Author's Note: Hey, my beloved ones, I practically knocked myself out writing this chapter. ;-) So if you have ever indulged, or ever intend to indulge, this particular HUGE review whore, pleeease do so now. puppy eyes

Warning: This chapter contains a bit more language than I'm prone to using. Which still isn't especially bad, but I just thought I'd warn you.

Quick Shout Outs:

Sorry so quick :-( but I really want to get this posted. My love and heartfelt thanks to...

Mis Chicas of the NML:

EIRE

LET

TREE

PUCK

SEAGULL

TROLLEY

EVE

MAVERICK

AIR

L'L ITALY

HALF PINT

BLACKJACK

Anyone Else Who's Reviewed, Who I May Have Cruelly Forgotten :'-( (huggles)

And, Mis Chicas of MY EVER-FAITHFUL STALKER, STORMSHADOW :-)

Chapter Three: Spook's Journey

"Full House. Read 'em and weep."

Skittery groaned slightly at yet another victory for the notorious gambler, not only because Racetrack was robbing all the other newsboys of every cent they owned, but because he was playing with a tiny princess leaning her head on his shoulder and curiously examining his cards.

The poker tournament was in full swing. Newsies had poured in from every borough, intent on throwing away their money, showing off the latest females to decorate their arms, and engaging in their ceaseless gossip about the strike. It had been a little over a month since that small victory, and while even Skittery hadn't objected to a bit of celebration when the price of the papers had been lowered, he felt that the way they dragged the issue on was simply ridiculous.

"Skitts? You figg'rin' out the odds or somethin'?" Tumbler asked tentatively.

Shaking his head, Skittery gratefully turned back to the private poker game that he and his young friend were playing. They were using Kloppman's old set of wooden chips, and did not intend to exchange them for coins; Skittery, as usual, refused to part with his precious earnings, and Tumbler, though mildly wealthy for once from a day of selling, wanted to save up for some toy or another that he'd glimpsed in a shop window.

"I'll take three," Skittery finally mumbled, handing Tumbler three of his cards to exchange. He didn't even know why he was bothering with this poker business, except that there was absolutely nothing better to do. Normally, he would be counting money or reading a book at this time of night, or even exchanging grudging conversation with Bumlets or Specs, two of the newsies with whom he was friendliest. But the noise and clouds of smoke were always distracting enough, and on this night, with the bunkroom packed to bursting, he felt light-headed from the smoke and could barely hear himself think.

A sudden stir near the bunkroom door caused both Skittery and Tumbler to sit up on Tumbler's bunk, where they had been sprawled casually with the cards between them, and glance in that direction. The cause was instantly evident: a golden-haired, blue-eyed boy, rather on the small side, stood framed in the doorway, a silver key glinting on a chain around his neck. His belt, as always, held a wooden slingshot and his legendary gold-topped cane. While hats were swept off, over-enthusiastic greetings were called, and a nervous path was quickly cleared across the room, Skittery suppressed a snicker.

Brooklyn...fashionably late, of course.

Spot Conlon sauntered down his royal path, carrying, it was plain to Skittery, an ego approximately ten times his size. Behind him, keeping a respectful distance, trailed a dozen or so of his loyal subjects, most of whom were large and muscular and almost as good-looking as their king. Not one boy, except for Skittery and the oblivious Tumbler, failed to gulp slightly as this posse passed him by; not one girl failed to blush and giggle hopefully. Not one girl, Skittery noticed offhandly, except for Tanya, whose head never left its position on Racetrack's shoulder, and whose jade eyes observed the procession with no more than a cool, detached interest.

Once Brooklyn had settled into the tournament, things started to get mildly interesting. Not one of the Brooklyn boys had brought a girl with him, and it quickly became clear that this was because they intended on flirting shamelessly with everyone else's girls. Even Skittery had to take a break from his game with Tumbler to witness this well-known preamble to violence. Spot himself bestowed so much flattery on an utterly unaffected Tanya that Race pointed out, without a trace of his usual cheerful wit, that there were a lot of other attractive girls around, quite a few of whom were on the other side of the room.

Skittery actually found himself almost hoping that this would lead to a fight, just to break the dreadful monotony of the night. But Spot only smirked and stalked off to chat with a pair of short Italian girls, whose laughter, feisty arguing, and animated conversation had brightened up the room since early evening. Blackjack and Half Pint hadn't come with boys; they always showed up on their own, and always seemed to be bent on nothing more ominous than having fun.

