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used to wear. A few sported bonnets, but the majority wrapped shawls around their heads. Among them were a number of younger men who had dispensed with the coats and hurried through the streets in jackets with tails, the breast of which lay open and exposed brilliantly colored waistcoats.
    The scene wasn’t much different than that of a typical afternoon in the village the farm rested outside of. Except in the village, everyone knew everyone else, including those who lived in the surrounding hills and dales. Everywhere Ikey went, people recognized him and knew his name and who his dad was, and they had heard of what happened to his uncle. In Whitby, it seemed impossible for one person to know everyone else. How could any person in Whitby know all of these people?
    A small gaggle of children stopped on the walk and watched the carriage roll past. They shouted and waved their hands. The racket of the engine plowed their words under.
    The carriage slowed to a crawl as it crossed a bridge, the passage barely wide enough for the carriage and the pedestrians who milled along. Below, a murky river slid past. The thick stench of its dark waters shouldered aside the blistering odor of burning coal. Ikey pulled the edge of the tarp up until it covered his nose.
    After crossing the bridge, the carriage turned a bend and rode up the river for a block before stopping at the side of the road.
    Admiral Daughton stuck his head out and yelled up to them. Though Ikey couldn’t make out what he said, Smith shoved at the levers before him until a great hiss of steam split Ikey’s ears, and the noise of the engine evaporated away.
    The carriage rocked as the coachman climbed down. He crossed the street and entered a pub called Turk’s Head. Ikey glanced back through the window behind him. Admiral Daughton motioned for him to come down. Ikey cast back the tarp, lowered himself to the pavement, and approached the carriage door.
    “Grab that tarpaulin, young man,” Admiral Daughton commanded as he cracked open the cab door. “You can sit on that.”
    Ikey stood a second more before he snatched the tarp off the box seat. He wrapped it back around his shoulders, then rounded the carriage and let himself in the other side.
    “Over there,” Admiral Daughton said and pointed to the corner of the carriage opposite himself.
    Ikey spread the tarp over the leather seat and back, then sat down and rubbed his hands over his arms. Though grateful for the chance to slip inside and warm up, he found it curious that Smith went into the pub alone and left them out in the carriage.
    Admiral Daughton slipped a pocket watch from his waistcoat and studied it a few seconds. He snapped the lid shut and slid it back in place as he turned his attention to the river beyond his window.
    Ikey looked out to the street as a tall, thin man stepped up to the carriage. He popped open the door and hunched over as he stepped up inside. The odor of alcohol hung like a shroud off his broad shoulders. He pointed at Ikey, then flicked his finger aside as if wiping the young man from the bench.
    “Scoot,” he said through a row of rambling teeth.
    Ikey swallowed. He averted his eyes from the bloodshot stare. From under the man’s rolled shirtsleeves, thick ropes of muscle bound his bones together. It was not the brute muscle of farm hands, but something rangy and scrappy, alien as the tattooed tentacles wrapped around an anchor on his forearm.
    “You heard me, right?” the man asked. “Move over.”
    Ikey glanced to Admiral Daughton, who stared at the man, an eyebrow cocked, his lips drawn into a tight line.
    “Go on.” The man reached for Ikey’s shoulder. Ikey slid off the bench and drew the tarp after him. After checking the admiral’s expression, he spread the tarp across the other end of Admiral Daughton’s bench and sat back down.
    “How much work are you accomplishing here?” Admiral Daughton asked the tall man.
    “Can’t think over the yammering of the