September 24, 7:30 P.M.

The borough of Queens welcomed Flick about as warmly as a coffin would welcome a corpse. Not that anything else was to be expected from a borough torn apart by newsie anarchy, struck by a merciless rash of pickpockets, and crawling with thugs who were currently after Flick's blood.

Leaning against the door of a small, darkened shop, she glanced fearfully up and down the deserted street, eyes still adjusting to the evening shadows rapidly replacing the fading sunlight. Every muscle in her body was tensed, adrenaline rushing through her veins even as she stood stationary in the quiet street. This was madness, sheer madness; but what else had her life been these past few days?

It was Secret's doing, this fresh insanity of hers; Secret and that blasted farewell scene. After Secret and Spot had departed, and after Flick and the Musketeers had cooled down in the bunkroom, they had all sold like automatons, scattered on their various neighboring corners, changing position only to sprint to the distribution center for the next edition. When they were all sold out, the return to the lodging house hadn't been something Flick had felt she could face. Even as she had made her weak excuse to the boys, claiming she had a poker game set up when she knew the lie was written all over her face, her true destination had been clear in her mind. Since the incident in Queens the previous night, she had been resolved to find out all she could about the state of the borough and her own place on its newsboys' hit list. It was wise, of course, to know your enemy; but to know him on his own turf for the second night in a row wasn't exactly a sound policy.

Well, I neveh was known ta plan t'ings out all simple an' safe, she mused, jumping a foot in the air when one of the shop's loose shutters banged in a phantom breeze.

"Oh, dis coitainly resembles McKinley's Casino," a dry voice commented from the other side of the shop.

With a gasp and another violent start, Flick spun in the direction of the voice, backed up so fast that she tripped and nearly toppled over, shot out a hand to steady herself against the storefront, and swore in two languages, one recently acquired, as a thoroughly amused figure stepped around the corner of the store.

"Race," she gasped, so weak with relief that there was little room for anger yet, "ya tryin' ta give me a heart attack!? What da hell are ya doin' heah!?"

"Followin' ya." Racetrack stated the obvious, though his smirk melted into mild concern as he realized just how pale she'd gone. "I'se tiah'd o' pretendin' ta buy ya lies when ya can't lie woith spit, an' havin' ta worry 'bout 'cha when we's all got Secret ta worry 'bout awready. I'se tiah'd o' dis no-trust policy. So now it's my toin fer a question: what da hell are ya doin' in Queens, alone, in da dark, when ya know poifectly well what it's like dese days?"

Staring aghast at the small Italian before her, arms crossed, smoke curling from his inseparable cigar, eyes stubbornly expectant, Flick groaned inwardly. As usual, she had failed to figure something into her impulsive harebrained scheme; in this case, the tenacity of a close friend. Not dat I can't match it, o' course.

"De answa ta dat question's a bit too long ta go inta at dis pa'ticulah place an' time. Go home an' I'll tell ya when I get back."

"Yer da one dat chose da place, an' now's as good a time as any."

Irked by his persistence, Flick glared. "Look, ya lucky if I end up tellin' ya at all. Ya had no right ta follow me heah, an' ya got no right ta poke inta my poysonal biz'ness. Bein' friends don't automatically mean I gotta—"

"—trust me?" Race finished angrily, but in a much lower tone, reminding Flick of where they were and the fact that she'd been throwing caution to the winds. Caution wasn't generally of much concern to her, but that was when she was alone.

"Damn it, Race," she whispered fiercely, her eyes never leaving his despite her apprehension about what might lurk in the shadows surrounding them, "I do trust ya, don'cha get it? I trust ya ta get yaself hoit tryin' ta help me."

In the sickly, flickering light of a nearby street lamp, first shock, then suspicion and fear painted Race's baby face.

"Fiamma," he said softly, his normally dormant Italian accent surfacing to make the pet name even more gentle and beautiful, "'less ya wanna give me a heart attack worryin' fer ya, I t'ink ya bedda tell me what's goin' on now."

