He reached out and snatched her ankle.
“No!” she screamed and kicked out her leg—
She felt her grip break loose from the monument—
And then Nan Sparrow fell.
THE GREEN MAN OF PUDDING LANE
If you asked any two Londoners what happened on May Day, 1875, you would likely get conflicting reports. Some said that climbers tried to incite a labor riot. Some said that it was their masters who started the violence. Some said that policemen tried to stop the fighting—others said they were behind the whole thing. Whomever you asked, they would assuredly claim that they had been among the crowd on that morning, and that they alone knew the truth.
There were some facts all agreed on. The climbers had formed a sort of protest, a march remembering one of their ranks who had died only days before. They brought signs with them, each decorated with the name of a child who had died on the job. How uneducated climbers had managed to make signs was any person’s guess.
The signs seemed excessive. Everyone knew that the work was dangerous. But so, too, were fires. Nowhere better to remind them of this fact than at the foot of the Monument to the Great Fire of London. There was discord between the master sweeps and their young wards, and somehow the march devolved into violence and chaos.
Things might have continued in the fashion of a typical riot were it not for the girl. Many believed that it was the same girl who had sung on behalf of the climbers—impossible to verify, for they all looked identical. This girl’s master, a disfigured fiend, chased her up to the very top of the monument.
Somehow, the two of them had broken free of the cage, and before anyone could intervene, they were scaling the golden flames. There was an altercation, and when the man tried to seize the girl, something happened, and the pair of them fell screaming from the top of the monument.
They struck the ground with tremendous force. The man died instantly. The girl seemed to have been spared—if only momentarily—by falling through a canopy that had been erected for the celebration.
All of London held its breath as this slip of a girl lay bleeding on the street, moaning in pitiful agony, her body shattered beyond repair.
It was then that the Green Man appeared.
Some claim that he had been noticeably absent from the march, while others swear they saw him hiding in the mews. Reports differ on his appearance. Some say his body was grotesquely wide. Others say he was hauntingly tall. Some even say his body was smoldering and black—a monster hidden beneath greenery.
The Green Man raced up King William Street—pushing through the crowd, throwing grown men out of his way with inhuman strength. When he reached the fallen girl, he knelt down and took her in his broad arms—picked her up as though she weighed no more than a twig.
The Green Man carried the girl across the square without a word of explanation. Policemen tried to apprehend him or at least block his progress. But the climber children all rushed in behind the man and formed a sort of blockade to protect him.
The Green Man carried the girl down Pudding Lane and out of sight.
He and the girl were never seen again.
THE SWEEP’S GIFT
Nan heard the brushing of leaves—
Swish-swish . . .
Swish-swish . . .
Swish-swish
—branches moving back and forth,
like a forest in a storm.
It took her a moment to realize there was no forest.
The storm was Charlie.
He was holding her.
And he was running.
Nan forced her eyes open and saw her own legs, crumpled and cradled in Charlie’s smoldering arms. But she could not feel any warmth. She could not feel anything but the pain.
Nan had always thought burning would be the worst way a climber could die. But this . . . this was worse. It was slower. More helpless. She couldn’t move her body. She could scarcely even breathe. It took all her effort to hold on to her consciousness. She knew that if she fell asleep, she might not wake. She thought of Newt. Was this how his final moments had been?
Nan felt Charlie’s arms tighten around her. He was running somewhere. She was dimly aware of having been amid crowds of people, but now they were gone.
“Charlie . . .” she said. Tried to say. The word came out as a croak.
Charlie kept moving. His greens had burned away from his head and shoulders. His eyes were set in determination. Nan saw houses sliding past her almost in a blur. He was taking her somewhere.
She tried to reach a hand up to his face but found she could not move. She was too weak. Her body too broken. She recognized the houses, the narrow alleyways of Tower Hamlets. She tried adjusting her head, and the pain came back like a knife. “Where . . .” The word raked her dry throat like sandpaper. “Where are we going?”
Charlie did not look down. “Home.”
Somewhere in the distance . . .
. . . beyond the fog . . .
. . . she heard bells.
Nan woke to the sound of groaning metal. She heard Charlie grunt as he adjusted her weight in his arms. She opened her eyes. They were not at the House of One Hundred Chimneys. They were somewhere else. She glimpsed a wall of ancient stone. A rusted iron gate swung wide. And before her—
The Church of St. Florian.
It was stout and square, more like a fortress than a church. She turned her head and stared at the grass beneath her, still wet with dew. In five long years, she had never once passed through these gates. She wanted to ask Charlie why he was taking her here.
But she knew why.
The churchyard was serene and vacant. Charlie carried her past huge tombstones and crypts and statues—monuments to rich men and women long turned to dust. He continued past the smaller headstones and markers. Behind the church was a sort of marsh, hidden by shadows, hidden from view. Nan knew what this was. “Potter’s field,” she whispered.
Potter’s field was where they buried the poor, those who could not afford even a coffin. They were dumped here so that they could be forgotten.
