jumped off the stool so quickly she knocked it over.

"Oh goodness, the soup!" she remembered, peering into the pot and frantically stirring around.

"Get da salt out," Racetrack hollered, shoving Jack aside to get a look into the pot.

"It's in here somewhere," Dorothea said, pushing her hair out of her eyes and swinging the spoon around fruitlessly.

Racetrack and Jack each produced another spoon and jammed them into the pot as well. As a result, all three spoons collided and more soup was sloshed everywhere.

"I feel it!" Racetrack said, flipping up the saltshaker so it was visible over the top of the soup. It slipped off his spoon, though, and was lost.

"Cornah it," Jack commanded, chasing it down with his own spoon. Dorothea pulled her spoon out of their way and together, Racetrack and Jack trapped the saltshaker against the side of the pot. They flipped it out, splashing more soup over the counter in the process, but at least the salt shaker was out. They all cheered, but their joy was short lived, for the salt shaker flew way over their heads and crashed down to the ground, shattering and spilling a small mountain of salt.

"Oh, no," Dorothea groaned, and Racetrack and Jack had to bite their tongues to keep from spouting more shocking language.

"I'll get up da salt," Jack offered, disappearing to go find a new cloth.

"Would you wipe off the counters, Racetrack?" Dorothea asked. "I'll finish the soup."

She added the chopped vegetables and put the bread in the oven to toast. She found a bowl, rinsed it out, and poured out Chance's soup—what was left of it after all they'd spilled, anyway. She buttered a large slice of bread and put it and the bowl on a small tray, and carefully carried it down the hallway to Chance's room.

The door was ajar, and carefully balancing the tray, she nudged it wider with her knee. She took in the scene inside and her eyes widened. She nearly dropped the tray in her surprise.

"Boots! What are you doing?"

In the center of the room, three boys had been gathered around Boots, who was leaning back to take a big swig of the brandy bottle. He saw Dorothea and yanked the bottle away, pouring brandy all over the front of his shirt. He coughed and hacked and spluttered so violently all three boys eagerly jumped up to pound his back ever-so-helpfully as Chance watched, laughing hysterically. His laughter again dissolved into a round of coughing.

Dorothea swept into the room and set the tray down on the mantelpiece of the fireplace before rushing over to Chance. She patted and rubbed his back and gave him a quick sympathetic look before glaring at Boots and the three boys standing guiltily around him.

"Explain yourself, Boots," she snapped at him.

Boots stared at his feet. He had hastily set down the bottle, as if wishing to get rid of the evidence, but his shirt was soaked through and smelled strongly of brandy.

"Well?"

Boots opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out but a hoarse croak. The other boys laughed until Dorothea shot them a death-glare and their mouths snapped shut in unison, their attention suddenly firmly fixated on the ground.

"It was my fault," Chance spoke up for Boots.

"Yours?" Dorothea looked down at his freckled face and wondered how he could have been involved in it.

"Well, yeah," Chance admitted, without a trace of shame. "I was coughin' and stuff when Blink made me drink some, an' Boots laughed at me. But I said 'it ain't funny it hurts like fiah,' an' he said I was makin' it up, nothin' tastes like fiah, so I dared him ta try it." His voice faded to a whisper and he tried to clear his throat. Dorothea smoothed the blankets under his chin and turned to the guilty boys.

"And where was Blink this whole time?" she asked frostily.

"What?" said Blink's voice, behind her. Dorothea looked up to see him just stepping through the doorway, a pillow under his arm.

"He was just gettin' me anudda pillow," Chance explained.

"What whole time?" Blink asked, sliding the pillow under Chance's head. He looked at the four boys, all of whom had GUILTY written on their faces as they studied the floorboards.

"I'll explain later," Dorothea said tiredly. "Right now Chance needs some soup, and some rest. You boys, get out of here." The boys scampered before Dorothea could change her mind, and she brought the tray to Chance.

"Here," she said, setting it on his stomach. He looked down at it dubiously. "Aren't you going to say 'thank you'?" Dorothea prompted.

"Well…" Chance said slowly, "It depends."

Dorothea didn't understand. "Depends on what?"

"On whethah Kloppman made it or not."

Blink stifled a laugh and Dorothea smiled slightly. "Mostly I made it," she told him, to forestall any argument.

