The Tigers in the Tower Read online

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t let Mr Pence see or he’ll confiscate them,” the girl on the other side hissed. She had tightly curled black hair and a gap-toothed smile. Her skin was a shade darker than Sahira’s. Where had her parents come from? Sahira wondered.

  “Are we not allowed to talk?” Sahira asked.

  The girl shook her head. “It’s not seemly,” she whispered.

  So far in this orphanage Sahira had been told so many things she couldn’t do, she wondered what was allowed.

  “I’m Sahira.” She kept her voice low.

  “Not Ellie?”

  “That’s the name Matron calls me.” Sahira flicked her eyes to the adults at the top table. “I won’t let it stick. I’m really Sahira.”

  The black-haired girl nodded, putting a hand to her cheek to shield her mouth. “I’m Ann.”

  “I’m Emily,” murmured the other.

  A spoon rapped on the tabletop. “Eleanor Clive, stand up,” a stern voice said. It was Mr Pence.

  Sahira’s companions gave her alarmed looks as she got to her feet.

  “Eleanor Clive, you are not to talk at mealtimes. You are forgiven as it is your first day but I trust you will respect our rules from now on?”

  “Sir.” Sahira almost bowed but remembered in time to bob a curtsey.

  “Sit down.”

  The orphans who worked in the kitchens served the meal. These included a little lad who narrowly avoided being tripped by a mean-looking boy on the other table. The food appeared to be some kind of stew. Unidentified meat swam among the vegetables.

  “What is this?” Sahira asked, masking her question with her hand as Ann had done.

  She coughed. “Pork.”

  Sahira spat out a mouthful in her hand and put her spoon down. Pork was haram, forbidden.

  “You have to eat everything or you’ll be punished,” Ann warned.

  “It’s against my religion.”

  Ann looked furtively around her before whispering, “But you’re a Christian, aren’t you?”

  Sahira looked at her miserably. Was she? Father had called her his little amphibian, like a frog living on land and in water: she had hopped along as a Christian with him in his world, and then swum as a Muslim with Mother in hers. Sahira had observed both religions’ festivals, followed their dietary practices and fasts, worshipped in their holy buildings. It had felt natural to cross between the two.

  Ann’s gaze went over Sahira’s shoulder to where one of the monitors was patrolling the children’s tables. “Quick, give it here.”

  They swapped bowls, her empty one for Sahira’s full. Better to go hungry than let her mother down, thought Sahira. She knew, though, that she would have to come to terms with her new life in this Christian country. Being amphibian was no longer a choice she was allowed in this narrow world.

  After prayers and chores, during free time, Ann and Emily went to visit their younger brothers and sisters in the nursery. In the snatches of conversation the three girls managed, they told Sahira that they both had been orphaned in a recent outbreak of cholera in Spitalfields just a stone’s throw from the orphanage. They counted themselves lucky still to be with their surviving siblings in the same institution rather than in the workhouse. When Sahira, a determined collector of stories, had asked Ann where she had got her tawny complexion, she had laughed. Apparently, London had a history of people coming here from many nations, right back to the Romans, even though it was rarely discussed. One of Ann’s own ancestors two generations ago had been a freed slave.

  “Ann, that is a huge comfort to me,” Sahira said seriously. “The women on the ship had acted as if I were an oddity, like a white elephant.”

  Emily nudged her friend. “Hear that? Sahira speaks like a swell, don’t she?”

  Sahira frowned, wondering what she had said. “I speak like my father.”

  “I don’t know about your voice, but to look at?” said Ann. “I’d say that in Whitechapel and Spitalfields, you’d slide right in without a splash. We have people of all nations so close to the docks – Hindoos, Chinamen, Africans: you name it, we’ve got it. Good thing too, because you’re stuck here now with us.”

