"Come on! Faster!"

"Tell me something, P," Lord Patrick heard a familiar voice from beside him. Glancing down, he was faced with a smirk. A smirk that unfortunately had an Amy attached. "The reason ye're rushin' inta our next dangerous and deadly mission in da East End doesn't perchance 'ave anythin' ta do with yer mother expectin' ta meet with ye next Wednesday, does it?"

He threw her a dirty look. Thanks to her having smeared dirt all over him for the last ten minutes, he actually managed to make a decent job of it.

"Cheer up!" Amy told him. "Ye should be 'appy! I've done quite the magnificent job with ye!" She reached out to pat his dirt-covered shoulder—then decided better not to. "Ye really look da part of da filthy crook, ye know."

"I wonder," Lord Patrick Day stated, his voice filled with as much sarcasm as could possibly fit without bursting his noble vocal cords, "who could possibly be responsible for that."

"Me," Amy reminded him brightly. "Did ye forget already? My, my, ye really must be gettin' old."

Calm. Calm, Patrick. Act in a way that behooves a nobleman of the realm.

Then again...he had already planted his lips on hers. Would it really be such a bad idea to put his fist there, too? After all, she had taught him to use surprise attacks...

Stop it! You are on a mission now, remember!

"All rightey. We're 'ere."

Those words abruptly tore Lord Patrick from his musings. Glancing up, he inspected the façade of the decrepit building in front of him, half-obscured by the fog that was billowing through the gloomy street. The stench of rotting fish hung in the air. Or perhaps it was the stench of the patrons from inside the inn they were about to enter. It was difficult to tell.

"Ready, P?"

His Lordship nodded. "I'm ready."

No matter if my nose might not be. Let's not mention that.

"Remember—this isn't about acquiring information. Not yet. We're just 'ere to test out yer actin' skills, show our faces, and build yer altar eco."

Lord Patrick closed his eyes in grammatical agony. "That is alter ego, Miss Amy. Alter ego."

"Aye, like I said, altar eco."

Oh, to hell with it! It's not like you won't be spewing colloquialisms and profanities yourself all too soon, is it? After all, that is what you are here to train.

"Now den..." Taking a step towards the inn's entrance, Amy glanced back at him one last time. "Who are ye again?"

"I'm your cousin, newly come to town from the countryside just outside the city."

"Aye. That should explain any oddities in yer accent."

"And," he pointed out, "it will also make me look like a stupid country bumpkin."

That smirk from before returned to her face with a vengeance. "Aye, my plans always 'ave added benefits."

Calm, Patrick. The calm befitting a nobleman.

Suddenly, however, the grin started slipping from Amy's face. Lord Patrick was just about to step towards the entrance when, with a solemn look, she halted him.

"Patrick?"

Wearily, he turned towards her. When the young woman met his eyes, hers were as hard as emeralds.

"What is it, Amy?"

"This is it. If ye don't manage ta convince dose buggers in dere, ye'll never get within a 'undred feet of da gangs."

"Because they'll spot me?"

"Nah." Her eyes hardened even farther, her face expressionless. "Because I won't let ye. I may be many things, but I ain't no murderer."

With that, she turned and entered the inn. Patrick felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Ignoring the feeling, he squared his shoulders and followed her into the darkness.

***

Amy pushed open the door and stepped into the gloomy interior of the inn. This was it. The big test. Tonight would determine whether they could go ahead with their plan. Of course, tonight would also be enormous fun, if everything went as expected.

"Oy! Evenin', Amy." The innkeeper stopped cleaning the plate in his hand, lifted the rag to wave at Amy, wiped across his sweaty brow with it and then continued cleaning the plate. She always knew the seasoning here was the best. "What brings ye 'ere?"

"Yer fabulous cookin', of course," Amy lied with a bright smile. "But I ain't alone tonight. I brought me cousin, Mr Willy Perv."

