SWINDON, MARCH 14th, 1872
I look at Felicity, but she seems just as confused as I am. We watch as Ezra turns towards the man with the apron, who is probably the owner of the tavern, eager to find out what is going to happen.
“I deeply apologize for the ladies’ behaviour, but they are just children. I will take them home immediately. They won’t be disturbing anyone anymore,” he tells the man, whose gaze jumps back to us.
I swallow nervously as I realize men are trying to get past him and take a look at us. Oh, no. This can’t be happening. We need to get out of here. Now. “Fine. We’ll take care of this poor lad here. Go now, before the ladies bring us even worse luck!” the man demands, pointing his finger towards the main alley.
Ezra doesn’t need to be told twice. He rushe