For a while, Skittery observed almost wistfully, as if he were no more than a statue or a painting in a room full of real people. He watched Spot and Blackjack exchange a rather public embrace; she must have been his latest flame. They then launched themselves cheerfully into the storm of poker and craps, in which Blackjack rivaled even Racetrack's considerable skills. Half Pint seemed to grow bored with the whole ordeal and, followed by Skittery's critical eye, pulled Snitch aside. The two of them slipped into a corner and exchanged a few whispered words. Both proceeded to vanish from the bunkroom with the silent, graceful subtlty of a pair of cats on the prowl. Skittery, recalling the fact that they shared a former occupation, hoped the wealthy of Manhattan were travelling light that night.

"Uh, Skitt? You gonna be people-watchin' all night, or maybe thinkin'a makin' a bet?"

Skittery jumped and turned guiltily back to his poker opponent. Sarcasm wasn't at all like Tumbler, and Skittery feared that he might be rubbing off on the younger boy.

"Sorry," he muttered hastily. "I'll bet, um..."

But he was saved the trouble of thinking of a sum by the sudden and dramatic entrance of four small boys at the bunkroom door, swinging it open with an enthusiasm that threatened to throw it off its hinges.

"Tumbler! Hey, Tumbler!" the ringleader, Snipeshooter, hollered jovially, removing a cigar from his mouth in order to speak. Les, Boots, and Slider, meanwhile, bounced around him like a pack of hyperactive puppies.

"Yeah?" Tumbler called, looking up with interest. The brat pack had been banished from the bunkroom during the tournament because of their typical unruly behavior, which threatened to disrupt the games and scare off the girls. Only Tumbler, as the quietest, had been allowed to remain. Angry and mutinous, the rugrats had taken to the streets to get up to God knew what.

"C'mon outside with us," Snipeshooter ordered, beckoning frantically and ignoring the warning looks the older newsies were shooting at him and his cronies. "We's got a swell idea, s'gonna be so much fun, ya don't wanna miss it—"

The maniacal gleam in his eye made Skittery shudder; it reminded him of the time the little kids had set the warehouse down the street on fire, or the unforgettable night when they'd caught a rich boy who had insulted them, tied him up behind the lodging house, and told him ghost stories until his screams woke Kloppman, who had put an end to it.

Tumbler gazed wistfully at his friends, clearly yearning to be a part of whatever felony they had planned. Then he turned to his hero, hesitation in his eyes.

"Go on," Skittery told him quickly, trying for a grin. "They prob'ly won't be able to cause much trouble without you."

Tumbler flashed him a lightning smile and bounced off the bed, gleefully joining his comrades. The five of them took off across the lobby without a backward glance, letting the door slam behind them.

"I didn't do it," Jack and Specs hurriedly chorused.

"Nooo responsibility whatsoever," Crutchy added firmly.

Their consciences clear, the three newsboys most frequently in charge of the youngsters returned to their previous occupations, Jack and Specs playing poker while Crutchy served as spectator and commentator, trying to cheer on everyone and console the losers.

Skittery, however, had no previous occupation to return to. His kindred spirit had abandoned him, and why shouldn't he? What ten-year-old in his right mind would want to hang out with someone boring and sullen who avoided all the action?

Tanya, he realized, was laughing after losing her seventh hand of poker. She had joined the game seven hands before, systematically sustained seven miserable losses, and laughed harder after each one. "I'll have to play two dozen perfect Mozarts to earn that all back," she moaned.

Race, laughing rather wickedly at his girl's dilemma, glanced over at the bunk Skittery was still glumly occupying. "Hey, Skitt, c'mon, pull up a chair. You can play on credit if you want. Or play with chips and don't cash 'em in, like you was doin' with Tumbler. Ya can't just lie there all night like a bump on a log."

"We'd all love to have you join us," Tanya agreed sweetly, treating Skittery to a slightly disturbing wink that caused Race to smack her playfully with his cap.

Skittery had had enough. This was the umpteenth time he'd been invited to join the tournament that night. The others simply could not take a hint. Just like at Medda's, just like in the street while he was selling, just like almost every other place and time during Skittery's career as a newsie, he felt surrounded, stifled, and up to his neck in irritation. It was as if he was drowning in a sea of people and noise and laughter, and, floundering helplessly, he grasped at the only buoy he could think of that might keep him afloat: the window.

Scrambling down off the bunk, sidestepping, tripping, and wading his way through a roaring human obstacle course, Skittery finally staggered over to his only possible salvation. As with the group of lovesick boys by the alley, no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention except Tanya, who, impossible though it seemed, appeared to have one eye on her cards while the other followed Skittery's every move. He forced himself to shrug this off...Tanya, apparently, saw everything...and shoved the window open. Sticking his head out, he allowed himself one blissful gulp of fresh air, then scrambled out onto the roof and slammed the window shut behind him.

