The carriage ride seems to take hours. It hits every bump and rut on the road, and it doesn’t take long for my backside and legs to feel bruised. I wiggle my wrists experimentally from time to time. They’ve tied the knots pretty firmly, but if I worked at it enough I could probably get free eventually.

            “Oy! Quit that.”

            I feel a sharp, stinging blow on my upper arm and I stop moving, glaring in the direction of the voice. The sack is course and scratchy against my face and it smells like dirt. A burlap bag probably, one used to store potatoes or something. The men don’t talk much, but when they do I try to take note of the timber and pitch of their voices. Try to count how many of them climbed in here with me. I can feel one of them to the right of me, his knee bumps mine each time we go over an especially violent bump or hit a rut in the road. And I know there’s someone to my left, because from time to time he sniffs and fidgets, like he’s got a bad cold and he’s wiping his nose on his sleeve.

            The one across is the one that slapped me. So that makes at least three and then one outside driving the carriage. Likely the other two limped home, the ones I’d punched and kicked. I hoped that was the case, because I didn’t like the idea of Scarface having charge of me now that I was all trussed up. Once the pain faded it would be replaced by anger.

            The carriage jerks again, and I thump my head on the wall. The man on the left bumps me again. I can’t help it. I stiffen every time he does. Hopefully it’s not obvious to them, because they might take it into their heads that they find it amusing to see me flinch. I’ve managed to survive fifteen years on the streets with my dignity intact, mostly due to vicious flurries of punching and any weapons I can get my grubby paws on. To most folk it isn’t worth it, not when there are ladybirds down the street who will bed you for a few pence. But I don’t know what these men want. I don’t know what their game is. I try to keep calm, try to keep from letting on that my stomach is churning with fear and my heart is beating wildly. Ruffians are like wild dogs. You don’t show them fear. You don’t let them smell it on you.

            The minutes melt into hours. The carriage seems to be outside the normal time zone. Why is this taking so long? Obviously the men grow bored, because both of them shift on either side of me, and one of them murmurs,

            “How much longer?”

            “Not long now, we drop this one off and that’s the last of them. Then the money.”

            The last of them. The phrase sticks in my ears, making me tense. What does that mean? Are there more kidnap victims? Or was he merely referring to a list of things they had to do that day? A sort of list of chores. Right. Mend that coat, buy some eggs, visit the bookstore, and kidnap the street girl. Sure. That sounded about right.

            The carriage lurchs again, and then there 's nothing but empty ringing silence. It’s stopped. My heart flies into my throat again, and all the fear comes back in a wave. Now I would find out what they wanted. We were finally here. And where was here exactly? It felt like we’d travelled for hours.

            “Finally,” one of the men grunts, “my backside has gone numb.”

            The sound of the door opening, and a wave of fresh air I can smell even through the burlap. A new, deeper voice says, “Get her up and let’s get moving.”

            Someone grabs my left arm tightly, yanking on it sharply so I slide on the leather seat, “Steady,” I growl, “steady you ruddy boat-licker! You’re pulling my arm off!”

            A smack in the head makes my ears ring, and someone shoves me from the other side. Since my hands are tied I can only yell in alarm as I topple sideways, trying to brace myself for impact. I hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I can feel dirt and bits of rock under my hands. It doesn’t give me a clue where we are though, and before I can have a good feel around someone grabs my arms and hauls me up.

            “Get up. Get up, you bloody dollymop!”

            I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. There’s a hand in my back shoving me, making me stumble forward. I can smell dust through the burlap, and here and there the tip of my boot catches a rock, nearly sending me tumbling forward. It feels like there’s a man on either side now, one on each arm. An escort. I resist the urge to elbow them. I have to bide my time here. There’s bound to be an opportunity at some point.

            We walk forward and I can hear something now. The whirr of machinery from way overhead. I can smell hot steam and the stink of oil and soot. Are we at a factory? They took me for slave labor? It seems like a lot of work to go to for free labor, considering the work houses have plenty of poor sods for that. It doesn’t make sense. The machines grow louder the closer we come, and hot air rushes over me. Suddenly the bag is stifling, it’s hard to draw deep breaths in.

            One of the men yells over the noise, “Alright. Take that off her. She can’t climb without seeing.”

            Climb? The sack is yanked off my head abruptly, pulling some of my hair with it. The light blasts my pupils, stinging and blinding. I blink furiously. When my vision clears I can see a shiny ladder hanging in front of me, the type that unfolds when you drop it down. I tip my head back, following the links of the ladder all the way up to the massive metal airship that floats overhead. It’s shaped like a bullet, and scrolling designs are engraved on the sides. A rich man’s airship. My heart is beating so hard I can hardly hear the chug, chug of steam now. They’re taking me somewhere, no doubt of it. Out of Cheshire. Maybe even out of England. It must be slavers. Desperately I think about the knife I dropped back in the street before they’d pushed me into the carriage. I’d give my left ear for that right about now.

            One of the men undoes the ropes around my hands and yells in my ear, “Climb.”

            I turn and glare at him. He’s a thin chap with a face like a hatchet. A really ugly man. I sneer at him, “Sod off, cockchafer! I ain’t climbing aboard no fancy airship.”

            Now is my chance! I brace myself to turn around and take out the one behind me with a flying kick. Then a few punches to the teeth and I’ll be out of here.

            Something cold presses to the back of my neck. The barrel of a pistol. A deep voice says firmly, “You certainly are climbing aboard. Otherwise we have no further use for you. You’ll make a very pretty corpse, love.”