Whether it was the fact that her nerves were completely shot due to their location, or because it occurred to her that this kid probably meant more to her than anyone else in the world right now, Flick knew she was beaten. They weren't going to get out of here, and Race wasn't going to back down, until he got the full story out of her. And out it came: her flight from the tracks after their fight the previous night, how she had gotten herself lost in Queens, the real explanation for her black eye, the appearance of the knife, her meeting with Scamp in the alley ("dat liddle idiot from Central Park, 'memba him?"), his offer to lead her home, his treacherous disappearance, and her eventual return to Manhattan on her own. All she left out was the part the "magic" dice had played in her escape, for fear that Racetrack would again remember that they rightfully belonged to him.

By the time she finished, having sent at least two dozen furtive glances in every direction during the narration, Race was staring at her with an expression she could not recall ever seeing on his face before, or on any face in a long time.

"Dey pulled a knife on ya?" he whispered, brown eyes wide and grave in a face mere inches away from hers.

Flick shrugged, puzzled. "Yeah...not a great experience, but it ain't like it's da foist time someone's done dat."

"It's da foist time someone's done it since I'se known ya! Or is it? Have dere been odda times ya f'got ta mention?" Now Race was the one forgetting himself, his voice rising and even trembling slightly. Flick, much alarmed by what she saw as an extreme overreaction, clapped her hand over his mouth. Race, getting the point, pushed it aside and lowered his voice, but it remained solemn and intense.

"Flick, look at me, will ya?" She did. "Ya coulda been killed las' night. An' ya neveh even told me 'bout it. Ya coulda died! Don't dat mean anytin' ta ya?"

Looking at him, listening to him, and finally understanding just what he was feeling, Flick gulped softly. Her head reeled with a piece of knowledge she'd been neglecting, ignoring; looking away, she answered him hoarsely. "'Course it does. I jist din't know..."

"What?" Race frowned curiously when she trailed off.

"Neveh mind." I just din't know it meant so much ta you.

Race sighed. "Look, now dat we's established what happened las' night, what in da woild are ya doin' back heah t'night?"

"I came ta find da Queens lodgin' house an' do a bit'a spyin'. I ain't gonna be able ta get dat knife outta my mind till I'se got a full pitcha o' what's goin' on in dis crazy borough, so I'se gonna try an' find out, an' dere's no way you can stop me."

"Maybe not," Race admitted ruefully. "But I can go wit 'cha."

"Ya honestly t'ink fer a second I'd let ya do dat?"

"I know dat if ya don't, I can always go back ta da lodgin' house—"

"I wish ya would—"

"—an' get Jack."

A long pause ensued.

"Damn you, Anthony Higgins."

~*~

When Flick had been intending this as a solo mission, her main concern had been simply finding the place. Considering how hopelessly lost she had become last time she'd ventured into Queens, she had not been looking forward to the prospect. But Race, as luck would have it, knew the borough almost as well as his own, and deftly guided her through the more hospitable streets. Little was said on the way, though their expressions said enough. Racetrack's smug grin clearly teased, What would you have done widdout me? Flick's sullen scowl replied, I'd'a found a way, I always do, I most coitainly did not need you.

Words spoken aloud, however, would have been an unnecessary and downright foolish method of calling attention to themselves. Both were nervous enough as it was, constantly glancing over their shoulders, tensing or starting at the slightest noise, and shying off to an inconspicuous patch of darkness at every fellow nocturnal pedestrian, each seen as a potentially hostile native.

"So what e'zactly are ya plannin' ta do once we get dere?" Race muttered at one point, when they had flattened themselves against a building to watch a ragged elderly lady shuffle laboriously by. "Didja even t'ink o' dat? If dey ain't out late sellin'...an' we ain't seen one yet...da newsies'll prob'ly all be in bed by da time we get dere. So I take it we's gonna gaddah loads o' useful info'mation by peerin' in some window an' watchin' 'em snore?"

