Covent Garden Market was less populous on Sarah’s second day than on her first, to her relief. Twenty or thirty boys congregated in front of the lodging house, wearing dirty clothing similar to hers and carrying identical bags, their faces caked with soot and dirt. The eldest of them looked around Sarah’s age, and the youngest was hardly older than Abigail. Sarah cringed at the sordid party: the chimney sweepers scarcely seemed better off than the vagrant boy she’d seen in the street the week before. How long would it be before she looked the same?
The lobby of the lodging house was crowded with more sweepers, most of them shorter and dirtier than Sarah was. The boys were loud and unruly, laughing and slapping one another on the backs. It was clear that they had known each other for years. An ache set into Sarah’s chest. There had been children her age at the factory, but she hadn’t dared speak to anyone but Thomas for fear of the overseer’s discipline. With the exception of Thomas, she’d spent five months without anyone she could truly call a friend.
She stepped into the queue of sweepers that formed in front of the desk. Mr. Stanton handed each boy a slip of paper with an address written on it. Sarah received hers, along with a smile and a “Good luck!” from Stanton. She left as Mr. Stanton spoke to the next boy in line.
Sarah found the house with some difficulty, since she’d spent little time in the richer parts of the city. Along with the address, Mr. Stanton had scrawled a hasty set of instructions, which Sarah used to navigate herself to her assignment. As Sarah reached Piccadilly, the properties transformed from close quarters to spacious enclosures, and the houses themselves grew larger and more extravagant. Sarah tore her gaze away from the mansions to find her assignment, a house smaller than some in the vicinity, but still many times the size of the Lees’ flat. Stanton had also noted that the house’s kitchen fireplace connected with that of the sitting room to form a single chimney stack. She was to sweep the former, while another boy would join her to clean the latter. Sarah found the kitchen, spread out her sheet to cover the floor, and ducked into the fireplace.
If possible, this chimney was even narrower than the one she’d climbed the day before. Stanton’s direction to use her back and knees to ascend the flue was harder than it sounded, particularly in a space barely wider than Sarah’s own body. Sarah reached behind her to withdraw a brush, but there was so little room to move that she could not remove it from her bag. She had climbed twice as far as she was tall, which was not very far, and at least five more of that distance remained before the top. Her legs were beginning to lose sensation, and the opening of the chimney seemed impossibly far above her.
“Is anyone there?” she called, not expecting an answer.
To her surprise, a boy’s voice hollered back. “Aye! You the sweeper they sent?”
“Yes!” Sarah lowered her voice mid-word; she’d forgotten to disguise her tone in her relief. “Are you a sweeper as well?”
“I am indeed,” said the boy. His voice was throaty and muffled by the brick. “Either that, or an odd little nipper[1] what fancies climbin’ his own chimney stack. You get stuck or somethin’?”
“No, I’m just having trouble climbing. Where are you?”
“Comin’ out the other chimney. Mind your head, I’m comin’ down.”
Sarah craned her neck upwards as a shadowy figure slid out of an opening several feet above her. He caught himself against the opposite wall with a grunt. “I’m goin’ to tie the rope at the top, and you’re goin’ to climb up. Can you do that?”
Sarah had never attempted anything of the sort, but she answered, “I think so.”
The boy shimmied up the chimney, his body blocking the light above Sarah until he was climbing out of the top. The square of light reappeared, broken by the boy’s silhouette. Seconds later, a rope tickled her shoulder.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Hold on,” said the boy. Sarah did so. “Now climb! I tied it up here.” Sarah pulled herself, hand over hand, up the rope. Her gloves allowed her to clutch the rope without losing traction, and she climbed until the top of the chimney was within reach. She raised a hand to her hat before heaving her torso above the rim.
“You ought to be more careful,” said the boy, watching the absurd contortions that resulted from Sarah’s attempt to climb onto the rooftop. “You’d have been caught down there. Last thing you want is your strength givin’ out on the job.”
