It makes me smile, sometimes, to think back on those days-and even more on those nights-and realize just how much time we all spent crawling around rooftops and into and out of other people’s windows while most of the city was sound asleep. It wasn’t a surprising or new activity for me, of course: my mother’d put me to work breaking into houses and lifting fenceable goods as soon as I could walk. But the image of the Doctor’s respectable young society friends jimmying windows and cramming themselves through them like a batch of garden-variety second-story men-well, I did and do find it amusing. And nothing ever gave me a bigger smile than what I saw that night:
It was Miss Sara Howard, busting just about every rule in the housebreaker’s bible, if there ever was such a thing, and cursing heaven like a sailor all the while. She had on her usual daytime rig-a simple dark dress without a lot of fussy, fashionable undergarments-but uncomplicated as her clothes were, she was having a hell of a time keeping a grip on the rain gutter and the protruding cornerstones of the house, and was a rat’s ass away from falling into the Doctor’s front yard and breaking what would most likely have been every bone in her body. Her hair’d obviously started out in a tight bun, but it was coming undone along with the rest of her; and her pretty if somewhat plain face was a picture of heated frustration.
“You’re lucky I’m not the cops, Miss Howard,” I said, crawling out onto the windowsill. That brought a quick turn of her head and a burning light into her green eyes that any emerald would’ve envied. “They’d have you out at the Octagon Tower before breakfast.” The Octagon Tower was an evil-looking, domed structure on Blackwells Island in the East River, one what, along with two wings that branched off of it, made up the city’s notorious women’s prison and madhouse.