Free!

That was the first word to flash through his mind. He lay on his back, hands folded under his head, eyes closed, as a nippy autumn breeze chilled his face, scattered brown locks of hair across his forehead, ruffled his trademark pink shirt, and refreshed him. He touched the shirt lightly and smiled. It had used to be white, before it was accidentally washed in the same tub as Jake's red vest. The others found it rather hilarious, in contrast to Skittery's decidedly unpink disposition.

"Why are your eyes closed?"

Skittery sat up so quickly and started so violently that he nearly went careening clear off the edge of the roof.

"What the—who the—"

His tongue froze in mid-sentence. There, lounging on the roof, clearly silhouetted in the moonlight, was the girl who had saved his life and haunted his dreams the previous night.

He didn't know how he recognized her right away, how he could be so certain. He had scarcely even seen her that night, it had been so dark; if anyone had asked him to describe her face, or her clothes, or even tell the color of her hair, he would have been unable to. But somehow he had no doubt that this small, moon-white girl, clad in a black dress, face framed in baby-soft raven locks, was that very phantom. Maybe he knew because he found himself looking straight into the brown eyes that had been nearly all he could remember of the encounter.

"What—what the—what are you doin' here?" he demanded breathlessly, scrambling back toward the window as if escaping some horrific demon.

"Lookin' at the stars." The wind carried her gentle voice to his ears like a sacred melody that needed to be fanned to its destination by the wings of angels. Skittery, feeling a familiar tightening in his stomach, fumbled with the window latch, her words echoing in his mind.

"Lookin' at the—" He finally got the catch open, and shot a parting glare at the girl. "Well, go look at 'em someplace else!" he ordered venomously. "There ain't any customers for you 'round here, so whatever you mighta thought, you can go find business back on your regular street!"

"You dropped somethin'."

Skittery, who had been about to open the window, paused. He twisted his head suspiciously to face her.

"Huh?"

"You dropped this," the girl informed him softly, and held something out toward him. He gaped at the object in her hand: a small square photograph, crumpled viciously into a tight wad.

"When I startled you and you jumped," she explained matter-of-factly. "It fell outta your pocket."

White-faced, Skittery snatched it back from her and stared at it for a moment. When he raised his eyes again, they had softened very slightly.

"Look," he said gruffly, "thanks for what you did last night, for me'n Tumbler. I dunno why ya did it, but thanks. Ya happy?"

"I'm happy," the girl assured him conversationally, her face lighting up with a smile that could melt a heart of stone. "I love to look at the stars. You ain't looked at them. Your eyes were closed. Look how clear the night is."

She pointed heavenward, her slender white index finger like some sort of mystic scepter; and Skittery, automatically and against his will, found his eyes following her gesture. What he saw when he did almost knocked him off the roof again. The sky, making a blacker background than Skittery had ever seen before, hosted so many blazing stars that he unconsciously shaded his eyes against the celestial field of pulsing white light.

"I'm glad you saw 'em," his companion murmured happily. "If I hadn't come, you might never have seen the stars. This's the best place in the whole borough to see them, I think. I've come here before. Don't you live here? Haven't you ever come out here to see the stars?"

As she spoke, a strange feeling came over Skittery. It seemed to him that she was telling the truth. That she had come here to star-gaze, had been here before for the same purpose, and had never entertained any notion of luring in customers in this part of town. She had known he lived here, perhaps...somehow he felt she had known that...but she hadn't known he would come out and find her. She was glad he had.

And how the hell do I know all that?

Snapping out of his star-induced reverie, Skittery spun around and gave the windowframe an extremely determined tug.

It didn't budge.

Furious at this obstinance in the face of his desperation, he hauled even harder. No luck. It was stuck. Plainly, simply, and very firmly stuck.

He could bang on it, he realized, and alert someone inside to his predicament, someone who would surely be able to open it for him. But then he glanced in alarm at the slim white shape behind him. Anyone who came to the window might see her, and then what would they assume? The other newsies might think Skittery was gloomy, morbid, bad-tempered, a pessimist, but he would not tolerate being seen as a boy who hung out with whores on the roof at night.

"Y'know what?" he snapped, whirling on the girl. Then he saw her pale face in the moonlight, the sheen of her black hair, her soft brown eyes and the innocent sincerity of her smile, and directed his gaze at some vague point over her left shoulder instead. "You're gonna get outta here. Now. Get back to that 'Madame' woman, or wherever the hell ya came from, ya hear?"

