Page 20 of Love Is A Draw
Behind him, the little girl peered out, face smudged and wide-eyed. She clutched a tattered blanket draped over a barrel. Gail’s reticule and Victor’s satchel peeked from beneath it like treasures half-buried.
Victor’s breath came slow and measured. “She took something that belongs to us. Her reticule.” He glanced at Gail. “And my satchel.”
The boy’s eyes dropped to the blanket where the satchel lay hidden. His hand hovered near the edge, curling as if ready to seize it at the first chance. The girl edged closer to him, clearly afraid.
Victor took a careful step forward. “We mean you no harm. Just give them back. That’s all.”
The boy hesitated.
Gail shifted beside Victor but said nothing. She didn’t press, didn’t scold. Most importantly, she stayed beside Victor and let him handle it.
The silence stretched, and the tension drew tight as violin strings.
He stepped forward again, slowly, deliberately, placing himself in front of Gail, shielding her from the boy.
“I need what’s in that bag.” Victor’s admission was quieter now. “You wouldn’t know to look at it, but there’s a book inside. A journal. It’s not worth anything to anyone but me. It’s… everything.”
Gail shifted. Victor sensed her reaction but didn’t glance back at her, hoping the boy would voluntarily return the notebooks.
The boy’s brow furrowed. Still, he didn’t move.
Victor swallowed hard. His next words came without calculation. “It’s how I understand the world. My thoughts, my mistakes. My games.” He exhaled, throat dry. “I’ve written in it every day for years.” There. The truth of it, naked and strange, meant as much for the boy as for Gail.
The boy’s gaze flickered to his sister. She clutched the satchel now, staring at Victor as though trying to decide if he was lying.
“I don’t want to take anything from you,” Victor added. “I only want what’s mine.”
Another beat passed. The girl came forward. Slowly. Reluctantly. She held out the reticule, then the satchel, small arms trembling.
Victor took them both with a quiet nod of thanks. He didn’t open the satchel immediately, just curled his hand protectively around the worn leather strap.
The boy shifted his weight. Still wary, but something in him eased.
Victor turned slightly toward Gail. She met his gaze steadily, her eyes unreadable—but he saw something there. A flicker of understanding. Or was it something more?
He turned back to the children. “You’ve done the right thing.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, simply stepped back, took Gail’s hand once more, and guided her a step back.
The satchel was back on his shoulder.
But the weight of it—somehow—felt less than it had before.
Gail’s heartthudded as she retreated, her reticule empty without the expected weight. The boy had dropped it, but the little girl darted forward before Gail could reclaim it. She crouched by the barrel, tiny fingers fumbling at the clasp, dirt smudging the delicate embroidery. The gleam of a coin caught the fading light, and the girl triumphantly pulled free the meager fortune inside.
“There’s coin in the reticule,” Gail said, her tone steady though she softened each word. “Nothing else of use to you. Take the money and give the rest back.” She paused, edging nearer despite every instinct screaming to hold still. The child stilled, glancing at her brother for approval.
“How much is it?” The boy bounced between boldness and uncertainty.
“A shilling and a half,” the girl answered.
Her small hand dipped back into the reticule, pulling free a folded handkerchief trimmed with lace. She discarded it with a disinterested toss. But then, gleaming softly in the dim alley light, came a silver comb. The girl’s eyes widened, her grubby thumb dragging across the filigree worked into the handle.
“Is this real silver?” She tilted it toward the boy as she bit into it like a pirate. So she’d been read to. She hadn’t always been on the street. Poor child.
Gail’s throat tightened. Her teeth gently raked her lower lip, betraying her emotion before she could suppress it. She’d kept that comb safe across the years and long journey from Bassarabia to England. It had no grand worth in currency, but it meant the world to her. Still, she gave a small, rueful nod. “I’ve had it since I was a girl.” The aching loss already settled in her chest. She let it go. She had to.
The child didn’t seem to care for sentiment. She kept the comb, slipping it into her pocket with a satisfied huff. A moment later, she thrust the reticule itself back at Gail, the fabric now rough in her trembling hand. She held onto it, swallowing her disappointment.
