Prologue From the Journal of Jack Dodger When I was five years old, my mum sold me. I never held it against her; even at such a tender age I understood that hunger and fear could make a person do things he thought he’d never do. In my new circumstance, I quickly learned the devil wore gentlemen’s clothing, and I ran away, convinced I’d be better off on the streets than in an elegant house where fancy gents pretended respectability. I was not long on my own when I fell in with a notorious den of child thieves, managed by a crafty old blighter who went by the name of Feagan. Under his tutelage I learned anything could be stolen—given the proper preparation. My own skills, my determination to succeed and thus to survive, were unmatched, and I soon rose in his esteem. He affectionately called me Dodger, and by the time I was eight, I found myself spending the better part of my evenings sitting in front of a coal fire with Feagan, smoking my clay pipe, drinking gin, and soaking in the rare bits of wisdom he shared with only a respected few. But my palm constantly itched to hold more coins. One day a proper-looking gent offered me sixpence to lure a highborn family of three into an alley. I did it with false tears and the claim that my mum