"Race," Flick answered through gritted teeth, "ya want a remindah o' how ya ended up on dis crazy, pointless quest in da foist place? Ya blackmailed me!"

"Shhh," Race pleaded frantically, scanning the street in semi-panic. "Good point."

Silence prevailed again until the two newsies stealthily turned a corner to find a small brick building hulking almost directly in front of them. The words "Queens Newsboys Lodging House" were spelled out on a brass plaque over the door. Race raised an eyebrow.

"Fancy."

Flick, however, was already circling around to the side of the building, where she smiled triumphantly. Fancy or not, the Queens lodging house had a fire escape of the same style as Manhattan's, with a ladder leading down to the ground and up to the roof. And sure enough, there was a window opening out onto the fire escape. She grabbed the first rung and scrambled deftly upward, with Race hurrying to catch up. They were barely halfway to their destination when a swell of voices met their ears, a veritable uproar of chattering, shouting, and even a few crashes that could have been either people or furniture being knocked to the floor.

"All asleep, huh, Race?" Flick muttered, pulling herself onto the fire escape, then quickly crouching down in front of the window so that only her eyes were level with the glass. Race landed softly beside her a moment later, and, carefully ducking down out of sight, the two of them stared into the Queens bunkroom in disbelief.

Pandemonium was the only word to describe it. While the Manhattan lodging house had never been considered calm or orderly by a long shot, never had its bunkroom been packed wall to wall with a mass of screaming, yelling, kicking, punching, ducking, whimpering, biting, wrestling, wailing boys. Before Race and Flick's incredulous eyes, a small chair went flying, presumably from the hands of some anonymous member of the mob, and came inches away from hitting a boy on the other side of the room. He darted aside just in time, ducking as the chair met the wall with an ear-splitting crash and sharp splinters of wood flew in every direction.

In the center of the room, a crowd had gathered around two large boys who were rolling on the floor, viciously pounding each other as if they intended to go on for years. They obviously didn't believe in fighting fair, either; one kept pelting the other with anything within his reach, from a shoe to a pillowcase, while the first boy retaliated by grabbing a razor from a nearby bunk and brandishing the sharp sliver of steel. Flick winced, for the gleam of the metal served as a reminder; these were the same two thugs who had nearly killed her last night.

Another pair of newsies, these two apparently trying to rip each other's arms off, slammed into the first pair. A boy of about ten was tossed against the far wall like a toy, and Flick noticed another of no more eight cowering and crying under one of the bunks. She was just wondering how much longer this could go on when sudden footsteps rose from the street below. She and Race turned simultaneously, peering down through the darkness at a tall, shadowy form approaching the door of the lodging house. They held their breaths, but the phantom did not so much as glance in the direction of the fire escape. It simply opened the door and stepped inside. The door slammed shut, and the two spies returned their gazes to the window moments before the mystery figure entered the bunkroom, submitted to the dim gas lights for their inspection.

He was not another newsboy, but a man in his thirties—the tallest, thinnest man Flick had ever seen, with a complexion like sour milk, enormous hands, curly black hair, and a sharp, angular face with burning blue eyes. Clearly he was of some importance in the establishment, for upon his arrival, the entire bunkroom went silent. Every newsie who had another in his grasp quickly dropped the victim, some trying to muster expressions of innocence while others hid behind larger roommates. Flick's alert eye noted that the little boy under the bed retreated even further into his hideout rather than crawling out.

Finally, the man spoke, his voice containing a trace of a foreign accent and dripping with contempt. "Fighting again?"

No one answered, and the man rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, speaking impatiently.

"Well, who started it this time?"

The eyes of nearly every boy in the room were fixed on the floor. Only two looked up: the pair that struck dread into Flick. Both were thoroughly bruised and bloody; one still held the razor behind his back.

"Blade and Knocks?" the man guessed in a bored tone. The kid who had been slammed into the wall muttered something that might have been confirmation, but a pair of menacing looks quickly silenced him.