"In dat case, den, t'anks," he said, picking up his spoon and bringing the first mouthful to his lips. He took one taste and spat it out, spraying a mouthful of soup over Dorothea's front.

"Too salty!" he gasped.

"Look what ya did, Chance!" Blink scolded him, jumping up, bandanna in hand, to offer his help to Dorothea. He had just innocently reached to wipe her chest when she jumped up off the bed, almost knocking the tray aside.

"I've had just about enough of this!" she cried, swiping the bandanna from Blink and scrubbing at her dress with a vengeance. "Would you look at this? Would you just look at this?" she exclaimed, gesturing angrily to her front. Both boys looked obediently and Chance's eyes widened. Dorothea blushed pink and quickly turned away, modestly holding the bandanna up over her chest. She heard Chance snicker behind her but it cut off abruptly as there was the sound of a dull thud. Dorothea peeked over her shoulder and saw Blink looking at her apologetically. Chance rubbed his head and glowered at the older boy, not looking anything like a boy who had just recently survived a brush with death.

"I'm real sorry," Blink began, starting toward Dorothea and immediately tripping over the hearth. He went sprawling. Dorothea leapt forward to catch him before he could hit the bricks and he straightened up quickly.

"I meant ta do dat," he said, tugging his vest back into its correct position.

"I'm sure you did," she agreed, laughter in her voice, and he grinned back at her. They smiled at each other in silence for a moment until Chance coughed meaningfully behind them. Dorothea glanced up reflexively.

"Are you alright?"

"I was just wonderin' whethah or not you was gonna get me any eatable soup heah," he said, pushing the unsatisfactory bowl toward her.

She crossed over to him, making a comical annoyed face and flouncing her skirts. "Oh, you're not sick," she announced, and whisked the bowl away from him. "Eat that bread, then, but if this soup isn't good enough for you, you won't have any."

Chance gave her a pleading look, but when Dorothea only cocked a brow at him, he sighed and settled back into his pillows, looking disgusted. "I'll have just da bread den. Jeez, Doll, you're no fun."

"Spoiled," Dorothea retorted, and she and Blink exited to the kitchen.

"Heya, Doll," Racetrack said as they entered the room, and the other boys looked up and greeted her similarly.

"What are you all doing?" she asked, setting down the bowl and looking with interest at their activities.

"Makin' dinner," Jack said breezily, pointing to the pot on the stove. "All da rest of us gotta eat, right?"

"An' we're doin' betta dan we did b'fore," Racetrack added. "Much betta."

"We can only hope," Mush remarked, triggering a brief exchange of blows between himself and Racetrack. That was something Dorothea thought she would never understand, how often the boys were smacking each other.

To her surprise, though, the dinner they managed to create from the sparse contents of Kloppman's shelves was pretty good. Nothing compared to the cuisine she was accustomed to, of course, but she was hungry from the night's events and bolted it down almost as fast as the other boys. During the course of the meal, she was introduced to boys with such odd names as Skittery and Snoddy and Pie Eater, and quickly became a favorite of them all, even though after eating she made them clean every corner of the kitchen. ("Aw, Doll…") When it was cleaned to her approval, they all retired to the room under the stairs, where Chance had been napping. Though of course, he sat up quickly and tried to act wide awake as soon as everyone entered.

"Do you all always sleep in here?" Dorothea asked curiously as they arranged themselves around the small room.

"Oh, no, a course not," Jack told her.

"We got a room upstairs," Blink explained.

"Though when somebody's hoggin' all da blankets," Racetrack said, casting a look toward Chance, "we'd all rather sleep where dere's a fiah."

"Don't pick on me," Chance said, pulling the blankets tighter around him. "I'm sick!" He coughed a few times, but Dorothea was happy to hear that they sounded entirely forced, with no more of the frightening rattle they had had before.

"Not so sick you can't share a few of those blankets," Dorothea said sweetly, slipping one off of his pile.

He sighed. "Fine, one for you. But nobody else!"

The boys grumbled but didn't try, for the room was cozy with the warmth of the fire that Crutchy was carefully managing. Dorothea made herself comfortable on the floor next to Chance's bed, her head resting against his mattress. All the boys had to decide whether to center themselves around the fire or her, and most chose the blond—though under the watchful eye of Jack, they kept a respectful distance.

