1899

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the canal that ran through the center of Small Heath. Everything smelled of smoke and burnt coal, but to three boys running wild through the streets who had never known anything else, these long days were the stuff of heaven.

Tommy's heart was pounding as he barreled toward the canal at breakneck speed, Freddie close on his heels but just a little bit behind, always. The edge was getting closer; a boat was approaching, but Tommy didn't stop. There was no way he was going to let Freddie win. He picked up speed as the edge got perilously close, he closed his eyes and he leapt. When he landed, the hard cobblestone sent a jolt from the soles of his feet to the tops of his shoulders. The pain exhilarated him, as did the sound of his older brother's laughter. Arthur had already made the leap. He was taller, he had longer legs - Tommy couldn't compete. Yet.

He whirled around to see Freddie, hesitating at the edge of the canal.

"You'll never make it now!" Tommy taunted, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Arthur slung his arm around Tommy's neck, roughly pulling his younger brother toward him. "He's no Shelby," said Arthur. "Chicken shit."

Tommy cackled breathlessly as Freddie scowled.

"I tripped," Freddie called across the canal. "It threw me off."

"Whatever you say, Thorne," Arthur said.

Freddie was nine, Tommy was eleven, and Arthur was fourteen. Arthur had sprouted over the course of the summer, and looked like more of a man than ever, while Tommy and Freddie followed in his shadow with squeaky voices and stringy limbs. Tommy was envious of the way Arthur's shoulders had broadened, and the sparse hairs that had begun to sprout on his chin. In the mornings, he would sit and watch in awe while Arthur pompously spread shaving cream over his gaunt cheeks, the spitting image of their father - except that Arthur wasn't passed out drunk at 9:00 in the morning.

Tommy longed to be a man. He was constantly wishing, a boy often lost in his own head. He wanted longer legs, stronger arms, a firmer jaw. He wanted to be strong enough to defend himself against his father. He had seen the shimmer of fear in his eyes when Arthur had finally swung back, and since that moment, all Tommy wanted was to evoke the same response. But for now he was too small. His blows bounced off like small insects, only inciting more annoyance from his attacker.

He clenched his fists just thinking about it, standing on the edge of the canal, watching Freddie waver in his decision to jump with his older brother's sinewy arm around his neck. But as he looked up at Arthur he let the feeling go. At least they had each other.

"It's almost dark," Freddie shouted across the water. "You'd best be getting home or Pol will wring your necks."

"Pol doesn't tell me what to do," Arthur bragged.

Tommy tried to imitate his fearless stance, pretending that he wasn't afraid of Pol either (though just the sound of her name struck a note of fear into his heart).

"You're not as grown as you think you are, Arthur," said a gravelly voice behind them. Tommy turned to look, and their Uncle Charlie was smiling down at them, amused by Arthur's braggadocio. His flat cap was pulled low over his eyes to guard them from the hovering sun, and his cheeks were rough and unshaven. He worked on the docks, usually from afternoon until the middle of the night, so his shift was just getting started. "Your friend is right. You lot better run along home."

"I don't have to listen to you, either, Charlie," Arthur insisted, but Charlie burst into laughter as Arthur's voice cracked, revealing the still-immature boy beneath his new height. Tommy bit his lip to keep from laughing himself, though his laughter was tinged with nervousness - Charlie could be even meaner than Aunt Polly when he wanted to be, and he had served the boys a painful licking on more than one occasion.

"Let's go, Arthur," Tommy urged, starting to feel the magnetic pull of home and Aunt Pol's cooking.

"Oh all right," Arthur said, cowing to his little brother's insistence. He glanced up at Charlie again with a young man's fire in his eyes, an eagerness to prove himself. Charlie just chuckled and swatted them as they started off in the direction of home, leaving a sighing Freddie on the edge of the canal.

Arthur swaggered down the street and Tommy scuttled along beside him, hands thrust in his pockets. Tommy kept his head down, as he had learned to do from a young age - the streets of Small Heath weren't safe, especially for one as small as Tommy was. Even Freddie was gaining on him in height, and his secret worry was that he would never grow, never be as tall as his father or Arthur.

As they walked past the parade of sooty-faced workers heading home at the end of their day, Tommy pondered how much longer he and Arthur had together before Arthur would be forced to join their ranks and start bringing money to the family. The money that their father brought in was unpredictable and often in small amounts, especially because most of it was spent at the pub before he ever reached home. Polly and her husband Jimmy were the ones who kept food on the table, but as to how, the boys were instructed not to ask questions. And when Polly gave instructions, they were to be followed.

