Catherine was hungry, but it wasn't the sort of hunger food could fill. It was something else, something she had felt before but not really understood because she had never known it sated until she met Alexander. For those months, she had been more than just comfortable. She had been happy, and now that he was gone, she felt like a part of her had been taken away. It wasn't just loneliness, but she didn't know what else to call it.

Lovesick, maybe, but how could she have been lovesick without first falling in love?

At least she still had Napoleon. He kept her company, though sometimes she thought he missed Alexander more than she did. The little mutt sat by the door whenever they were at home, and at night he would whine piteously. Hearing him, she would sometimes cry and bury her face in her pillow.

The stew lasted her two weeks before she ran out and had to find some other way to get food. Her pay from running errands didn't last as long as she had hoped, and one by one she had to sell Alexander's paintings. At first it was like selling bits of her heart, but each one was easier. She wondered how he could have managed to survive on just selling them; the buyers gave her what felt like a pittance for each, and rent took up more than she had expected. She tried running more errands, but the other artists were likely as poor as she was, and they couldn't pay her enough. She ate two, then one meal a day, but even that didn't save her enough money.

By September, she was on the streets again.

There was a small mercy in that she still had some of her boy's clothes, and it was easy to become Harry Cole again. Napoleon by her side, she headed off in a random direction, looking for a safe place to stay. She had a little money in her pocket, about half of what she would have needed to pay the rent. It would buy her some food until she could get some kind of job, and she could probably get Napoleon to hunt rats. Perhaps she could even hire him out as a rat-catcher, solving both how to feed him and how to pay herself.

She barely paid attention to where she was going. Her thoughts were racing, searching for some way to survive. While she'd had a roof over her head and some food in her belly, she could afford to miss Alexander and cry herself to sleep. Now that she could only trust the sky and luck, there was no time for sadness. The heroines of her mother's novels always had someone to save them from desperate straits, but she only had herself. It was a little exciting to think of herself as both hero and damsel, and she didn't realize where she was until she heard a familiar lilting voice.

"Well, it's been a long time since I saw you, boy. Gotten older, haven't you?" Freya laughed. "And you've got your little dog with you. Hello, mutt."

Catherine hadn't realized she had gone back to the rookery, but now that she looked around, she realized she must have been looking for a familiar place. Trying to make her voice low, she asked, "You remember me?"

"Not at first. You're a bit cleaner than before, and your hair's gotten longer." Catherine reached up and found that it had and now hung past her ears. She would have to get it cut before she started looking too much like a girl. "I recognized your mutt. Hello, boy." Freya held out her hand and whistled. "You remember me, don't you?"

Catherine looked around, remembering what had happened the last time she was at the rookery and the reason she had left it nearly a year ago. "Where's Isaiah?"

"Got knifed, poor man." Freya scratched Napoleon's ears and cooed. "I don't miss him much. He was always a bit too rough, even after I asked him to use me gentler, and he wanted to drown your pup. Though you're not much of a pup anymore, are you?" She looked over Catherine and smiled, slow as a drifting cloud. "Neither of you are pups, really. You've gotten your looks, boy, though you're still young."

Heat rose up Catherine's chest. She couldn't help feeling some relief that Isaiah was gone. He had been dangerous, at least to her, and perhaps she could stay at the rookery again. "Did Isaiah get in a fight?" She wouldn't be surprised if he had, though she was a bit surprised that he had lost. The man had loved to brag about his skill with a blade.

"I think so. I saw the whole thing. It happened just outside his room, so early in the morning that I was ready to knife someone for waking me up." She laughed and started walking down the street, gesturing for Catherine to follow. "There was some big man outside, shouting for Isaiah to come out. Said he owed a debt and it was time he paid up. Isaiah told him he hadn't any money, and the man said it wasn't money he was looking for. There was a girl escaped from his mistress, and he wanted her back."

Catherine felt sick. She had been hunted here.

"Isaiah told the man there weren't any escaped girls here. The man said for him to try to remember. The girl had red hair, he said, and she'd be around fourteen. Small and pretty, he said, and maybe wearing boy's clothes."

