Author's Note: It has been ridiculously long since my last update. The good news is, I'm done with exams and a bunch of other stuff I had to do. By the way, there are a few things I think I got wrong. For instance, I suspect that it would take longer than six months to get from Australia to London in 1846. I hope no one minds too much. Also, I couldn't quite remember the dialogue from "No Place Like London", even though I watched that scene before I wrote this. I decided not to put down the song lyrics, because they seemed awkward.

Disclaimer: Not it. I mean, not mine.

Chapter Seven: Terra Firma

It took nearly six months for Anthony to remember that he hadn't always wanted to be a sailor. Ever since the rescue, the other sailors had been…well, not hostile, exactly. They just let Anthony know that they considered him a perfect fool. Odd, too. Eventually, Anthony took to hiding in the galley and talking to Mr. Todd. He sometimes wondered why he kept trying to make conversation, as Mr. Todd only responded in monosyllables. By the time the Bountiful was halfway to London, he had exhausted the subjects of his travels and his siblings. Although he had the feeling that Mr. Todd would have rather been left alone, he continued to talk, first about Shawnessy, and then about his own childhood, leaving out the most unpleasant details. It seemed as if he couldn't stop once he started.

"I wanted to be a saint," he recalled. Mr. Todd's mouth twitched slightly; whether it was from amusement or irritation, Anthony couldn't tell. "I was real little then, maybe six. I didn't know any better. When I realized that I didn't know how, I decided to be a sailor, I suppose because the sea was right there and my dad..."

"Hm," said Mr. Todd.

"Later, I wanted to leave so badly that it seemed like the best thing in the world," Anthony continued. "It's funny, though, isn't it? I could have been a fisherman or even opened a shop, if I'd tried hard enough. But no one ever heard of a sailor saint. We're all supposed to drink and swear and visit places where respectable people don't go. I've done all those things, too."

"Not as much as some of the others."

Anthony looked at Mr. Todd with surprise. That was the longest speech he'd given in weeks.

"Right," he finally agreed. "But I still did them. And what's worse, I enjoyed them."

"Men have done worse things," Mr. Todd said. "They've felt no remorse."

Even as he nodded solemnly, Anthony had to suppress a smile. He was having an actual conversation with Mr. Todd. He had no idea why he cared whether this man, this stranger he'd found floating in the water, spoke or not. It was just a relief to see him do something besides stare at the wall. He decided to risk a question.

"Mr. Todd?"

"Yes?"

"What did you do in Australia?"

In one second, fear, anger, shock, and sorrow crossed Mr. Todd's face. Anthony regretted his question immediately. He knew, almost for a fact, that Mr. Todd had been a prisoner. It had been stupid, thoughtless, and even cruel to remind him of that.

"I was a guard at one of the prisons," Mr. Todd replied.

Anthony nodded, although he didn't believe it for a second. Mr. Todd was slight in the first place, and had obviously been beaten and half-starved, not like a guard at all. Just then, the ship's bell rang, letting Anthony know that it was his watch.

"I have to go," he said. "I think we're close to London."

Another shadow passed over Mr. Todd's face. This time, though, Anthony could only puzzle over what he might have said to cause it.

He was right; the Bountiful docked in London three days later. The city was so oddly beautiful; it looked as if it had been fashioned from smoke and rain. He couldn't stop staring at it.

"There's no place like London," he heard himself say to Mr. Todd, just before the ship went through the gate.

"No, there's no place like London," Mr. Todd agreed, but his words sounded hollow. He muttered something else, but Anthony didn't hear. He was too busy remembering how London had been the first place he had wanted to go. Now it would be the last place he would go, at least on the Bountiful.

Later, after they got off the ship, he noticed Mr. Todd standing stock still, glaring at the skyline.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Todd?" he asked, stopping beside him.

"I beg your indulgence, Anthony," Mr. Todd muttered, his eyes still fixed straight ahead. "In these once familiar streets, I feel shadows."

"Shadows?"

"Ghosts."

Anthony surveyed the skyline. It was swathed in fog. He still had no idea what Mr. Todd meant; he only knew that everything was not alright. Then Mr. Todd started to speak.

"I always wanted to be a barber," he began. "When I lived in London, there was a barber, a good barber, one who loved his work. He had a wife, a beautiful wife. She could've had anyone, you know, but she loved him. They had a little girl, with yellow hair, just like her. So beautiful..."

He fell silent. While waiting for the rest of the story, Anthony searched the sky for the exact spot where Mr. Todd was staring.

"She was so beautiful," Mr. Todd finally continued, "and they were too happy. It couldn't last. Another man, a man with too much power, saw that she was beautiful, too. When he couldn't get at her, he just got rid of the barber. Then she'd have no choice."

Anthony stared at him and tried to contemplate this horrible ending. He had never lost so much. There'd been his mother, of course, but they'd been unhappy even before she died. He almost didn't want to know what had happened to the barber's wife, but he had to ask.

"The lady…did she succumb?"

"I'm sure no one remembers. That was many years ago." Mr. Todd shook his head. "I'd like to thank you, Anthony. If you hadn't spotted me, I'd be lost in the ocean still."

Anthony nodded. He refrained from saying that he just hadn't wanted another death on his hands; it seemed ungracious, and he had told Mr. Todd quite enough.

"Will I see you again?" he asked instead. After all, he would be alone in London; it would be nice to know someone, even if he never did see him again.

"You might find me if you like," Mr. Todd replied. "Round Fleet Street, I wouldn't wonder."

"Until then, my friend." Anthony reached out his hand, but Mr. Todd had already turned away. As he watched the ghostly man stalk down the street, he asked himself what he had really expected. He barely knew Mr. Todd, after all, and would not allow himself to feel hurt by such a small matter. Shrugging, he threw his bag over his shoulder and thought about finding a place to sleep.


Before the night was out, he settled on an inn in Bell Yard. It wasn't really a respectable place, but he supposed that it was just about right for him and what he could pay. Besides, it was just north of the Thames, and around the corner from Fleet Street. He found both facts inexplicably reassuring.

"I don't like sailors," the innkeeper, a stout woman with frowsy white hair, told him as she led him upstairs. "Bad for business, you know, but they're the ones who come here. If I had my way, I'd be running a nice respectable place." She paused. "Of course, if I really had my way, I wouldn't have to work at all. But there you have it."

"I don't like sleeping outside," he replied, peering into the dark room. He was glad to see that there was a window, albeit one that was so small that he wondered why anyone had bothered to install it. The innkeeper grunted and left him to stare out the window. The darkness of the sky at such an early hour made him drowsier than he would have been ordinarily, and he soon fell asleep. He had heard once that London got only three hours of daylight.

Author's Note: I got the "three hours of daylight" thing out of Avi's historical novel, The Traitor's Gate. In the next chapter: gandering time! I'll be basing this off the movie version, mostly.