  Do I really have to stay here though? Sahira wondered. She had not seen the sky since her arrival, penned by drab walls and grimy windows. She stayed downstairs when the girls left to visit their baby siblings and followed the noise of children’s voices to the courtyard at the back of the house. There was a small patch of grey overhead with a light rain falling. Some girls played hopscotch while older boys hit a ball against a wall using their palms as bats. Her weak leg made her a poor player at skipping games so she took a seat in a corner to watch. It was fairly easy to read the relationships among the children – the ones in charge of their little packs, the lone wolves, the rivals. Sahira hoped they would just leave her alone. Like the tigers, she preferred her own company most of the time.

  How were Sita and Rama coping? Did the keeper understand that they needed space for exercise? They’d been cooped up in a crate for months and months. If only they had somewhere to run, stretch, and roll! They’d enjoy swimming in the moat if he’d let them. If Mr Cops only had experience with domestic cats, he might not realize that they were used to water and liked it.

  A finger poked Sahira in the shoulder. “New girl, what’s your name?”

  Startled to be disturbed while minding her own business, Sahira looked up. Two boys stood over her, at first glance identical down to their freckles and prominent ears. She had spotted them earlier at the centre of the boys playing ball. They must be brothers.

  “I am Sahira Clive,” she said proudly.

  “What kind of name is that?” asked one.

  “My kind.”

  He wrinkled his nose like someone testing a food they did not like. “Where are you from?”

  “Hyderabad.” He had to have heard of that, of course.

  “Where?”

  Did English people not look at maps? “It’s in India. Shall I tell you about it?” Folding her hands in her lap, back straight in proper storyteller mode, she got ready to embark on a tale to entertain.

  “Nah. What you doing ’ere then?” asked the other.

  It was bewildering. Did they not want her stories? Tales had been what people swapped between them around the campfire, a way of making friends as the stories passed like well-worn coins from person to person. She wasn’t sure what to reply.

  “Don’t you know why? Are you an idiot?” The first boy elbowed his brother. “She’s daft.”

  “No, I’m not!” Why was she here though? The first answer she thought of – “I’m in exile like Rama the Steadfast” – probably would not be understood by these London boys. They clearly did not know the same stories.

  “You’ve got blue boots,” declared the first one to talk to her.

  “They’re Indian too.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “What size?”

  “My size.” Why was he asking?

  “I’ll give you good money for ’em.”

  “I don’t want your money. They’re my boots.” What did her boots have to do with him?

  He seemed taken aback by her refusal, but then came forward almost to step on her toes. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” She was obviously missing something here.

  “I’m Tommy Newton, and this is my brother, Alf.”

  “Hello, Tommy Newton. Hello, Alf Newton.” “Be polite,” her mother had told her, “even when others are not.”

  “Yeah, we run this place,” cut in Alf who she noticed had a scar over his left brow and a wild look, distinguishing him from his brother. She’d seen a jackal look like that once, with its red jaws deep in a lamb’s entrails. Moments later her father had shot it. She would definitely not turn her back on Alf. “We keep it ticking over. Forget Mr Pence. Stay on the right side of us and you’ll be fine. Get on our wick and then…” He drew his finger acros
s his throat.

  Sahira didn’t know whether to take his threat seriously or not. Some maharajahs had trained up boys as assassins so she knew that there were many of his age prepared to take a life over the slightest insult. Should she be afraid? She decided caution was her best option.

  “I’ll attempt not to ‘get on your wick’, Alf.”

  He scratched his head, still not sure what to make of the newcomer. His looked down at her feet. “And the boots? Tommy wants ’em.”

  Sahira tucked them away under her skirts. “What boots?”

  “Humph! You’re a cheeky one. We’re not sure we like you,” Alf said, his brother nodding.

  “The feeling is mutual, I assure you,” she said absent-mindedly as she looked for an escape.

  He regained her attention with a poke in the arm. “You speak like a swell – all airs and graces. Don’t like that neither.”

  Did he really think she was going to apologize for being educated by her father?

  “And another thing: why were you limping earlier?” asked Tommy.