Sarah’s efforts finally succeeded, and she clambered onto the roof. She was grateful for her cap’s brim as she squinted against the sudden brightness, a stark contrast to the gloom of the chimney. The other sweeper looked twelve or thirteen, albeit shorter and skinnier than she. Soot covered his face and clothes, and his bare feet were stained with dirt. He wore a flimsy black top hat over long, greasy brown hair that hung in tangled curls about his face, and his distinctive dark eyes seemed to stare straight through her.
“Thank you for that,” said Sarah, careful to keep her tone low and masculine.
The boy shrugged. “Just doin’ my job. You can thank me by learnin’ to climb on your own.” He held out a hand, unsmiling. “Name’s Jamie. Jamie Wright. What’s yours?”
“Sam Lee.” Sarah kept her face blank.
“Pleased to meet you, Sam.” Jamie’s face betrayed no such emotion as he surveyed her with narrowed eyes. At least he called her Sam; the alias was more bearable than Mr. Lee.
“You’re awfully tall for a sweeper,” Jamie said. “New?”
Sarah nodded, amused that anyone could consider her tall. “First day on the job. Well, second, but my first day was with Mr. Stanton. How did you get up? And how did you know I was here?”
“Stanton told me to watch you. Said you was new, you’d need help. And what do you know? I was just finishin’ the other chimney when you called.”
Jamie crossed the roof and climbed back into the chimney with ease. “I’m goin’ down the way you came,” he said. “The one I came from joins with yours at the top.”
“Why?”
“Chimney tops is taxed more, so it’s cheaper to combine ‘em.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” Sarah’s gaze drifted back to the skyline of the city. She experienced a moment of vertigo as it dawned on her how high above the ground she was: forty or fifty feet at the very least. Saint James’ Park was a splash of green amid the grays and browns beneath her. Beyond the park lay the Palace of Westminster, its spires rising into the clouds.
“Enjoy the view?”
Sarah realized that Jamie was still watching her and nodded, turning to face him. He looked past her at the city. “There’s some sort o’ beauty in it, I suppose,” he said. “Can’t nobody but us sweepers see London from this angle.” He jerked his head towards the chimney. “C’mon back down.”
Sarah followed Jamie back into the slim passageway. Soon she was back at the bottom, packing up her tools. Jamie did the same in the other room and joined her at the door.
“How long have you been a chimney sweeper?” said Sarah as they left the house.
His eyes cut to her, narrowing slightly. “Three years.”
“That long?”
“Aye, hard to believe.” Jamie shrugged. “But Stanton’s good to us, at least. Makes it easier.”
Sarah swallowed, trying to dispel the lingering taste of soot from her mouth. “Does the feeling in your throat go away?” she asked.
“Not fully. You gets used to it.”
They reached the lodging house, where Mr. Stanton handed them each a shilling. Jamie entered a side room and deposited the contents of his soot bag into a large metal box in the corner. Sarah followed suit.
“What do they do with the soot?” she wondered as they left the lodging house.
Jamie shot her a bemused glance, and Sarah became aware that she had been asking far too many questions. Perhaps Abigail was a bad influence on her.
“Dunno,” said Jamie. “Make ink. Send it to a farm or somethin’.”
“Oh, of course. I reckon it’s used to fertilize the crops.”
Jamie glanced over his shoulder as though searching for an escape route. “I’d better get home,” he said. “Get back to George and…”
He trailed off, as though he’d just realized that he was speaking aloud.
“Who’s George?” Sarah asked, immediately cursing herself. Another question.
Jamie was silent for a moment. “My brother. My family’s waitin’.” He gestured to the James Street entrance to the market.
Sarah smirked. “James Street,” she said. “How funny.”
His expression hardened. “That ain’t my name.”
Sarah raised her eyebrows in confusion. James was the only name that came to mind for which a nickname would be Jamie, but she let the matter drop.
“I should best be goin’,” Jamie said pointedly.
“As should I,” said Sarah, wondering how she could have botched the conversation so thoroughly. “Good evening, Jamie.”
He tipped his hat and disappeared into the shadows.
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[1] child