CHAPTER THIRTY-TWOSorrel, a Delectable Bee Feast
Black smudges covered the child’s face and he carried the tufted end of a sweep’s brush in bony fingers. A dirty tweed cap sat askew on his head and his brows knitted in suspicion. “Is yer lost?” he demanded, leaning forward to inspect my face. His lips puckered. “Will I get help for yer?”
“No!” I stretched out a hand, my cold fingers grasping for his jacket. “Please, don’t.”
No guile showed in his face as he crouched, laying his wispy brush beside him. “Is yer scared, Mister?”
“Yes.” My honesty touched him and he nodded in sympathy.
“Me too,” he admitted. “I don’t like them chimneys much.”
“Dark,” I managed, assessing his trade through the filthy, skinned knuckles and the pain in his face. “And small.”
He nodded. “And scary. I’m gett