  Was there no end to their questions? “Because I was injured a few years ago and my leg has never recovered.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was stepped on.” Normally she would freely offer the story but she sensed they wouldn’t appreciate it.

  “By what? A horse?”

  “No, an elephant.”

  Alf laughed. “Blimey, you’re not making it up, are you?” His tone changed from threatening to curious.

  “No. Where I come from, accidents involving elephants are commonplace.”

  He stared at Sahira, trying to judge if she was taking advantage of his ignorance. “Watch it, Clive.”

  “I was just answering your questions.”

  Ann arrived breathless at Sahira’s side. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Tommy, Alf, I see you’ve met Sahira.”

  “We don’t like her,” said Alf.

  Ann wrung her hands. “Give her a chance. She’s only been here a few hours.”

  “I want her boots,” said Tommy.

  “He’s not getting my boots,” Sahira said quickly before yet more of her possessions were bargained away without her say-so.

  “I’ll talk to her,” said Ann.

  “You do that.” He cast another dubious look at Sahira, then grabbed his brother’s arm and tugged him away to find more orphans to torment.

  Now they had moved on, Ann slumped down beside Sahira. “Oh Lord, I should have realized they’d be on to you.”

  “Who are the Newton brothers and why should I give them my boots?”

  She sagged against the brick wall behind them. “More than brothers – twins. Unlike the rest of us, they’re not orphans. Their ma is dead but their dad is the king of the East End underworld. He takes a percentage from all the ships that dock, runs the thieves and bullies, rules the markets.”

  “What are his sons doing here then?”

  “Harry Newton can’t be bothered raising them – he has a dangerous household – so he has an arrangement with Mr Pence to keep them here until they’re old enough to be useful. They’ve copied their father’s ways, putting themselves at the top of our pecking order.”

  “I see.” Sahira rubbed her chilly hands together. She had been in more danger than she realized. “So they’ve marked out their territory. Lots of animals do that.”

  Ann gave her a strange look. “I suppose they do.”

  “They usually pass water on the trees, scratch the bark, and so on.”

  Ann giggled. “I haven’t seen Tommy or Alf doing that – though I wouldn’t put it past Alf. If you didn’t cotton on, he’s the mad one of the pair. Tommy is the only one who can rein him in.”

  “I didn’t mean they’d really do it. They needed to scratch on me a bit, threaten me so I would recognize their dominance.” But they didn’t realize she was a tiger, not some stray dog they could intimidate.

  “Yes, so you might want to think about how much you want your boots. Tommy’ll give you money for them now, but later he’ll just take them.”

  “I don’t give in to bullies.”

  Ann’s frown deepened. “Please, Sahira, don’t take on two enemies so much bigger than you. You have to be cautious around them.”

  The sun finally broke through the clouds, turning the rain to silver.

  “Don’t worry. Like Sinbad, I’ve travelled to places they’ve never been, faced down threats they can’t imagine. They haven’t met anyone like me before.”

  PART 2

  FOREST OF THE NIGHT

  CHAPTER 4

  Sahira had disturbed dreams that first night as she lay on the draughty floor of the girls’ dormitory. The white tower featured prominently, a castle she couldn’t reach, a wall she couldn’t climb, a paradise she couldn’t enter as Mr Cops stood at the gate with a flaming sword. In her dream, the Holy Roman Emperor processed through the doors easily enough, three leopards on a leash. He gave them to the English king Henry III as a gift. Sometimes the beasts prowled in the forbidden garden as spotted cats, sometimes as lions, because her father had told her the chroniclers of the time used the words “leopard” and “lion” for the same creatures. In the dream the big cats changed skin like chameleons, sniffing the block where traitors were executed, raking at the stone steps where prisoners entered from the river. Climbing Tower Hill, the three lions then leaped from the grass to take their places on Henry’s Plantagenet crest, flapping above the tower turrets.

  Sahira awoke to find a cat curled up on her stomach. So that was why she had dreamed of lions.