            That’s convincing enough. I suck in a breath through my teeth and grab onto the first rung of the metal ladder. A jolt of shock goes through me as a pair of hands clutch my waist, pushing me up. The ladder swings wildly while I climb it, and my heart is doing a fast double beat. I’ve been scaling walls and fences all my life, but never a ladder that swings back and forth like a ruddy pendulum when you climb it. Finally after several heart-stopping minutes I’m almost up to the railing of the air ship. As I reach for the edge someone pops his head over, a mean-faced gentleman with a bowler hat and narrow blue eyes. He grabs my hand and yanks me up with very little effort.

            He lets go as soon as my feet hit the deck, and I barely catch myself from tumbling forward. Then I 'm grabbed from behind again, shoved straight down a steep set of stairs, into the belly of the ship. My boots make dull clunking sounds on the steep metal stairs. I think about lashing out at the man shoving me forward. After all, there’s only one of him. There was no one on the deck of the ship, and as we descend the stairs nobody passes us. But it’s almost as if he can hear what I’m thinking, because his fingers suddenly tangle in the back of my hair, holding it tightly so that I can only look straight ahead. My eyes start to water and I grind my teeth together angrily. This bastard better hope I never get a chance to get near him with a weapon. The stairs end, and I find myself in a wide hallway. The man stops at the first door, yanks it open and shoves me forward into the darkness.

            My boots slide on the metal floor and I go down, landing hard on my hands and knees. The door thunders shut behind me. It’s such a sudden shift, going from light one second to being shoved into the dark the next, that for a moment I’m completely blind. Climbing to my haunches as quickly as I can I balance there for a moment, hands in front of my face in case anyone comes at me. Blinking furiously, angry at how exposed I feel.

            But no one comes flying out of the dark. In fact, it’s totally silent save for the muffled chug of the engines. Slowly my eyes adjust to the darkness, enough to see that I’m in large square room, mostly empty save for a few shelves along the walls. Gas lanterns hang from chains in the ceiling, swinging with the motion of the ship, sending flickering light washing over the room. A shuffling noise makes me tense. I crouch lower, fists at the ready,

            “Who’s that?”

            Shadows shift along the wall. Slowly someone melts out of the darkness. A boy, not much older than me. Bright blue eyes examine me, huge in his dirty face. His dark hair is matted into dreadlocks, and his clothes are torn and dirty, worse than mine even. It’s not hard to recognize another street rat.

            When he speaks his voice is soft and low, “Who are you then?”

            I hesitate, startled by his mild question, “I’m…my name is Molly,” I swallow hard and dart another look around the room, “they take you too?”

            He glances down at his shoes, brows furrowed, and mutters angrily, “took ten of ‘em.”

            I shrug and pretend that’s not impressive, “So, why’d they take us? Where are we going?”

            He blinks at me and shakes his head, “Don’t know anymore than you do. Wouldn’t tell me nothing. Got a smack in the head if I asked,” he sinks to the floor, tucking his legs up to his chest, circling his arms around them, “I’m Gus.”

            “Good for you,” I scan the room quickly. No windows, only the one door. Probably they put someone there to guard it. That meant no way out. Not really. I turn around and stare at the door. Then I lash out and kick it hard, bashing the toe of my boot into the bottom of the door repeatedly. A muffled voice on the other side yells, “Quit that!”

            Yup. There’s a guard. When I turn back to look at Gus he’s staring at me critically. I say defensively, “What?”

            “Don’t you think I tried opening the door?” He says, “it’s locked.”

            “And guarded,” I tell him helpfully.

            “Yeah, me and Ellie figured that out awhile ago.”

            “Ellie?”

            A small voice says from the shadows, “Yup.”

            I move forward carefully, stepping past Gus, who doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. There, in the deep shadows of the left hand corner of the room sits a girl. She’s got on a ragged black skirt and her knees are curled up to her chest. A pair of net gloves with the fingers cut off and the battered black top hat she wears low over her eyes tell me that she might have had money at one time. Clearly not the case anymore. She stares at me with large brown eyes from underneath the brim of her hat. Her pale face is small and heart shaped, a smudge of dirt on one cheek bone, and her hair is long and curly, spilling over both shoulders.

            “You a dollymop?” I ask her.

            She blinks at me, “That’s commonly considered a rude question.”

            I’m confused now, “You talk proper.”

            “I was raised properly,” Ellie says with a smile, “it comes out from time to time, can’t help it.”

            “Why are you here? Did they take you off the street?”

            “Yes,” Ellie frowns, “I was minding my own business, just nicked a lovely handkerchief too, lost it when they grabbed me. It’s a shame really.”

            “Ah,” I turned and paced back across the room, “three street rats, put on board a great shiny airship and going….where?”

            “Slavers most likely,” Gus mutters.

            My stomach drops, but I shake my head, “With only three of us? Not even worth their time. It’s got to be something else.”

            “They were watching,” Ellie says suddenly.

            “What?”

            She ducks her head self-consciously, “they were watching me pinch people’s stuff. I spotted a well dressed chap sitting on a park bench near my regular work place. Twice I saw him. Didn’t think much of it until now.”

            “I don’t know what they could want with us…” I’m cut off as the ship suddenly lurches, my boots sliding over the slick floor, taking me sideways. I pinwheel my arms and manage to stay upright. The lamps swing even more wildly, and shadows dance across the room like mad. The flickering light throws Ellie’s face into deep shadows. “Well,” she says gravely, “I’ve no doubt we’re about to find out.”