Everything felt faint. The light, the smells, the sounds. It was as though Nan’s entire body were wrapped in a gray fog, deadening her senses. “What . . . are you doing?” Her words came out as a whisper.
Charlie glanced down at her for the first time. “I’m listening.” He stared out across the field. “I can hear him. The Sweep.”
Nan took a stabbing breath. “He’s here?”
Of course he was. She thought of all those years she had waited for the Sweep to return. He was already with her, not three blocks from where she slept.
“I think this way.” Charlie turned his head and stepped toward a bare patch of earth near the back wall. “There are . . . so many of them.”
Charlie stopped. He gingerly bent to his knees, taking care not to drop Nan. “Here,” he said. “He is here.”
Nan wanted to stand, but she could not move her legs.
“Does it hurt?” Charlie asked, holding her close in one arm, like an infant. He brushed her hair from her brow with his stone thumb.
“Only a little,” Nan lied. “Can you still hear him?”
Charlie nodded. It was a very small nod.
“What . . .” Nan winced, swallowing. “What is he saying?”
Charlie closed his eyes, as though trying to hear. “There . . . are . . . all sorts . . . ” he said slowly. “There are all sorts of wonderful things a person might see very early in the morning.” His words were halting at first, and then came more quickly.
“You might see your parents snoring in their beds. You might see an ambitious bird catching a worm.” Charlie spoke in his own voice, but somehow the words did not sound like his words. It sounded like someone else speaking through him. It sounded like the Sweep. “You might see an unclaimed penny on the sidewalk or the first rays of dawn or steam rising from the rooftops. And if you are very, very lucky, you might even catch a glimpse of the girl and her Sweep.”
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Nan blinked and felt her vision blur. Charlie was speaking her dreams. The dreams she’d had night after night. She listened to his talk of their nights wandering between towns, her riding atop his shoulders. The both of them singing for work. But there were other things in the story that she did not remember. She could hear the Sweep’s voice, choked by disease. She could see his caved cheeks as he refused the last bite of food. She could see his face as he watched the girl fall asleep beside him for the last time.
“No,” Nan said. “Please don’t go . . .”
Next Charlie told her about story soup. About the treasures he kept with him always. Nan remembered begging for that last story, remembered feeling that the Sweep was teasing her. But as she listened now, she could hear the fear in his voice, the knowledge of what telling this story would mean.
Charlie told her about each of the ingredients—
A feather for kindness
A doll’s eye for wonder
A thimble for mending
A chessman for courage
A cloth for swaddling
Nan listened. With each new story, she could see every precious second of her life through the Sweep’s eyes—she could see how helpless he was to protect her from the world.
The stories moved backward through Nan’s life. She could almost see herself growing younger and younger. She listened to her escape from the charity men. She had felt so grown-up in that moment. But now she could see just how tiny, how fragile she had been. She couldn’t have been more than three years old. And she could see the Sweep—how losing the girl had left him wild with terror, how truly he thought he had lost her.
“I didn’t know,” Nan said when Charlie had finished telling the story of courage. “I never knew.”
She would have wiped her face had she been able to move. Instead, Charlie brushed the tears from her eyes with his warm hand.
“The last story is very far away.” His face became worried. “I don’t think it’s time yet—”
“Tell me,” Nan said. “Try.”
Charlie closed his eyes. “I see a man,” he said slowly. “And he is alone.” His face was strained, as though he were trying to hear an echo’s echo. “I think he is tall like the Sweep. But he does not look the same. He is very thin. And very sick. His hands are shaking. The man has nothing. He is . . .” Charlie’s face went dark. “He is empty.”
Nan held her breath. She did not remember this story. She did not like it. “The man is standing on the edge of a bridge,” Charlie went on. “He is staring at the water. The water is cold, but the man is even colder. The man is crying. He is wondering if it would hurt to be in that water. He is wondering if it would hurt to . . .” Charlie shook his head, as though he did not have words for what the man was wondering. “But then . . . the man realizes he is not alone. He hears a sound and realizes there is someone else there with him.
“The someone is in a bundle on the ground. The man steps down from the ledge and walks to the bundle. The someone is there, at the foot of the bridge, crying. The man unwraps the bundle—a thin blue swaddling cloth—and finds . . .” And here Charlie’s face broke through with wonder, his eyes lit from within. “A baby girl.” He shakes his head, blinking. “And she is so small.”
Nan felt her vision blur. She listened as Charlie told the story. Of how the man took the child and stepped back from the water. How he carried her in his arms and fed her milk from a bottle. How every day the man knew he had to stay alive because that little girl needed him.
This was the last story. The one he had been unable to tell.
“You saved him,” Charlie said, when he was done.
“It’s like Toby said.” Nan blinked tears from her eyes. “We save ourselves by saving others.”
“I think that is why he made me,” Charlie said. “He wanted me to tell you. He wanted you to know.”
Nan was trembling all over now. She could taste blood in her throat. Every breath was a battle. It wouldn’t be long before she would be with the Sweep. She remembered story soup. Remembered the Sweep telling her there was one more ingredient—one she never saw.