Her heart pounded against her chest so hard she thought it might break past her ribs. If Annie had seen through her disguise, it was possible Isaiah had as well.

"Then Isaiah went quiet for a long while." Freya went quiet as well, and her face turned somber. Catherine wasn't sure if she was sad or remembering, but either way, she needed to hear what Isaiah had said to that. She had to know if he had known.

"What happened next?" she asked. Freya gave her an angry look but went on.

"No, he said. No, there weren't any pretty girls dressed as boys anywhere in the rookery." She shrugged. "Then the big man stabbed him and walked off. I'm glad he didn't look in the room. I wouldn't have wanted him to look at me like that." Freya stopped suddenly and looked down at the street just below a window. "It took him a long while to die. I didn't go out and watch. You probably think I'm a coward for that. You're probably right. When I did go out, his body was already gone. I keep his room, now." She pushed open the door to the building and led Catherine into a room with a mattress on the floor and several dresses strewn about. "I don't miss him that much, really. I've had better lovers, and I'll have better someday."

Catherine wanted very badly to sit down. Her legs were shaking, and she was surprised her lungs were still managing to breathe. "Why are you telling me all this?"

Freya looked at her as though she were mad. "You asked me to. You wanted to know what happened to Isaiah, so I told you." She scowled at nothing. "I hope that man catches that whore, though. She's the reason Isaiah's dead. He ought to take her back to that Annie he works for."

Napoleon had settled on the floor. Catherine tapped her leg, and he rose and went to her side. "Thank you for telling me," she said. "I think I'll find my own place to stay. Do you know if my old place is being used by anyone?"

Freya frowned. "Why are you in such a hurry to head out?"

"Why do you want me to stay?" Catherine clenched her hands into fists, and she wished Napoleon would start growling. She felt like the sound would make her feel more secure, but he just stood by her legs, waiting for her to leave.

"I feel like you know something." Freya took a step closer, but Catherine couldn't step back. She was already pressed against the wall, and all she could do was try to edge to the door, but Napoleon blocked her feet. "I saw your face when I was talking about what happened to Isaiah. You've been somewhere, and suddenly you're back looking clean and next to healthy."

"I found a home," Catherine said. "I wanted to stay in it but had to leave. This was the only place I could think of to come."

"What, were you kept by some rich lady until she got tired of you? Or maybe it was some man wanted a pretty boy to keep him company but tossed you out when it got scandalous." Heat rose up Catherine's neck and into her cheeks, and Freya laughed. "Never could keep a secret, could you, Harry? So why don't you tell me, right now, what you know about that Isaiah and that slut."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Catherine said. She could have struck Freya for calling her a whore and a slut – though the woman had done so unknowingly – but that might have given her away, and she knew she couldn't win in a fight against her.

Freya stepped between her and the door. "You're hiding something, Harry. Tell me what it is, and I'll let you out."

Catherine looked up and met Freya's eyes. She had always heard that blue eyes were meant to be beautiful and innocent, but there was something harsh in Freya's that terrified her. "I think Isaiah knew the girl," she said, hoping that would be enough to get away. "He knew her, or he met her, and he wanted to protect her." Something coiled inside her stomach, and she wanted to find a room and hide with Napoleon. "That's all I know."

"And how do you know?" Freya advanced on her, and Catherine didn't know how she could get out. The truth would kill her.

"I saw her," Catherine said, hoping desperately that the lie would be something Freya wouldn't question. "She wasn't very good at disguises, and she was trying to hide near the rookery. I just figured her for a runaway. I didn't know she was being chased."

Freya seemed to believe it, or at least she didn't become more suspicious. "How did Isaiah know her?"

"I didn't know he did. I don't know why he'd try to protect her."

"And why did you want to know what happened to Isaiah?"

Catherine reached down and scratched behind Napoleon's notched ear. "He wanted to kill my pup. I thought I'd make sure he wasn't around anymore before I moved back in."

Freya nodded. "Go find a place. I'll make sure no one hurts the mutt."