"You boys can't always expect me to be around to break up these little...disagreements," the man said slowly, scanning the room and pinning each lodger with a sickly smile. Then he shrugged nonchalantly. "It makes no difference to me. There are more newsies where you came from, some of whom might even pay their rent reliably."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he left the room, and Flick and Race exchanged looks, both biting back somewhat hysterical giggles. So the phantom had been no more than the slightly more intimidating Queens version of Kloppman.

After he had disappeared, Flick half-expected the fighting to resume, but the boys merely shot dark looks at each other and dispersed, climbing into their various bunks. The smallest newsie emerged from his hiding place, and the two observers raised their eyebrows when the youngest boys both curled up on the floor near the door with ratty blankets.

"What's wit dat?" Flick murmured under her breath. "Dey got moah'n enough bunks. Half o' dem left afta deir rumble wit us, right?" And indeed, it became apparent as they took to their bunks that there weren't nearly as many lodgers as there had appeared to be in all the chaos. Flick estimated only fifteen or so.

Race shrugged in response to her question. "Maybe dey get rolled outta deir bunks ev'ry night. Or maybe it's jist safah neah da door. I mean, what if a scene like da one we jist saw happened in da middle o' da night?"

Flick nodded in agreement just as the newsie with the razor, the one who had wielded the knife the night before, slouched onto a bunk and broke the tense silence of the room.

"None o' dis woulda happened if it wasn't fer Manhattan. Crow was a fool, havin' us charge in dere like dat."

"We almost had 'em whipped, Blade," snapped the boy he'd been fighting, perching on another bunk. "We would've if it wasn't fer dat red-haired brat. 'Memba, you let 'er escape again las' night?"

"If you'd o' listened ta me an' gone back ta check dat alley..." Blade snarled, starting to rise, but a third voice interrupted them.

"Can't youse jist give it a rest fer once? Yeah, we lost dat fight an' half our lodgahs, but it was a month ago. It's oveh. Dat goil jist did what a Queens newsgoil woulda done if we had one an' she could fight like dat. Anyway, we don't got da time or de organization ta plan revenge. All we should be worryin' 'bout is findin' a leadah wit enough brains ta get us outta dis mess."

Impressed with the speech, Flick shifted her position to eye the speaker, recognizing him as the one who had nearly been hit with the chair. Medium height, brown hair, green eyes, and freckles; nothing spectacular. But he seemed perfectly composed, even as the boy called Knocks rose and approached him with dramatically slow strides, glaring.

"Yer gonna loin ta watch dat mouth o' yers, kid— "

"You can soak me all ya want, but it ain't gonna solve nuttin'," the boy countered, swinging deftly into the empty bunk above his own to escape the oncoming attack, but boldly continuing his oration. "Look at Tooth an' Toy oveh dere." He motioned at the two youngest newsies, causing Knocks' threatening scowl to swivel around, so that the children in question cowered, clearly eager to remain inconspicuous. "How long d'ya t'ink deyre gonna stick around wit da fights dat happen heah ev'ry day? How many moah are we gonna lose befoah someone dies...or some odda borough moves in an' takes us ovah widdout blinkin' an eye? It's only a matta o' time."

"Matta o' time," a blond boy echoed, glancing up from his bunk just in time to receive the full blast of Knocks' confused and wandering glare. Unfortunately, when the hapless boy looked away nervously, his gaze happened to catch the window. His eyes slowly widened as two more pairs of eyes, one brown and the other deep blue, stared back at him in a moment of pure horror. Then, wordlessly, Race grabbed Flick's hand, and the two of them darted across the fire escape, half-fell down the ladder, and tore back through the streets without a second's pause for breath until they were back where they had started the whole mad adventure.

"Il mio Dio," Flick panted, half-collapsing against the lamp-post to catch her breath, treating herself to a few gulps of smog-choked air and squinting at the dust motes floating in the watery beam of lamplight.

"Dat," Race replied, collapsing against her, "has got ta be one o' da stupidest t'ings dat you's—I'se—we's eveh done."

