Dr. Dawkins

Port Victory was suffocating in the summer heat. Dr. Jack Dawkins, a former London pickpocket and now the colony's finest surgeon, was extracting a bullet from a sailor's shoulder. His fingers, once used to fish out wallets, now worked like a master.

• Bandage.

The metal tray clanked. The hand that held the instrument was too thin for a maid.

Jack looked up. A girl in a white dress with ocean-colored eyes stood before him.

"I'm Leah. I'm looking for a job as a surgeon. I studied in Edinburgh unofficially—the professor let me in through the back door."

— The laundry is in the yard.

"I know who you are," she said quietly. "Not the best surgeon, but the best pickpocket in London. I'm not blackmailing you. You stole life from the gallows, and I want to steal mine from marriage. Teach me, and I'll keep my secret."

• My past is a stone on the bottom.

"And without the stone, you'd swim faster," she nodded at the seam. "You use a 'bypass cut.' The professor showed it to me. Did you see it?"

— I got there myself. In Crimea.

Feigin appeared in the doorway.

"Scoundrel, who is this? She looks like she wants to steal not a wallet, but a heart."

• This is my assistant.

Feigin raised an eyebrow.

• She's either a saint or an actress. Be careful.

Leah turned around without fear.

"Don't worry, Mr. Fagin. I'm happy with my position. For now."

For the first time that evening, Jack allowed himself a slight smile.

"Welcome to hell, Miss Leah. The operating room is the second door on the right. Feigin, if he steals any instruments, I'll charge you."

Leah picked up the scalpel and spun it in the air with the dexterity of a seasoned pickpocket - a gesture of checking the balance of the blade that the teachers of the thieves' guilds passed on only to their own.