Burning Bright Read Free Page B

you from, then? Yorkshire, is it? Lincolnshire?” She named the two areas of England she knew anything about, and that was very little—only that her parents had come from those parts, though they’d lived in London twenty years. Maggie had never been outside of London; indeed, she rarely enough went across the river to its center, and had never been a night away from home.
    â€œDorsetshire,” came a voice.
    Maggie turned, smiling at the singing, burring vowels of the girl who had carried her chair inside and come out again, and was now standing next to the cart. She wasn’t bad-looking, with a rosy face and wide blue eyes, though she did wear a ridiculous frilly mop cap that she must have fancied would go down well in London. Maggie smirked. One glance told her this family’s story: They were from the countryside, come for the usual reason—to make a better living here than they did back home. Indeed, sometimes country people did do better. Other times…“Where’s home, then?” she said.
    â€œPiddletrenthide,” the girl answered, drawing out the last syllable.
    â€œLord a mercy—what did you say?”
    â€œPiddletrenthide.”
    Maggie snorted. “Piddle-dee-dee, what a name! Never heard of it.”
    â€œIt mean thirty houses by the River Piddle. ’Tis in the Piddle Valley, near Dorchester. It were a lovely place.” The girl smiled at something across the road, as if she could see Dorsetshire there.
    â€œWhat’s your name, then, Miss Piddle?”
    â€œMaisie. Maisie Kellaway.”
    The door to the house opened, and Maisie’s mother reappeared. Anne Kellaway was tall and angular, and had her scrubby brown hair pulled back in a bun that hung low on her long neck. She gave Maggie a suspicious look, the way a chandler would someone he thought had stolen wares from his shop. Maggie knew such looks well.
    â€œDon’t be talking to strangers, Maisie,” Anne Kellaway scolded. “Han’t I warned you about London?”
    Maggie shook the horse’s reins. “Now, ma’am, Maisie’s perfectly safe with me. Safer’n with some.”
    Anne Kellaway fastened her eyes on Maggie and nodded. “You see, Maisie? Even the locals say there be bad sorts about.”
    â€œThat’s right, London’s a wicked place, it is,” Maggie couldn’t resist saying.
    â€œWhat? What kind of wicked?” Anne Kellaway demanded.
    Maggie shrugged, caught out for a moment. She did not know what to tell her. There was one thing, of course, that would clearly shock her, but Maggie would never tell that to Anne Kellaway. “D’you know the little lane across Lambeth Green, what runs from the river through the fields to the Royal Row?”
    Maisie and Anne Kellaway looked blank. “It’s not far from here,” Maggie continued. “Just over there.” She pointed across the road, where fields stretched almost unbroken to the river. The redbrick towers of Lambeth Palace could be seen in the distance.
    â€œWe only just arrived,” Anne Kellaway said. “We han’t seen much.”
    Maggie sighed, the punch taken out of her tale. “It’s a little lane, very useful as a shortcut. It was called Lovers’ Lane for a time ’cause—” She stopped as Anne Kellaway shook her head vehemently, her eyes darting at Maisie.
    â€œWell, it was called that,” Maggie continued, “but do you know what it’s called now?” She paused. “Cut-Throat Lane!”
    Mother and daughter shuddered, which made Maggie smile grimly.
    â€œTha’ be no great thing,” a voice chimed in. “We’ve a Dead Cat Lane back in the Piddle Valley.” The boy who had been carrying the chair inside was standing in the doorway.
    Maggie rolled her eyes. “A dead cat, eh? I suppose you found it, did you?”
    He nodded.
    â€œWell, I found the dead man!” Maggie