"I dunno," Flick mused, quickly recovering herself with a mischievous grin. "I t'ink it ended a lot betta den da time we broke inta dat high-rolla's apa'tment."

"Shoah, bring dat up," Race snapped, abruptly noticing his position and straightening up, slightly flushed. "Ya t'ink dat kid told de oddas he saw us?"

"Hard ta say. Looks like dat gang's even moah divided den we t'ought."

"Oh, brilliant deduction, Maeve," Race drawled, rolling his eyes dramatically. "We neahly got ourselves killed by Queens newsies fer da precious info'mation dat da Queens newsies wanna kill us."

"Some o' dem wanna kill us," Flick corrected, flashing back on the Queens bunkroom. Shivering, she grabbed Race's arm and dragged him past the lamp-post and down to the corner that split into two paths. They took the left fork, and both breathed easier; they were now walking the familiar streets of Manhattan. "Dey got a few voices o' reason, too, 'memba?"

"Yeah, an' see how well de oddas listened to 'em."

He waited for her comeback, then, as the silence began to unfold like a heavy quilt, realized she didn't have one. This made him uneasy somehow. Flick was never without a comeback.

Finally, as they arrived on the steps of the Duane Street lodging house, where every adventure seemed to end, Flick paused and held up a hand so he would do the same.

"Who are we gonna tell?"

"Dat's up ta me?" Race arched an eyebrow in frank surprise.

"It's up ta both of us." She tilted her head to one side. "I'se sorry I din't tell ya. About Queens an'...da knife an' ev'ryt'in'."

Something inside Race seemed to turn a flip. She had never apologized to him for anything before. The expression on her face as she did was unusual—softened, unguarded. Vulnerable? Not Flick...but it was the closest she had come since that night by the river. And as he looked at her, there was that sensation again, the one he had felt at the tracks—a swooping, a lightness, an abruptly quickened pulse. Was he going insane?

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled obliviously when he remained silent, "I jist apologized to ya. I know it takes time ta sink in. Den you can call da Woild an' get it on da front page."

Race swallowed. "I'se sorry, too. 'Bout what I said at da tracks de odda night." He leaned on the porch rail and snuffed out his cigar, a sign of earnestness. "I undastand why ya did it, Flick. Kept quiet 'bout Queens, went back dere on yer own. Facin' t'ings, fightin' t'ings, it's...who ya are." Impulsively, he reached out and playfully brushed the wayward copper hair out of her face, something he had done a hundred times before. "La fiamma più luminosa nella città."

Flick jerked back without even thinking. There was no explanation for the reaction, except that it was so dark, her heart was still pounding from the danger they had narrowly escaped, and there was something strange about the whole scenario. As Race's voice lilted smoothly into that language she had only just begun to explore, her mind raced, still preoccupied with vocabulary, uncertain of the grammar, trying to piece together what he had said to her.

Race's hand dropped from her face, his brow crinkling slightly in confusion as he wondered how he had managed to muddle even an apology. He rushed on, hoping to rectify the situation. "I mean, it don't really bodda me, da way ya don't handle t'ings quite like odda goils. It was stupid, ev'ry't'in' I said dat night. It's jist dat...I worry 'bout 'cha sometimes...if you could jist trust me, jist let me know when t'ings get—"

"We'll tell Blink an' Mush," Flick announced loudly, raising her chin and turning away, shoulders squared. She almost stumbled in her haste to enter the lodging house.

"What?" Race called, hurrying after her, baffled by her behavior. He watched her sign the registration book; she didn't even look up at him when she repeated herself.

"We'll tell Blink an' Mush. 'Bout Queens. Dey desoive ta know. All my friends desoive ta know." And she started for the bunkroom, leaving Race to sign the book and follow, unaware of the peculiar hollowness inside him. She was too preoccupied with the rush of giddy fear that had overtaken her out on the steps, and she found her hand pressed against her own throat, over her fluttering pulse, as if holding on to something that had, for a moment, threatened to escape.