  It was a scruffy tabby with a white chest and three white paws. She stroked his coat, marvelling at the black and brown stripes, a miniature English tiger. His jade green eyes blinked once at her.

  “Who do you belong to?” she murmured. Seeing the light was dawning through the cracks in the shutters, she got up and pulled on the scratchy grey gown. She picked up her boots and stockings and crossed the bare floor, trying not to step on any squeaky boards. The cat wound around her ankles, almost tripping her. Tiptoeing past the sleeping girls, Sahira had a quick wash in the cold water on the stand by the door, stuffed a cap in her apron pocket, and went down four flights of stairs to the basement. The only person in the kitchen was a little boy, the same who had almost fallen over while serving supper; he was lying curled up by the hearth. He looked over at Sahira as she crept through.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered. “You’re not supposed to be ’ere.”

  She had to see the sky. “I won’t be here in a second. I’m going outside. Have you got any crusts?”

  Brushing off the ash from his clothes, he climbed on a chair and brought down a basket of iron-hard bread. “The cook softens it in water and adds it to broth,” he explained.

  “She won’t mind if I take a bit, will she?” Sahira asked.

  He grinned, face lighting up like a lamp flaring under a glass mantle. Perhaps, she thought, there was much more spirit in him than first meets the eye. “She won’t know, will she?” the boy asked.

  Sahira shook her head and returned his smile. “Not from me.” She selected a blackened piece that would doubtless spoil the broth and then helped her new partner in crime put the basket back in its place out of reach of the rats.

  “I’m Sahira,” she said, bowing to him Indian fashion.

  “I’m Ned,” he said, bowing to her like a little English lord. “You’re the Hindoo princess, Cook says.”

  So much for her origins remaining a secret. “Not Hindoo, not a princess, but I am from India. It’s a long tale.”

  “You must tell it to me when you ’ave time but Cook will be ’ere any moment. What do you want with the bread?” He yawned and scrubbed at his hair that was sticking up like hedgehog pins. His ears poked out from the side of his head.

  “Come and see if you like.” Sahira nudged the cat toward the hearth. “Sorry, puss, you need to stay inside.”

  Shutting the door on the tabby,
Sahira and Ned slipped together out into the courtyard. It was chilly as the dawn broke to yet more leaden skies and Sahira was glad of her warmer clothes even if they were ugly. The stones were cold under her feet.

  “Hold the bread a moment.” Sahira thrust the crust in Ned’s hands and pulled on stockings and blue boots. At least the Newtons hadn’t launched a raid in the night to gain them; she’d slept with them under her pillow to prevent them being stolen and they were probably responsible for half of the dreams.

  “You should get dressed in the dormitory, you know,” said Ned matter-of-factly, nibbling on the crust.

  “I thought I probably should but I didn’t want anyone to hear me. It’s always a good idea to stalk your quarry in bare feet so you can feel the terrain under your toes and avoid loose stones, snapping twigs, or squeaky boards.”

  “Until you get caught – then you’ll be whipped.”

  “You have a point.” Sahira took the bread and crumpled it into pieces.

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?”

  “Ssh! Just wait.” Yesterday, Sahira had noticed on the top of the wall some of her favourite birds, ragged London examples, not the soft grey and white of the ones in the Nizam’s pigeon house. These specimens had black and slate feathers, but they were pigeons nonetheless, with the distinctive iridescent sheen around their neck that made them noble even in rags. Sahira made soft cooing noises, telling them about the feast she had in store. She had always been good at mimicking animal noises, particularly birds. Soon the pigeons flocked to the wall, then flew down to peck at their feet, little courtiers with their ladies.

  “You like smelly old pigeons?” asked Ned. “Cook calls ’em rats of the air.”

  “Cook is wrong.” Sahira kneeled down. “And rats are very intelligent so not to be despised.” The birds flapped away, then returned with their self-important strut to eat from her palm. “As for pigeons, they are noble birds. Ladies in my country keep them and fly them for sport. To have a rare breeding pair is to have much renown in the durbar of Hyderabad.”