The usual bedtime chatter of the boys was somewhat curbed, due to Dorothea's female presence, so the room quickly fell into silence. Chance, bored, and wide awake thanks to his nap, rolled over and tapped Dorothea's shoulder.

"You know any stories, Doll?" he asked, looking down at her.

"Stories?" she asked sleepily, blinking herself wide awake. She had just been in that sort of awake-and-dreaming state somewhere right before you actually fall asleep, and she struggled to bring her mind back to the present.

"Yeah. Like my ma used ta tell me b'fore bed. You know any?"

Dorothea stifled a yawn. "Um… No. Sorry, Chance."

"Won't you make a lousy mutha," Chance grumbled.

Dorothea smiled in the darkness. "It's not my fault. I never had a mother to tell me stories."

"You nevah had a mutha?" Mush echoed.

She shut her eyes and leaned her head against the bed. "Well, not since I can remember. She died when I was two."

For the first time that night, Dorothea had all the boys' pity, and they murmured their condolences in the dark.

"My mutha's dead, too," Chance said, looking up at the ceiling. Dorothea turned her head to look at him. "She died two years ago. She just… got sick…"

Dorothea leaned her head against his hand in a gesture of sympathy. "My mother died of a sickness, too."

"So we got somethin' in common, huh, Doll?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, we do."

There was silence for another moment as they all pondered this, the connection between the rich girl and the boy from the streets. After a moment Chance spoke again.

"So you don't know any stories at all?"

Dorothea shifted her position. "Well… It's not exactly a bedtime story, but if you wanted…"

"Yeah, tell it," Jack said, sitting up straighter. A few boys echoed him.

"You all want to hear?" she asked. All the boys, except a few who slept already, urged her to start the story.

"Well, alright then, let me think…" Dorothea paused a moment and tried to recall the beginnings of her latest detective novel, the one that remained unfinished beneath her pillow. With any luck, they'd all have dropped off to sleep before the last chapter. She pulled her knees up to her chest, shut her eyes in thought, and began. "Inspector van Strickland looked over the files of his latest case with the critical eye of a professional sleuth…"

She began hesitantly, but soon discovered retelling the novel to be an easier task than she had thought. When she forgot a detail, the boys prompted her with questions and it was easy to cover her mistakes. Though it was an interesting story and she told it well, it grew later and later and one by one, the boys fell asleep.

"'I know who did it,' the Inspector said. 'It was really quite simple to figure out. In fact, the guilty party is standing in this room as we speak.'" Dorothea let her voice fade away as she heard Chance's light snoring behind her. A good place to stop, really. She hadn't read any farther than that. She looked around the small room by the light of the fire's embers, for Crutchy had nodded off at the job, and took in the sight of twenty-odd newsboys, sprawled over the floor and leaning against the walls in various positions, all deeply asleep. She pulled the blanket tighter around her and yawned widely. Now, at last, she could sleep.

"Den what happened?"

Dorothea opened her eyes at the sound of the voice from across the room. "Whah?" she asked, rubbing her eyes and squinting into the darkness. "Blink? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me. So who killed 'em?"

"Come over here where I can see you."

She saw movement by the fireplace as Blink stood up and crossed over to her, careful not to step on any of his slumbering friends en route, then sat down cross legged a few feet away.

"Blanket?" she asked, holding up the edge of hers toward him.

"Thanks," he said, sliding closer and pulling half of it over himself.

"Now where was I?" Dorothea asked, trying to stall.

"Da guilty pahty's in da room as we speak," he quoted, situating himself.

"Alright… Now…" she furrowed her brow and tried to think of how to continue. "Well, then he says, 'Yes, Mrs. Egerton, you refused to believe it could be a member of your household. You never thought to suspect your maid, with her perfect alibi. But South Central Theater was not holding a performance the night of September twelfth. Therefore, Mrs. Egerton, your cousin was killed by no other than Lucille, the maid!'" Dorothea looked over at Blink to see his reaction.

"So den what?" he asked, scratching his head, when she didn't go on.

"Well… Then Lucille tried to run, but they catch her, and take her to the police, where she confesses it all."

"But why'd she do it?"

