"Cars?" Harry asked.
Jazz nodded. "The Uncles were there, but there'd never been so many visiting at once and I knew something was wrong. Mum brought me up paranoid, made sure if things took a turn I'd suspect it right off, and I did. I went up the al-ley that runs behind the house..."
She left out any mention of ghosts or whispers, fearful that they'd think her mad or doubt every word if she started up talking about phantoms. By the time she finished re-counting the hours leading up to their discovery of her, like Goldilocks in Baby Bear's bed, Jazz felt exhaustion begin-ning to claim her again. Her tears flowed freely while she spoke, and several times she had to pause simply to catch her breath. The sympathy on Harry Fowler's face and the empa-thy shining in the eyes of the urchins were the greatest gifts she had ever received.
Jazz never would have imagined herself crying so openly in front of anyone, let alone a roomful of strangers. But she could still smell her mother's blood. Her life had new rules, now and forevermore.
When she fell silent, no one spoke for a moment. Harry reached out as though to lay a comforting hand on her shoul-der but hesitated. Then he cupped the back of her head and looked into her eyes. Had anyone else done such a thing, Jazz would have slapped the hand away.
"You're well hid, Jazz girl. Well hid. So you've done as your dear mother asked," he said, his gaze intense. After a moment, he withdrew his hand but continued to stare at her.
"You can keep running if you like," Harry went on. "No one will try to stop you. We'll give you a bit of food, let you keep a torch, even an extra set of batteries. But know that you're not alone down here, and I'm not talking about us. There are old empty stations all through the Underground, and shelters like this one as well, and other places besides.
The whole city's got a warren under it, and a wonder it doesn't collapse right down into the earth.
Sometimes I think the old tunnels are growing, spreading like the roots of some invisible tree.
"Point is, others have retreated down here over the years. Some come and go. Mostly they're hiding, like you, or don't trust anyone up above, like me. They aren't all as hospitable as the United Kingdom, I'm sorry to say. There are lots that are homeless as well, not hiding so much as fallen through the cracks.
You'll see them in your rambles underground. And there may be other things down here, wild dogs and the like. Pets lost to the tunnels.
"So I say this: go if you like, and Godspeed. Stay if you like, and welcome. But if you stay, you've got to contribute, just like the rest."
Jazz glanced at the hard ground at the center of the cir-cle. "By contribute, you mean steal."
Harry laughed at that, the sound a harsh, barking cough. "Steal from them topside? Surviving isn't thieving, Jazz girl. We're scavengers, so we are, living off the corpse of a decaying society. If we pick a pocket or snatch a purse, or forage for food or supplies, they don't miss it. Not really. We're invisible down here, girl, just as we like it. It's a world of monsters up there.
"There are the rich and the poor, and the poor must stick together. If we don't, the rich will pick our bones."
Even without the encouragement on the faces around the circle, Jazz felt the truth of Harry's words.
The world above had taken her mother, or at least turned a blind eye while killers spilled her blood. Rich men who followed the rules. The world had shaken her off like a dog shakes off fleas.
Her mother had told her to hide, but Jazz understood the deeper meaning of the word, communicated over the course of years. Mum had wanted her to survive, above all else.
"I might not stay forever, or even for very long," she warned.
Harry only smiled. He clapped his hands and stood up.
"I'm famished. Let's have a nibble, eh? Then we'll see if Jazz girl's got the knack."
****
Half the cast was crowded into the green room while a quar-tet of volunteer mothers applied the final touches of the stage makeup. Mrs. Snelling darted her head back and studied Jazz, then put down the brush —done with blush, apparently. Unsatisfied, she picked up the coal pencil and darkened the lines around her eyes. At last she smiled, sat back, and nodded.
"Gorgeous, love. You're ready for your close-up."
Jazz thanked her and hurried out of the room. In full costume, she had to reach down and gather up the bustle of her dress to squeeze through the crowded space. Making a point, Tom Rolston gestured broadly and clipped the edge of her bonnet. Had Jazz not flinched away from him, he might have dislodged the hat, pins and all.
"Oi! Watch it, y'lummox!" she said.
Rolston laughed and rolled his eyes. "Sounds more like Eliza than Mrs. Higgins."
Jazz explored her hair and bonnet to make sure all was still in place, then shot him a dark look.
"Lucky boy. I won't have to kill you today, apparently."
"What a glorious death it would be, though," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Smiling, Jazz exited the green room. Though her role in My Fair Lady was that of a lady, the entire cast had taken to imitating the rough, cockney speech of Eliza Doolittle back-stage. Sometimes a well-placed guv'nor could reduce the whole stage to fits and giggles.
She rushed down the half dozen stairs to the door lead-ing out into the auditorium. The hinges squeaked when she opened it, and she made a mental note to remind the direc-tor —the English teacher, Mr. Morris—to have someone take care of it before the first performance tomorrow night.
Today was the dress rehearsal. They were all in full cos-tume and makeup for the first time. Though Jazz was a slender girl, her costume cinched her waist so tightly that she felt it might rip at any moment.
The girl who'd been handling costumes promised to let it out tonight, and Jazz hoped she remembered, or there was the real possibility she'd pass out onstage.
The door squeaked shut behind her and Jazz glanced up onto the stage, where the hands were moving sets around with only a modicum of thunder. Then she glanced out over the auditorium. Most of the five hundred or so seats were empty. The director and the school's principal sat with half a dozen teachers, patiently waiting for the dress rehearsal to begin. Twenty or thirty parents had come as well, along with a handful of kids who were the younger siblings of members of the cast.
Jazz felt a moment of crashing disappointment when she did not see her mum. Then her gaze flickered to the back of the auditorium and the figure standing just inside the doors, and her smile returned.
She hurried up the central aisle and presented herself to her mother, spinning once to show off her dress and then curtsying like a lady.
"What do you think?"
Her mother smiled nervously. "You look lovely, Jazz. I could do without all that makeup —"
"It's stage makeup, Mum. You've got to wear it or the audience won't be able to see the expression on your face."
"Well, you do look lovely. Hardly a girl at all anymore. A young lady."
Jazz basked a moment in the compliment, but then she saw that her mother's attention had wandered, gaze darting around to take in the auditorium, the doors at either side of the stage, and the nearer corners of the room.
"What is it?" Jazz asked, seeing her mother's brows knit.