He expected this outburst to have some negative effect on the girl. He hadn't exactly intended for her to burst into tears, but he had hoped for at least a flushed face, widened eyes, a gasp…somesmall acknowledgment of shock, of anger, of realization at what a righteous and clean person she was dealing with.

Instead, the girl's smile faded. That was all. It wasn't replaced by a frown; her face remained smooth and luminous, and the smile merely faded like a ghost, replaced by an amiable nod.

"All right," she agreed, without a trace of resentment in her voice. Indeed, she merely sounded rather thoughtful, as if considering his words.

Yet still she did not move from her position, sitting cross-legged several feet away from Skittery, gazing steadily at him until his blood boiled.

"I said, get away," he reminded her through clenched teeth.

The girl nodded again, and then in a flash, her smile returned, as if a brilliant idea had suddenly occurred to her, something that solved all the problems in the world. Her next words nearly gave Skittery a heart attack.

"Would you like to come with me?"

He had actually half-launched himself at her before he remembered what she was and recoiled, flushed and shaking. "Would...would...would I WHAT?" he finally managed, at such a volume that it was a miracle it was so loud inside the bunkroom, or half the newsies of the city would have heard him.

His tone didn't faze the girl in the slightest. "Would you like to come with me?" she repeated brightly, as if she thought he really hadn't heard the question and wanted it repeated. Then the implication of this statement seemed to register with her, and she cocked her head, smiling in relief at the simple misunderstanding. "Not like a customer does," she corrected patiently. "I want to show you somethin'."

If this statement had come from the mouth of any other person of her profession, Skittery would have seen several dozen twisted, hideous meanings in it. But there was something about the way she looked and acted and spoke...that pure, simple innocence that so strongly defied what he knew her to be...that made it clear that whatever she wanted to show him, it was nothing indecent.

Not that this made any difference.

"You..." He was breathing heavily now, amazed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that a little brown-eyed girl could get him so upset. "You...want me to...you think I would...no, I won't come with ya!"

"Why not?" she inquired curiously.

"Why..." He was doing it again, echoing her words. Even that meaningless observation fueled his mounting anger. "Because you're a goddamn dirty whore!"

Skittery was not particularly prone to strong language or harsh insults; certainly not to cruelty. But he had a temper, and it had just erupted like a volcano. The words hung in the air, seeming to bounce and echo off of every available surface surrounding the roof, repeating dozens upon dozens of times in Skittery's mind, like ripples marking the spot where a stone had sunk in a pool. It was Skittery's mouth that those ripples were surrounding...the words were his, he was responsible for them, and there was no taking them back, any more than he could take back the similar words he had shouted two years before.

This time, however, the reaction he received was vastly different.

"Come with me," the recipient of that terrible sentence requested calmly, but with an odd undercurrent in her voice, rather like a sheet of steel; not cold, not angry, but strong and confident. "I've shown you the stars," she continued. "Now I want to show you what's under them."

Dumbfounded, Skittery looked on silently, with no intention of moving a muscle, as a nimble leap carried her to the top of the ladder that led down past the fire escape to the ground. One swift, easy swing and she had mounted that ladder, and then, before disappearing down the rungs, she held up an object pinched between her thumb and index finger. The moonlight illuminated it for only a split second before she had vanished.

Skittery's jaw dropped so hard it nearly crumbled. The object was a crumpled-up photograph.

She never touched me! She never brushed my pocket! She was never anywhere near me! She's worse than Snitch and Half Pint put together!

"You—" Hurling curses and not caring if the world heard, Skittery hurled himself at the ladder, scrambled down as fast as he could, and leapt rather jarringly to the ground. When he turned to give chase, however, he was surprised to see the girl standing several feet away, actually waiting for him. In one hand she still clutched his picture; in the other, a stub of candle with a wildly flickering flame.

"Where'd you get that?" Skittery demanded, bewildered, even as he jumped at her. She dodged easily and continued to back up, dancing from side to side to avoid his grasp, though there was no sign of mischief or mockery in her face.

"Brought it with me," she explained. "I left it under there so it wouldn't blow out on the roof." She pointed to a hedge near the lodging house, which was growing steadily smaller as their absurd dance of attempted capture and swift evasion carried them down Duane Street.

"You—have—no—right—" He feinted to the left, then pounced to the right, only to clutch at air; her candle flame was gleaming a solid four feet ahead of him.

