Chapter Nine

New York City, 1897

Lower Manhattan

"I'm your new what?" Bolt asked, wondering if the attack had addled his brain.

"Fighter," Spot replied, nodding for Bolt to follow him.

Bolt didn't know why, but he felt like he had to obey. Maybe it was because the guy had most likely just saved him from several broken bones. He pushed away from the wall, pausing to steady himself, as his head spun. When the world stopped spinning, Bolt fell in step beside Spot, rubbing the back of his wrist across his face, wiping away some of the blood that was still flowing sluggishly from his nose.

"Here, clean off," Spot said, handing him an almost clean handkerchief.

Bolt accepted the cloth, wiping his face with it, then the arm he had used at his first attempt. A thought crossed the back of his mind, that this Spot Conlon sure ordered people around a lot, but he didn't dwell on it. His good sense told him not to question Spot again. Whatever it was he was talking about, he would find out soon enough.

They walked in silence, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, and Bolt was just about to protest walking any further without knowing the destination, good sense or not, when Spot raised a hand, stopping in his tracks. He glanced around the nearly empty street before disappearing into an alleyway, the entrance of which was nearly blocked off by stacked crates.

Bolt followed, his curiosity now piqued by the way this strange, albeit commanding, young man was acting.

Spot paused at a door that was situated about halfway into the alley, pounding on it three times with side of his fist. The door opened a crack, then shut again just as quickly. Bolt furrowed his brow, about to question Spot about it, when he heard the sound of chains sliding across the metal door. It swung open again, wide enough to allow Spot and Bolt to enter.

As Bolt stepped inside the room, he was awarded a full view of the person who had been guarding the door. He was a towering fellow, standing a full head and shoulders taller then Bolt; he seemed to examine Bolt as he passed by, but remained silent.

"C'mon."

Bolt turned, following Spot deeper into this mysterious room. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was able to make out several chairs scattered throughout the room. Most of them looked as if they'd been dragged there from a dump, each in various states of disrepair. Furniture sporting ripped upholstery, missing backs, and other discrepancies littered the room. Bolt noticed one chair that had a two by four nailed on as its fourth leg.

"What is this place?" Bolt asked, scanning the room.

"This," Spot replied, sweeping his hands up, gesturing around the room, "this is The Ring."

New York City, 1902

Tuesday, Day Three

Early Afternoon

Hannah sat on her bed, her chin in her hands, frustrated. She was bored, and upset, and confused, but mostly she was frustrated. She wanted to do something, anything, even if it was just going to work. But every time she got up to leave she remembered Elijah's words.

"Don't go out until you hear from me, alright?"

Hannah hated just sitting there. She felt useless. And she couldn't help going over the conversation she'd had with Elijah, over and over again in her head. The more she thought about it, the more restless she felt. She desperately wanted to go back to a week ago, when none of this was happening.

But, instead, she was sitting alone in her room, in the middle of the day, with nothing to do. And, the more she thought about it, the more she realized she still didn't know what was going on. Everything had moved so quickly, ever since that brick had sailed through the window. She hadn't even taken the time to really grasp what was happening around her. But now she had plenty of time, and it still wasn't making any sense…

Hannah glanced at the small clock on the wall. It was early still, and Elijah wasn't going to meet… whoever he was going to meet until nine. A small sigh escaped her lips, and she reached over to the small dresser, picking up the book she had been reading. Flipping it open, she hoped to distract herself from her worrisome thoughts.

New York City, 1890

The Evan's Flat

Elisabeth carefully wiped at an imaginary speck of dirt that she thought was spoiling her new dress. She'd just gotten it for her seventh birthday, and she was being very careful to keep it clean.

"Hannie! Hannie, c'mon, let's go inside, I don't want to get my dress dirty!"

Hannah didn't answer, but remained where she was: crouched in the dirt, by the corner of their apartment building.

"Hannie, you're going to get your dress all dirty, too, if you sit in the mud! Look, it's already all over the back."

When Hannah still didn't answer, Elisabeth carefully picked her way through the dirt and street dust to her sister's side. As she approached, Elisabeth could see Hannah's shoulders shaking with small sobs. "Hannah? What's the matter?"

Hannah turned to look at her, tears running down her cheeks. "He was just lying there," she sobbed. "What's wrong with him?"

Elisabeth was immediately alarmed, but breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the source of her sister's distress, "Oh, Hannie."

Cradled carefully in her little sister's arms was a newborn kitten. It was stiff and Elisabeth was willing to bet that its mother and its littermates had moved on some time ago. Elisabeth knelt down beside her sister, disregarding her clean dress to put her arm around Hannah's shoulders.

"He's gone, Hannie. He was probably too little." She said, almost motherly, as she gave her a small squeeze. "Do you want to bury him? C'mon, we'll give him a proper funeral. Stay here, I'll be right back." Elisabeth stood, shaking the real dirt off her dress before running into the building. She reappeared moments later, a small box in hand. Gently taking the lifeless form from her sister, she placed it inside the box.

Elisabeth reached down for her sister's hand, pulling her to her feet. Hannah tearfully followed her sister to a small park that was on the corner of their block. They both fell to their knees on a patch of grass, Elisabeth digging her hands into the grass and dirt, making a small hole. They buried the box, and both stood to their feet, Hannah's cheeks still stained from her tears.

Elisabeth silently reached out for her sister's hand and they walked back to their home together, dirty hand in dirty hand.

Hannah tossed her book aside in irritation. Fifteen minutes had passed, and she'd only managed to read one paragraph... three times.

"Forget it, I'm going out." She said aloud, almost as if speaking it made it okay.

She picked up her wrap and pinned her hat in place quickly, afraid she was going to loose her nerve if she took to long to leave. Hannah hurried down the stairs and out the front door, pausing as she entered the fresh air. She glanced around, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Hannah took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. She chided herself for her ridiculous behaviour, and then made her way off the stoop and onto the street, making her way to Mrs. Greskin's home. If she timed it right, she could catch Becky, right as she was leaving.