"For the money, of course. She overheard him telling Mr. Barker that he planned to transfer his fortune to that other bank, and thought she could steal it. But she got caught, so she had to kill him and Mr. Barker both, so they wouldn't tell the police." It was perfectly logical. That was just how Dorothea had worked it out for herself, while reading the story. But Blink's eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"So what about da butler?"

"The butler?"

"Yeah. Didn't he have a cut in it?"

He'd caught Dorothea off-guard. "Why do you think that?"

"Don'tcha remember dat him and Lucille were, y'know, sorta carryin' on behind his wife's back? Dey was like a couple, wasn't dey?"

"I don't remember saying that," she replied slowly, thinking back. She was too sleepy, it was all escaping her. She couldn't remember that being in the book at all. Why would she have made it up?

"Well, no, ya didn't say it, but it was, whatchacallit, implied. Dat's da impression I got. 'Cause dey was always talkin' togetha an' all, I thought you'd for sure say dat he'd been plannin' it wit her too."

Slowly Dorothea came to realize that she had overlooked that entire subplot while reading the story. How could she have not noticed? Now that she thought back, the butler's involvement seemed obvious. And Blink hadn't even read the book!

"So am I right?" he persisted.

Dorothea decided to tell the truth. "Honestly, I don't know. I have to admit I only read the story up to where I stopped before. I had to make up that whole ending. For all I know, it could have been the maid and the butler both."

"It was," Blink said matter-of-factly, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. Dorothea smiled at his confidence.

"I'll finish it when I go home, and tell you how it ended."

"You do dat," Blink said. "Two bits says I'm right."

Dorothea giggled. "Make it fifty cents and you're on," she said, though she was pretty convinced that she was on the losing side of the deal.

"Deal," Blink said, sitting up, spitting in his hand, and offering it to her. Dorothea automatically reached out to shake and clinch the deal but quickly yanked her hand back, realizing what he had done. Blink laughed.

"Sorry, wasn't thinkin'," he said, reaching to wipe his hand on his pants. He was then surprised to see Dorothea spit into her own palm and stick out her hand. He grinned at this sudden display of determination and they shook firmly.

"It's a bet," she said.

Blink smiled and laid back onto the floor, and Dorothea leaned against the bed and looked around with sleepy eyes. What would her father think if he only saw her now, sleeping in a room filled with adolescent boys, all of who had been strangers only twelve hours before? She knew what his reaction would be, what conclusions he would jump to, when really they were all polite, considerate young men. She decided to let herself worry about that in the morning. Someone would see her home once the roads were cleared, and she'd make her explanations and her excuses. And then she'd never see any of them again.

Dorothea wrapped her arms around her knees and felt miserable. She really liked them all, Chance and Blink and Jack and Boots and Racetrack and Crutchy and Mush and all the boys she'd met. And just because they sold papers to earn their living, and she never did anything more strenuous than needlework, she wasn't allowed to befriend them? That wasn't fair, not to her and not to her new friends. She sighed and stretched out on the floor, tugging the blanket away from Blink so it would cover the both of them, and soon, despite the unfamiliar hardness of the floor and the cold of the room, fell deeply asleep.

Dorothea awoke to the sound of pounding. She stirred, eyes still closed, and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. Why was she so cold? Where was that incessant pounding noise coming from? Oh, it was too early to wake up. She reached above her head, hoping to find a pillow to pull over her ears, and instead her hand smacked someone's head. Confused, she opened her eyes and tried to get her bearings.

"I'm getting' up already, Kloppman," someone was mumbling sleepily, sitting up beside her. Dorothea sat bolt upright, suddenly remembering where she was. She was in the Newsboys' Lodging House, where she had slept all night in a room full of practical strangers. What had she been thinking? Her face flushed as she looked at Blink, just waking up beside her. She'd slept under the same blanket as a boy! She was vague on the facts of life, and though she was pretty sure she would have had to remove some of her clothing for anything to have happened, she touched the cross around her neck and made a hasty prayer for her virtue. Maybe it was the prayer or maybe it was Blink's honest, sleepy, face, but she immediately felt comforted.

Blink, sitting up, rubbed his eye and blinked at her. "What's dat noise?"

"Noise?" she repeated, rubbing her sore neck. Oh, was she ever stiff. She then noticed that the pounding sound that had awakened her continued, though the other newsboys slept still. "Oh! The noise!"