She can't possibly be that fast! She must just be...more agile, or somethin'. And now we're off Duane...gettin' closer to her neighborhood...

Recalling his last experience in that area, Skittery shuddered. If she went through an alley, there was no way he was following her.

But she has...

What the hell do you care about what she has? You crumpled it up into a ball yourself, just last night! You've kept it under your pillow without lookin' at it for three years straight! So why chase some prostitute halfway across the borough in the dark to get it back?

He didn't know why, but he had lost count of the blocks they had travelled, and he was still pursuing her, still keeping his eyes locked on her flame. A slight breeze stirred it, and it quivered with even more energy, making patterns of firelight and shadow across the wax-like face framed in its light. Twin orange pinpoints reflected eerily in those velvet eyes.

Why was she doing this? Where was she trying to lead him? She had to have gotten it through her head now that she wasn't going to make a client out of him. He had made that crystal-clear. Anyway, she had to have dozens of more-than-willing clients back in that...place...where their paths had crossed before. Why go after him?

His mind still reeling with all these questions, Skittery almost didn't notice when the flame he was following turned a corner. Stopping short, he quickly turned as well. But when he did, he was greeted with an empty, trash-strewn street, a vast sky full of stars, and silence.

The minx had disappeared on him again!

"You—" He was all set to curse her for the third or fourth time that night when a familiar voice spoke up, seemingly out of thin air.

"I'm here."

Feeling stupid and annoyed, Skittery turned in a full circle, glancing around wildly. "You're where?" he growled, aware of how pointless the query was, but unable to think of anything else to try.

"That doesn't matter," the voice answered with a note of laughter. But when it spoke again, it was suddenly solemn. Solemn, he mused, and vitally earnest.

"Look inside."

"What?"

"Look inside," came the ever-patient repetition. "The first house on the left."

Skittery heaved an exasperated sigh. His nerves had been worn down to nothing already. But if she wanted to play games, and if he played along, maybe she would give him his picture back and leave him alone. Obediently, he approached the first house on his left.

It was not so much a house, he discovered, as a shack. Hovel might have been an appropriate term. It was a tiny, sunken, one-room structure, thrown together sloppily from rotting boards and a cracked, sagging tin roof. The door was just a board on rusted hinges, one of which was hanging loose, and the windows were no more than crudely-cut holes partially covered by tattered rags. Sighing and feeling suddenly self-conscious, Skittery discreetly pushed one of these makeshift curtains aside and peered into the shack.

What he saw left him speechless.

The single room held no furniture. The shack had no floor; it was merely set on hard-packed dirt, with a few ratty blankets and garments strewn here and there. In the center of the room sat a small iron pot with a few sticks and logs piled in it, surrounded by miniscule, glistening mounds of coal. The fire that sputtered weakly inside the pot, its smoke drifting up through a gap in the roof, wasn't large enough to heat a mouse hole. Yet huddled around it were no fewer than three people.

A frail little woman, hunched over a bundle cradled in her arms, wore no more than a scant grey dress with a scooped neckline and badly torn skirt. Long, greasy strings of dirty-blonde hair hung around her lined face, and the firelight revealed that they were deeply streaked with grey. Nestled close on either side of her were two children, a boy and a girl, each maybe three or four years old. They were pressed so close to their mother that all Skittery could make out was that their forms were as thin as toothpicks, and their complexions as pale as that of his mysterious guide.

"What did you cook today, Mama?" the little girl asked, in a hoarse whisper that just barely reached Skittery's ears.

"Oh, so many things, darlin'." The mother absently stroked her daughter's hair. "Pastries...cakes...apple pie, all crisp and golden-brown, with ripe, sweet red apples fresh-picked this season..." Her eyes closed wearily, as if she was picturing all those delicacies.

"Did the people like your food, Ma?" the little boy chipped in sleepily, resting his head against her arm.

"Of course, Sam, honey...they loved it," the mother murmured without opening her eyes. "Everyone wanted second helpin's. They said those apples tasted like they was straight out of heaven. And the boss said if I make a pie that good tomorrow, maybe he'll let me bring some home for you and Lily..."

Skittery had seen enough. He let the curtain fall silently back into place and stumbled several steps away from the window, then turned to find a gleaming candle flame mere inches from his face.

"Who..." he murmured helplessly, his voice as hoarse as little Lily's.

"That's Mary and her kids," the candle-bearer explained.

"Mary and..." There he went again! He struggled fiercely to pull himself together. "She...she ain't a cook, is she?" he demanded shakily.

The girl shook her head, ebony locks swishing past her ears. "She's a whore."

