Imogene was so upset, even at ten blocks away, that she didn't notice Jean wriggling uncomfortably by her side. Her teeth were clenched and her dark green eyes sliced through the masses of pedestrians before her. What was left of her ragged fingernails dug into her tattered black cloak until her knuckles were the color of flawless porcelain. Quietly, she snarled unladylike phrases condemning newsies, disbelievers, the stingy, and urban environments. It wasn't until she felt a slight tug on her shirt that she realized Jean was gazing up at her with pleading eyes.

            He didn't speak, but she recognized the glance. "How big is that stomach of yours, anyway?" she demanded testily, despite the fact that hers had been growling for hours.

            "It's not my fault," he debated. "That breakfast wasn't much of a breakfast at all."

            She was forced to agree. They had managed to swipe a slightly mealy apple from a market stand before the grocer caught sight of their activities and screamed at them to leave, telling them in less than polite terms where he wished they would go. "It's bettah than what we usually have."

            "What we usually have is nothin'."

            "Because usually we can't afford anythin' else."

            Jean, who had been keeping up with his sister's stride, suddenly became a statue. He placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes, reminding the girl of an irate nanny. "Come on, Imogene," he pleaded, "we got enough to buy a decent lunch somewhere. We haven't eaten anythin' good for days and I'm real hungry."

            She bit her lower lip as she studied her younger brother carefully. He was far too thin for his build; bony arms and legs were swallowed by trousers and a shirt a few sizes too big for him. His cheekbones were clearly defined and made his face seem very delicate, as though the weakest blow would break him. Sometimes Imogene thought of him as someone who needed her constant protection; but then she would remember that humid night in late August, when the moon had been so full it almost illuminated the room, when he had almost lost his own life in a brave attempt to save hers.

            "Okay," she finally consented, "but it has to be cheap. We ain't got that much money as it is, and we don't need to spend it all on a sandwich."

            A bright smile suffused across Jean's face. "Great! Thanks, Imogene!"

            At seeing the boy's excitement, Imogene felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn't suggested lunch earlier. It's not like he complains that often, she told herself. He's really good about livin' like this.

            "So, where can we go? Can we go to a real restaurant?" he wanted to know.

            She laughed lightly and extracted a handful of coins on her pocket. "Sure I think this'll get us a table at the Waldorf." She considered the coins "I think we have enough to get us something good- not expensive- but good."

            Her brother sighed contentedly and licked his lips as he imagined freshly baked bread, pots of spiced rice, and thick sausages. "What're we waitin' for, then?" he demanded. "Let's go already."

            "Well…" she murmured and began to scan the crowds, hoping to find either a restaurant that looked inexpensive or a person to inquire about the whereabouts of such a location. A gaggle of young factory workers- most likely on their lunch break, or so Imogene supposed- was standing against a nearby wall. Hopeful that they would be able to help her, Imogene and Jean sauntered over.

            "Excuse me," she said politely, causing the girls' conversation to cease momentarily and raising a few eyebrows with her unusual accent, "could ya'll tell me where I can find a good place to eat?"

            One of the girls, a tall redhead, grinned knowingly. "And not too expensive?" she inquired with a thick Irish accent.

            "Yeah."

            The redhead thought for a moment. "Well," she finally murmured, "Tibby's isnae too bad. Mr. Tibby will fill ye up without it costin' your arm and your leg. Head down four blocks, take a left, then three more blocks and ye're there."

            Jean smiled brightly at her. Bowing deeply, as though he were about to ask the redhead for the pleasure of a waltz, he said, "Merci mademoiselle."

            The factory girls, finding the boy adorable, laughed cheerfully but Imogene just rolled her eyes. She thanked the girls again and, taking her brother by the hand, turned in the direction the redhead had told them to go.

            As they walked, Jean spoke dreamily of the extravagant lunch he planned to have. Half-listening to her brother, Imogene realized how much he was beginning to resemble their father- the charming grin, the roguishly messy black hair, and the eyes that flashed with delighted mischief. His voice, albeit much higher at this age, seemed to be the same spirited tenor. Imogene remembered her father's beautiful voice filing the room as he sang her to sleep. For a moment, she felt a pang of grief. I wondah what would have happened if he had been around…maybe none of this would evah had happened.

            She shook the idea out of her head. Forget about what could've been. This is the way it is.

            "Hey, there it is," Jean piped up and, grabbing his sister's arm, yanked her into the restaurant.
            There were several empty tables, and for a moment Imogene doubted the establishment's reputation, but then she recalled that it was still early for lunch. "I guess we have our pick of where to sit," she remarked to her companion, who nodded and darted to a small table by the window.