Blink was already on his feet and he extended a hand to help her up. "Would dat be your fam'ly?" he asked anxiously as she got to her feet and shook out her skirts.

Dorothea could only assume- at that hour of the morning, and knocking so insistently, it obviously wasn't a social call. Without speaking they hurried down the hallway and to the front door.

"It's my maid," she whispered to Blink, sighting Katie through the window. "And a friend of my father's, and, and it looks like… a police officer?" They exchanged nervous looks and Blink discreetly stepped out of sight as Dorothea opened the door.

"Miss Dorothea!" Katie's eyes widened upon seeing her mistress. "So you are here!"

"Now didn't I tell you!" Mr. Brownlowe, her father's good friend, said triumphantly. "Didn't I tell you she'd be here? I told Graveston, I did, I told him, 'that was your daughter I saw there with those ragtag newsboys, it was, or strike me pink and call me the Queen of England'." Mr. Brownlowe placed his hands on his immense stomach and beamed with self-satisfaction, his little eyes twinkling. Dorothea never did have anything against Mr. Brownlowe, but for a moment she hated him intensely for leading her father to find her so quickly. Then she reconsidered her venomous thoughts and realized that it wasn't Mr. Brownlowe's fault that he had happened to see her, that he thought he was doing a good deed by alerting everyone of her wherabouts, and reluctantly forgave him. She suddenly felt Katie's hands clasping hers and realized that Katie had been rattling on about something for quite some time.

"It was my fault, oh Lord, I thought your father would've killed me if we hadn't found you," Katie was saying, looking very distressed. "We were all so upset, Miss Dorothea, we didn't know what to think or where you'd gone and it was all because of me, Miss Dorothea, I could just—"

"I'm just fine, thank you," Dorothea said calmly, pulling her hands away. "It was good of you all to be concerned."

"You're sure now?" the policeman asked, making his presence known for the first time.

"Yes, sir, I was treated very well. There was really no cause for alarm." What she wished she could say was, 'I was happier here than I ever was at home and if you'd have just left me alone I would have stayed that way!' but she forced herself to be gracious.

"Looks like you won't be needing me. I'll be off then. Tell Mr. Graveston to phone the station if there's a problem." The policeman tipped his hat and left before they could protest.

Katie quickly took up her emotional rambling again. "Oh, Miss Dorothea, your father will be so happy to know we found you. He was beside himself. You should have seen him, pacing all night and practically tearing his hair out. I thought he'd worry himself to death before Mr. Brownlowe brought the news."

Dorothea paused. "If he was so worried, why didn't he come find me himself?"

"Why, he hasn't the time, Miss Dorothea. You know he works very hard," Katie told her, looking puzzled that Dorothea had to ask. Dorothea looked at the floor. She could be sure he'd make time to chastise her for her escapade later.

"I'll get my things," she said quietly, and slipped away from the door before Mr. Brownlowe or Katie could offer to help. Blink fell in step beside her in the hall, and they returned to the room under the stairs.

She retrieved her cloak, kissed the sleeping Chance, and made her goodbyes to Blink before joining Mr. Brownlowe and Katie at the door. Lingering in the hallway, Blink watched through the window as the fat man helped Dorothea up into their fancy carriage. Dorothea caught his eye and lifted one hand, fluttering her bare fingers in a slight wave. He waved back but the maid was already swinging the carriage door shut, and try as he might, he saw nothing but thick maroon velvet curtains.

Blink turned from the window as the carriage's driver snapped a whip and the gilded wheels began to spin in the dirty slush. He leaned back against the window frame dejectedly and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. Curiously, he felt something soft and leathery in his right-hand pocket. He pulled it out slowly, remembering Dorothea's bare hand as she had waved and anticipating what he would find. When he glanced down, he saw that he had conjectured correctly. He held in his palm a soiled white lady's glove, just over half the size of his own hand, with slender tapering fingers, as if made for a child, or a doll. He smiled at that thought. Doll was the perfect name for the girl, with her glossy butter-blond ringlets, her porcelain complexion, her perfect features.

He tucked the glove back into his pocket and ran his thumb over the stitching, recalling the feel of Doll's soft delicate hand in his. His grin widened as he strolled back down the hall. He'd find her again, he knew he would. You didn't meet a girl like that every day. Just give him time, and he'd make Dorothea Graveston his girl.