It was the first time he had heard her say that word. Every time in his life that Skittery had heard the single syllable uttered, no matter by whom, it had sounded as ugly as its meaning. But now it was effortlessly transformed, imbued with the same tender and innocent light that seemed to accompany any word this girl spoke.

"She lies to 'em..."

"Do you think," his guide asked pointedly, "that she should tell 'em the truth?"

"But she promised 'em pie and everythin'..."

"They won't really expect it. But it'll help 'em dream."

"But...where do the kids go when she...works? What do they do in winter?"

"The kids stay home. Or with a friend of Mary's. Or play in the streets. Last winter, they wasn't so bad off. They had a better place. This year, they'll do what they can...or nothin'."

It was amazing, Skittery thought, that even now, even when she was disclosing such dark, heart-rending truths, her voice held not a single shred of bitterness, cynicism, anger. There was sorrow, yes, and there was passion, but it wasn't as if she was throwing all this in his face, saying, "This shows how wrong and terrible you are." She spoke so gently and earnestly that it was more as if she was saying, "This is a lesson you need to learn, and I'm here to help you."

Suddenly a leftover burst of anger flared in Skittery. "You had no right to do that," he hissed, "makin' me spy on those people—"

"People?" she echoed.

For just a brief moment there, Skittery thought she might be challenging him in some way. Then she nodded quickly, eyes flooding with remorse. "You're right," she admitted ruefully. "Spyin's a real bad habit'a mine. I just watch and listen to people all the time, without even thinkin' about it. September's told me off for it too, but I can never seem to remember." She shook her head, as if to chastise herself, then looked up at him again. "Could I ask you somethin'?"

Skittery eyed her warily. "I guess."

"How old do you think she is?"

Skittery gaped at her. "Who, the wh-...uh, Mary?"

She nodded. Skittery shrugged.

"I dunno...thirty-, forty-somethin'. Why?"

She glanced at the shifting shadows her candle made on the street. "She's barely twenty."

Skittery gasped, taken aback. Desperately, he struggled to grasp at his old views, his previous ideas about this sort of situation.

"Well, why don't she get a job? Why ain't she a cook, like she tells 'er kids? Or she could work in a fact'ry or somethin'—"

"D'you know any fact'ry or restaurant that'd hire her?"

Skittery pictured the woman in his mind: frail, bent, weak and delicate, unhealthy. He conjured up the image of her pallid skin and straggly, greying hair. Reluctantly, he shook his head, mind still racing.

"But she could do somethin' else...work in a bar, maybe, even sell papes, I've seen a couple newsgirls..."

"It wouldn't make enough," the little phantom explained. "Newsgirls don't make nearly as much as boys. A lotta people don't approve of girls sellin' papes, so they won't buy from 'em. I work in a bar, and it ain't enough for one. Mary needs to make enough for four."

Four? Then Skittery remembered the bundle in her arms. An infant? Why wasn't it crying? Surely it must be hungry. He tried to imagine a creature so hungry, so empty and weak, that it couldn't even make a sound.

"There's a girl who takes baby Elizabeth while Mary's at work," his companion explained, as if reading his thoughts. "But no one around here has enough to eat."

Skittery opened his mouth, a hundred more questions rising to his lips. But before he could ask even one, his guide had turned and, without warning, sprinted off down the street again, her candle bobbing merrily in her outstretched hand.

"Hey!" Skittery shouted, suddenly remembering how this whole chase had begun. "You still have my—"

But she had turned another corner, and he had no choice but to dash after her.

Unfortunately, when he reached the corner she had turned, Skittery's mouth went dry. It led through a brick alley, onto a street which he could now see much more clearly than ever before, since the one other time he had visited it, it had been obscured by fog.

"You there?" he called apprehensively, the last syllable echoing off the crumbling bricks.

"Yeah," came the prompt response, and Skittery, wondering with cold dread if he was walking straight into some sort of trap, did exactly what he had previously sworn not to do under any circumstances: he trotted through the alley.

The street, he discovered upon entering it, really was located in a downright awful neighborhood, but did not appear quite so ominous as it had in the fog. The lack of weapon-wielding thugs helped, too. The only people he saw, besides his guide, were a red-haired young woman and a tall, broad-shouldered young man. They stood on the corner at the other end of the street, entwined in each other's arms, their lips appearing fused together.

His quarry was witnessing the same scene. She sighed slightly.

"Story don't admit it, exactly, but she loves Mike. She thinks he loves her."

Skittery, who was becoming rather used to random statements from this girl, responded without thinking. "Well, does he?"