Regardless of how she brought income to their home, she was always waiting at home when the boys returned, and today was no exception. She was scowling by the front door when Arthur pushed it open, Tommy shuffling behind in his shadow.

"And where have you two been? Your dinner's gone cold," she said. Her hair was frizzing in all directions, and her apron was smudged with grease, but she was still the most beautiful woman on the block - all the men on the docks said so. However, itt was a more unsavory comment to that nature that had caused Arthur to get into a scuffle with a workman almost twice his size last week.

Arthur grumbled something disrespectful, and she glared at him sharply.

"Sorry, Aunt Pol," Tommy said quietly, and she reached out to ruffle his hair with a tired smile, her long, elegant fingers massaging his scalp pleasantly.

"Your brother ought to be a better example," she called out in the direction of the kitchen, where Arthur had disappeared. Tommy had always been her favorite. He had the distinct feeling that even if he were as ornery as Arthur had been lately she would still sneak him sweets after dinner. "You're a good boy," she whispered, pushing him into the kitchen. A smug smile broke over his face.

"Save some for me, would you, Arthur?" he yelped, watching Arthur shovel chicken into his mouth as though he hadn't eaten in weeks.

The two of them ate in near-silence; Pol bustling about the kitchen and cleaning dishes, Arthur aware of nothing but his meal. Six-year-old John could be heard hollering throughout the house as he played with the wooden toy horses Jimmy had whittled for the boys. John was making them race and was enthusiastically commentating on the fierce competition. He wasn't old enough yet to run the streets with Arthur and Tommy; Polly made him stay home, and it made him restless and loud.

Ada was following Pol around the kitchen, nearly causing her to trip every few seconds. She'd been having the hardest time of any of them adjusting to life without a mother, but as the youngest, Tommy knew she'd also be the first to forget. John hardly ever mentioned her anymore, and his own memories seemed to grow fainter and grainier with each day that passed by. When he thought of her now, it was a silhouette of a woman standing over his bed, the feel of a soft hand in his own as they crossed the street. He couldn't remember the shape of her nose or the color of her skirts.

Once Tommy had finished his meal, he took his plate as well as Arthur's abandoned one to the sink for Pol to wash.

"Play with Ada, will you?" she asked, exasperated. "I'm afraid I'm going to squash her."

"Come on, Ada," Tommy said, tugging her along by the tiny hand. She looked up at him anxiously, and he smiled his most comforting smile. She was such a quiet child, drowned out by the raucousness of three older brothers and the snappish and opinionated Polly. But it was Tommy who she shared all her secrets with; her fears and her nightmares, her hopes and dreams. In a voice thinner than tissue paper she whispered confidences in his ear when no one else was looking, and it made him feel strong and responsible - more like Arthur.

John was pestering Arthur in the bedroom, and so Tommy took Ada into the sitting room where her doll sat in a basket. She retrieved it and sat with her back against the sofa, administering tender care to it. Tommy browsed through a magazine that Jimmy had left on the side table, watching Ada more than looking at the pictures of horses inside.

"Tommy," Ada said.

He looked up.

"When we were at the market today, Pol told someone that our grandfather was a king," she whispered, her eyes sparkling with some kind of magic.

Tommy furrowed his eyebrows at her. "Don't tell stories, Ada."

"I'm not," she insisted. She quietly stroked her doll's hair for a moment, then she paused. "If our grandfather was a king, does that mean I'm a princess?"

Tommy hadn't the heart to tell her no, that they were nothing but Small Heath gypsy trash. The older he got the more aware he became of it, the more he felt their lack of wealth and status. He looked down at Ada's glittering blue eyes and a story came to him.

"Yes," he whispered. "But you can't tell anyone."

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers in her rosy-cheeked face.

"See, our grandfather had many enemies, so we had to go into hiding," he continued. "Aunt Pol is trying to keep us safe, so she didn't want us to know."

"Do John and Arthur know?" Ada asked.

Tommy shook his head solemnly. "No, and you mustn't tell them. You know what big mouths they have."

Ada crossed her heart with a grave expression. She seemed to ponder this for a moment, tugging on her doll's dress. Tommy watched her curiously.

"Does that mean you will be the king someday, Tommy?"

He swallowed down a slightly bitter-tasting laugh. "No, Ada. Everyone knows that the oldest becomes the king. That will be Arthur."

She wrinkled her nose. "I don't think so," she said. "You'll be the king. You're much nicer than Arthur."

"Being nice isn't what being a king is about, Ada," he replied, burying his nose back in the magazine. Even at eleven he knew that much. It was about power.. and that was what he lacked most.