“Is that everything?” Her own voice was faint in her ears.
Charlie looked down at her. “There is one thing left.” Nan felt his rough hand on her brow. The hand was so warm. “It’s time to wake.”
Nan stared into his eyes and realized what he was telling her. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You can’t . . .”
Charlie drew her close to his chest. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.”
There was a smell of embers. The air turned crackling and warm. “No, Charlie!” Nan fought to get free. “Please!”
But Charlie held her fast, staring down at her with his pained eyes—dark as a shadow’s shadow. Nan could feel a flicker of warmth spreading through her broken body, bringing her back. She could hear his breath, shallow and rasping. She could feel his arms turning rigid around her.
“Not you,” she begged, clinging to his cold body, even as she felt her own body getting stronger. “I can’t lose you, too.”
Nan thought of everything that had happened in these fleeting months. She thought of Charlie’s face. His kind, sad smile. The touch of his crumbly hand against hers. His warm arms wrapped around her. The home they made together. The reading lessons. The first snow. Their Christmas adventure. The broken egg.
“Don’t go . . . ,” she whispered over and again. “Don’t go.” She held him tight, tight enough to shatter him.
At last she let go and drew herself from his arms.
Charlie did not move.
His body had turned to stone.
THE GIRL AND HER SWEEP
Nan woke to the sound of bells. She was lying in the Orchard. That was what the boys were calling the Nothing Room these days on account of the oak tree growing through the roof. The roots had spread in the last year to create a sort of cradle that was just perfect for her to sleep in.
It had been a cold winter. Nan could hear icicles dripping outside her window, and she could just make out her own breath as she released a great, lazy yawn. She massaged her right leg, which was always sore in the mornings. A few floors below, she could hear Miss Bloom’s voice—it sounded as though she was giving an alphabet lesson. Her students were so used to rising before dawn that she had been forced to start her classes early.
In the months since Charlie’s death, Nan’s world had changed dramatically. The Climbing Boys Reform Act had miraculously passed in Parliament, outlawing the practice of employing children under thirteen years of age. Miss Bloom and her friendly society had purchased the captain’s mansion—taxes and all—and made a school for climbers. Whittles, Shilling-Tom, Ham-n-Eggs, the Twins, and dozens more had all been brought into the home, where they were fed and clothed and taught to read. Roger had not gone with the other boys. Instead he took on apprenticeship with a master sweep named Bill Thwackary (though having no climbing boys to work beneath him, Roger remained as miserable as ever).
Nan, too, had changed. The pit in her stomach seemed to have sealed itself up. And though she still thought of the Sweep often, it did not undo her in the same way. Even the memory of Charlie, whose death at first blazed inside her, seemed now to have diminished to a kindling warmth. It helped, she thought, that Charlie and the Sweep were together.
She heard a tap, tap, tap at the window. She climbed down from the roots and wiped the fog from the glass. Outside sat a robin redbreast.
Cheep!
“Dent?” Nan pulled open the window. “Where have you been?” After May Day, Nan had searched the entire house for Dent, but the bird had disappeared. He spread out his wings and fluttered in a small circle. “It looks like your wing finally sorted itself out.”
The bird cheeped again and hopped back to the gutter. He wanted her to follow him. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m taking the stairs.” Her right leg had never quite recovered from her fall. She wasn’t sure she could scale the roof e
ven if she tried.
She pulled on her boots and coat and descended the stairs. She passed Miss Bloom with her students in the study. Nan could barely recognize the boys, all seated neatly at little desks. Their faces were all scrubbed clean, and their hair, which had grown out, had been combed.
“Brooms up!” she called as she raced past the open door.
At once, every boy in the room dropped their slates and leaped to their feet. None of them had brooms, of course. A few of them held up bits of chalk instead.
“Be back in time for supper!” Miss Bloom called after her.
Nan met Dent outside. The bird seemed annoyed that Nan could not fly. “You and me both,” she muttered as she limped down Harley Street.
She followed the bird through London and into Tower Hamlets until they were standing at the gates of St. Florian’s. “Are we going to see Charlie, then?” she asked.
This was a place Nan had visited many times. On this morning the path felt heavy and wet under her new boots—even a year later, she was still getting used to having boots on her feet. Snow had melted to reveal patches of brown grass coming up to taste the open air. Drops of water fell from the bare branches, flashing in the warm sun. There was an earthy smell in the air.
Dent hopped and flapped and led Nan down the path she knew all too well. She turned the last corner beyond the main cemetery to find Charlie as he ever was, kneeling above the Sweep’s grave, arms cradled, his body frozen just as it was when he had carried Nan to this place.
When he had saved her life.
His downcast gaze, which had once looked so pained, now appeared calm, almost peaceful.
The church groundskeeper had at first been alarmed to discover such a large headstone on such a bare plot. He assumed it had been mislaid by some careless masons. But no matter what he tried, the statue could not be moved. And so it remained over the Sweep’s grave. A sentinel. A companion.