            "They have coffee and roast beef sandwiches and knockwursts…oh, that's like sausage, right? Oh, sausages! We haven't had those in such a long time," the boy said, his mouth watering already, as Imogene took a seat across from him.

            Before she could even reply, a young woman strolled to their table, a notebook in hand and her long dark brown hair tied in a neat braid. "Good aftahnoon," she greeted them pleasantly. "What can I get ya?"

            Jean nearly shouted his order. "I'll have a sausage- no, make that two- and a sarsaparilla and a salad and some cole slaw and an ordah of pork and beans and-"

            "We'll each have a knockwurst and a cup of coffee," Imogene interjected decidedly. Jean opened his mouth to argue but his sister silenced him with a stern glance. He sunk lower into his chair and rolled his eyes. Imogene looked to their waitress, who was waiting for their final decision, and nodded.

            "Okay," the waitress said, "dat'll be out in a minute."

            Once they were alone again, Jean folded his arms challengingly over his chest. "We could've gotten somethin' else," he remarked.

            "We'll work the crowds aftah lunch and see how things go for suppah. All right?" she attempted to mollify him. When his only response was a scowl, she continued, "Look, we just can't get anythin' else, especially if workin' in New York keeps goin' the way it's goin'."

            His eyes flashed with interested. "Can you tell?" he wanted to know. "I mean, read the cards and see." Before she could even reply, he dove into the bag, extracted a deck of tattered cards, and tossed them onto the table.

            She tenderly picked up the deck, thoughtfully studying the pictures on the cards (even though the colors were far less vivid than they had been when, at seven, Imogene had first received the deck). The Empress, the Page of Wands, the Handed Man. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, was transported to a tiny ramshackle house in Louisiana, where the mosquitoes thrived and the moonlight danced on the splintered floor. Then, eyes open and as deep as oceans, she relaxed her mind and placed ten cards on the table.

            As she moved she could almost hear a familiar voice telling her, Use the cards as a guide. Do not fear them, as they are an extension of you.

            She turned over the first card, the present and passing. "The Nine of Swords," she said, although Jean did not know whether she was speaking for his benefit or for her own. "Despair and anxiety. Unfortunate circumstances." She studied the picture of a sobbing woman with swords floating above her head and suppressed a violent shiver.

            She reached for the second card but froze when she heard soft footsteps moving towards her table Scowling quietly, she swiftly collected the cards and passed them to her brother, who tucked them away safely in his sack.

            The waitress stood before them, holding plates and cups with the ease of a professional juggler. "Two knockwursts and two coffees," she said as she placed the dishes in front of the two siblings.

            Jean practically fell onto his plate, devouring his meal with immense delight. He turned to the waitress with grateful eyes and, through a mouthful of knockwurst, mumbled, "Thank you."

            "You're welcome," she laughed lightly and whirled around to walk back to the kitchen. Then she turned slowly to face Imogene and Jean once again.

            "Ya haven't been heah before, have ya?" she asked curiously but respectfully, as though prepared for a caustic response.

            Imogene smirked as she sipped at her drink. "What gave it away?" she questioned.

            Although Jean was still chewing a rather large bite of knockwurst, he answered for his sister. "We're new here," he informed their waitress, who listened to him with interest. "We're from…" he paused as he swallowed noisily, "Louisiana. That's down south."

            "What are ya doin' up heah?"

            "Workin'," he replied enthusiastically. "See, Imogene here reads palms and tarot cards and does stuff like that. And I work the crowd." He flashed a boastful yet roguishly charming grin that hinted at his less than legal 'work'.

            The waitress returned his smile. "Well, I hope ya like it heah." She glanced back at the kitchen door where a middle-aged man, whose irritation was as evident on his face as his handlebar mustache, stood with his arms folded over his chest. The waitress quickly nodded at him before turning her attention to her customers. "My name's Samantha- ya can call me Books, ev'rybody does. If ya need anyt'ing, just call for me." With a final grin, she turned on her heel and strode back into the kitchen.

            Jean looked at his sister. "I like her," he admitted as he chewed thoughtfully on his sausage.

            She rolled her eyes. "Just because she gives you food-"

            "No," he replied emphatically, "I'd like her anyway. She's real nice."

            Imogene watched her brother swallow the last of his lunch and wondered how safe would he be in this massive city. He's so trustin', even with everythin' that happened to us, she mused. Her stomach began to churn. She tried to blame her sudden discomfort on her meal, yet subconsciously she realized that her anxiety was caused by the knowledge that one day she would not be able to protect her only sibling from whatever danger he faced.

To be continued…please review