Brown eyes swung around to face him in surprise. "How could anyone love a whore?"

Skittery's head whirled. Those were most definitely not her words. They were his words! And she had just pulled them out of his head!

"Who are you?" he heard himself whisper.

The girl's smile returned then, blooming across her face in the candlelight, and Skittery was startled to find that he was deeply relieved to see it. "Leah Bailey,"

she answered simply.

"Leah..." He still couldn't seem to get over the habit of repeating her, but this time his tone was not one of disgust or incredulity, but of awe, almost reverence. "Leah Bailey...all right...but who are you?"

"I'm a whore," she answered matter-of-factly. When he shook his head, she continued, seeming determined to find a reply that satisfied him. "I'm a star-gazer...a poet...a painter, sometimes, but I'm not very good...a barmaid, a friend, an orphan, a sister..."

"A what?"

This last word startled Skittery, but that was nothing compared to what it did to Leah. Her hand slipped, and her candle plunged to the ground, going out in an instant, so that she was no more than a faceless shadow again, like the first night he had seen her.

"...once," she finished in a flat and distant tone that Skittery hadn't heard her use before. "A sister once."

He was still staring at her, and she puckered her lips, as if disappointed that she still hadn't come up with the proper label for herself. Then her face brightened.

"Last night," she reminded him, "your friend, the little boy, he said I was a…a spook?"

She laughed, and Skittery was reminded of the laughter he had heard in the doorway after their rescuer...Leah...had disappeared. It sent his heart reeling and soaring all over the place, that laugh.

"Yeah...I forgot about that. Tumbler's a pretty creative kid," Skittery informed her, grinning. His grin dissolved as he became thoughtful. "Y'know, I think that's it. That's what you must be. You appear and disappear in thin air, you read minds, you teleport things out of people's pockets—"

"None of the above," Leah denied, eyes twinkling. "But I'll be a spook if you want me to."

"All right," Skittery consented faintly. "Spook it is."

They regarded each other for a while, there beneath the round ivory-fire moon, and the stars that glittered so brightly one almost expected them to burst into chords of music. In the darkness, and without the benefit of Spook's candle, details were concealed...but everything about her, from her diminutive height to her snow-white face, from her short black hair to her beautiful brown eyes, from her radiant smile to her voice and laugh that triggered such strong feelings within him, seemed to break over Skittery again and again, fresh and new each time, like waves breaking on the sand.

At last, he felt his eyes drifting away from her. Their attention had been caught by something else, something along the side of the street, located just outside the alley and before the first building. Something he had not previously noticed, on either of his journeys to this street.

"Spook," he murmured, testing the new name on his tongue, "what are those?"

Spook followed his gaze, then padded respectfully over to the objects of his curiosity. He followed mutely. Together, they stood and looked down at a neat row of rough wooden crosses, protruding from a layer of soft dirt that would soon be frozen solid.

"They're in memory," Spook explained, "of those of Madame's 'daughters' who've died, over the years. She puts 'em up 'erself, whenever she loses a girl…to sickness, hunger, cold...murder. See the names?"

Peering more closely, Skittery realized that a first name was painstakingly carved into each cross.

Alexandra. Bethany. Lissette. Maria.

While Spook looked on, Skittery stepped forward and silently read the name on every single cross. When he stepped back, his face wore a look of profound relief.

Spook was pointing at the base of one of the crosses.

"Look at that," she commanded.

Skittery's eyes followed her gesture, and he saw that his shoe had left a single print in the moist patch of earth. He turned blankly to Spook, who uttered two cryptic sentences in a chilling pitch, like an oracle delivering a prophecy.

"Before you scorn the dirt beneath your feet, remember that it records your footprints. And when you're gone, it will remember the path you took in life."

A shiver ran down Skittery's spine, and he nodded. They took another minute or so to pay their silent respects to the lost ladies of the night.

"September says they're the lucky ones," Spook told him quietly. "I don't know if she's right." She turned to him. "What do you think?"

Without answering, Skittery reached out a hand to Spook. Understanding, she placed into it the wadded-up photograph that had been the catalyst to all the night's events. Wordlessly, Skittery unrolled the ball, smoothing the little square out in the palm of his hand. He took a deep breath, and his eyes fell upon it for the first time in three years.

A pretty, brown-haired fourteen-year-old girl smiled up at him. In seconds, her face blurred before his eyes.

He wasn't aware of sinking to his knees. He was dimly aware of flipping the picture over in his hand, so that tears splashed onto it and caused the message written there in neat script to run slightly, though it remained legible:

Mit Liebe, Ihre Schwester, Charlotta.

