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crumbling digs that represented a link to his former life. From time to time, he fancied that he could perceive ghosts long gone dwelling within, watching him, pinking his memory, and there were some days—the night being the Artful’s preferred time of doing business—where sleep did not come easily to him. It was during the evening that he stole food where he needed, purchased it when he was flush enough to do so, and on rare occasion wondered if there was any sort of grand scheme or plan for him, and kept returning to the conclusion that it was not terribly likely. He was what he was, and if there was indeed a God—a proposition that the Artful was dubious over at best—then He certainly counted on men of far greater rank and position than the Artful Dodger to implement His grand plan.
    It should be noted, however, that the Almighty has a wicked sense of humor, and often had little concern for whether or not one such as Artful paid obeisance. Indeed, He occasionally delights in sending one of His pawns in the chessboard of life into the thick of the fray. And in the unlikely event that the pawn should happen to reach the far side of the chessboard, well then . . . anything can happen. And has been known to.
    So it was that late one evening the Artful Dodger was returning from his nightly perambulations when he heard the sounds of a scuffle from a corner of Drury Lane, and a female cry of protest, bordering on outrage.
    He knew the voices of every female who did her business thereabouts, and the voice he was hearing now was certainly not one of them. He quickened his step, and when he rounded the corner, he came to a halt, his eyes simultaneously widening in surprise and narrowing in suspicion, which was certainly something of an accomplishment that no one save the Artful Dodger could likely have carried out.
    A rotund man in a patchy gray coat, sporting a head of hair that was mostly head rather than hair, was accosting a young woman whom Dodger had never seen before. Younger than the age of majority, certainly, although perhaps not by much, her face was round and not exactly lovely, but possessed of a vague prettiness. She was hatless, which was surprising, with brown hair parted down the middle and drawn tightly on either side of her head. She wore a simple brown dress with a white shawl tossed over it.
    Yet for all that made her seemingly unremarkable, Dodger was still struck by an ineffable something about her. She held herself with a pride that was typically absent from those with whom Dodger spent his time, and although she was shorter than the man who was currently trying to engage her services, nevertheless she seemed to tower over him through the sheer force of her personality.
    Not yet intervening, Dodger sidled over to one of the girls, Mary by name, and inquired as to what was transpiring and whence the girl had come.
    Mary shrugged beneath the folds of her cloak. “Ne’er seen ’er b’fore. Just showt up from n’where, standed on that corner, lookin’ around like she ain’t ne’er seen a street b’fore.”
    “Must be new to the life,” opined the Artful.
    “Bloke’s doin’ her a favor, ya ask me,” said Mary, tilting her chin in the direction of the fellow who was continuing to ask after the girl’s services. “That there’s Sarah’s corner. Sarah’s with a client, she is, but when she comes back, she’ll do that little tart up a treat. Look at ’er, standin’ there,”—and her voice dripped with contempt —“puttin’ on airs like she’s so much better’n the rest of us.”
    The Artful did look, and the longer he watched the exchange between girl and man, the more he started to think that perhaps this was a mistake. She did not dress or act like any of the ladies of the night with whom Dodger had familiarized himself. She didn’t look hungry; clearly, she had regular meals. Her clothing was immaculate, and there was no pox or any sign of disease upon her. The girl had been