"I'm sorry," he choked out between sobs, cradling the picture in both hands and shaking his head furiously, as if to deny that an event now vivid in his memory had ever occurred. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

Beside him, he heard Spook kneel down as well. When he peered at her through his tears, he was startled to find that mixed with the deep sympathy in her face was another emotion equally as strong: unmistakable shock.

"Hey," she whispered, "could I...I don't even know your name," she realized aloud with a brief flash of her wondrous smile.

"Sk-Skittery," he managed to gasp.

"Skittery…could I…see the picture, please? I promise I'll give it back," she added.

He handed it to her. Carefully, she turned it over, and stared at his sister's face for long, long seconds.

Finally, she placed the treasure in his hand again, rose, and touched his arm. Instinctively, he jerked away, the barest flash returning of the opinions he had held about her kind before that night. She withdrew her hand, and spoke.

"It isn't a picture you need to apologize to," she told him, not sternly, but with the utmost tenderness.

And with that, she slipped away from him, seeming to float down the street and meld with the shadows, materializing again before the door of one of the many dingy buildings. It opened and closed noiselessly, leaving just enough time in between for her to vanish inside.

Skittery shoved the photograph back into his pocket and staggered to his feet, bowing his head momentarily before the crosses. Then his feet slowly carried him toward the alley, as he glanced back several dozen times at the door that had swallowed his wise, innocent, brown-eyed spook.

"Where have you been this time?" Jack faced Skittery with the air of a father lecturing a son who had become a hopeless delinquent. "Is vanishin' some new habit a'yours or somethin'? Run into any thugs this time?"

Skittery shook his head wearily, trying to keep pace with Jack's energetic strides; the Manhattan leader had met him at the corner of Duane Street, apparently on his way to look for him.

"What'd I miss?" he asked, feeling he was expected to speak.

"What'd you miss?" Jack rolled his eyes. "Well, let's see. The tournament's over, everyone's gone except Tanya, the rugrats ran down the street naked drummin' on water pails—"

"I'm kinda glad I missed that," Skittery declared, wincing. Jack grinned in spite of himself.

"Yeah, I don't blame ya. Well, Tumbler held out on that atrocity, I think he was lookin' for you." Jack probably would have said more, but it was then that they mounted the steps of the lodging house, and the lamp in the window provided enough light for him to get a better view of Skittery's face. He did a double-take.

"God, Skitt, you a'right? Ya look like you've seen a ghost!"

Lifting a hand to his own pale cheek, Skittery nodded grimly.

"Plenty...plenty of 'em. Quite a few. And a spook...can't forget the spook."

Jack regarded him with concern. "Uh, you feelin' a'right, Skitt? I think you better get to bed."

He pushed open the lodging-house door, leading Skittery into the lobby. They were greeted with the scene of Racetrack and Tanya joined in a soft, shy kiss.

The two quickly parted, both scarlet-faced. Race cleared his throat hastily.

"Uh, heya Cowboy, Skitt. Didn't know you'd be back so soon."

Tanya, however, was making a quick recovery from her embarassment. She had caught sight of Skittery's pale visage, and her eyes locked onto it eagerly, clearly intrigued. Skittery wasn't in the mood.

"Will you stop watchin' people all the time?" he snapped at the jewel as he and Jack proceeded into the bunkroom.

She must have ignored him, however, for he felt her eyes continue to follow him until the door snapped shut. The last thing he heard from the lobby was her honey-and-ginger voice: "Race, would you walk me home?"

Kloppman had turned the lights out, and most of the newsies were already sound asleep, blissfully unaware of the huge shambles of cards, dice, and cigar stubs that surrounded them: a disaster which their landlord would surely force them to clean up the next day. Ignoring the mess, Skittery watched Jack climb up into his bunk and fall back onto his pillow, already starting to snore. Then he quietly slipped into his own bunk, casting off his shirt and suspenders and closing his eyes, so that he could see her black hair in the moonlight.

Instead, however, he saw the row of wooden crosses, and the face on the photograph in his pocket.

"Skitt?" called a young, sleep-deprived voice from several bunks away. "You back?"

"Yeah, Tumbler, I'm back," Skittery confirmed.

"Have an interestin' walk?"

The question had barely left the little newsboy's mouth before his light snores joined those of his many roommates. Skittery rolled over, drew the picture out of his pocket, and tenderly slipped it under his pillow again.

"Kid," he whispered into the deaf darkness of the bunkroom, "you have no idea."