Amy heard the sound of someone suddenly choking behind her. Somehow, she had neglected to inform Patrick of the amazing alias she had picked for him. Strange. She smirked. How could she have been so neglectful?

A moment later, she heard a hiss in her ear. "Willy Perv?"

She batted her eyelashes up at him. "Oh, don't ye worry," she whispered too low for anybody else to hear. "I won't tell anyone about how ye let me tie ye to yer bed and gag ye. Yer secret is safe with me."

Patrick opened his mouth—then his gaze flicked to the patrons in the inn, watching the two of them, and it snapped shut again.

Ah. So he can control his temper. Excellent. First test passed.

"Willy Perv?" The innkeeper gave Patrick a half-impressed, half-commiserating look. Stopping his dishwashing once again, he patted Patrick on the shoulder with the dirty dish towel. "Tough luck, mate. I 'ad an uncle, who was called Hugh J. Butt. Life's hard, sometimes."

Smiling tightly, the freshly baptized Willy Perv inclined his head. "Aye. Aye, it is."

"I'll give ye a double helping, in memory of uncle Hugh. 'ow does that sound?"

Patrick's eyes flitted to the pot behind the innkeeper, in which a substance of indefinable colour was bubbling.

"Err...thank ye very much, but..."

"But," Amy fluidly took over, "me cousin is new in dis town, so I'd like 'im ta taste da special, ehem...local treats." She winked.

The innkeeper scratched his chin. "You mean..."

"Aye." Amy felt a devilish grin spread over her face. Oh, this was going to be so much fun. "Why don't ye bring 'im a plate of pig ears? I'm sure he'll love dem."

For the second time in the last ten minutes, Amy heard a choking sound behind her.

The innkeeper's eyes widened. "Pardon...Miss Amy, did ye say a plate?"

"Oh aye. A plate of pig ears." Her grin widened. "Willy would love to try our Cockney cuisine."

The innkeeper returned her grin, mirth dancing in his eyes. Amy nearly jumped in joy. She knew she had been right to come here!

"Ehem..." Still grinning, the innkeeper cleared his throat. "Is dat so? A plate of pig ears it is. Well, I'll be back right away, Miss Amy!"

And, a hand over his mouth and his shoulders quaking, he bustled into the kitchen.

"Pig ears?" Patrick demanded as soon as the innkeeper was out of earshot. "You...I mean ye can't be serious!"

"Of course I am!" Amy nodded gravely. "It's a local delicacy. Everyone loves dem!"

He stared at her suspiciously. "You're lying!"

"No." She shook her head solemnly. "It's 'ye're lyin''. Cockney, remember? Ye gotta remember ta drop da Gs at da end. Besides...I ain't lyin'. People order pig ears 'ere all da time."

"That...dat can't be! It just can't! Ye're makin' dat up!"

From somewhere in the background came the voice of the innkeeper, calling "Milly? Milly, make me some pig ears, pronto!"

For a moment, no sound could be heard but the murmur of patrons and the clinking of cutlery. Patrick stared at her.

"You...ye weren't lying."

Amy cocked her head, gazing deeply into his eyes. "Da world ye're about ta enter ain't nothin' like da one ye know, Mr Perv," she told him in a serious tone, amazed at the fact she could keep from bursting out laughing. "Most people in da East End eat anythin' dey can get deir 'ands on. Rotten cabbage, leather cooked in filthy river water...when someone in da East End says dey're eatin' spotted dick, dat ain't no bloody metaphor."

Patrick tried to swallow, but apparently couldn't.

"And I'll have ta eat anything dat's put in front of me, 'cause I can't draw attention to myself."

Amy nodded grimly. "Consider dis yer test of fire."

From the kitchen came the noise of a frying pan.

***

Lord Patrick Day, Peer of the Realm and Knight of the Order of the Garter, stared at the objects on his plate. He had eaten a lot of things in his life. He had sampled French, Spanish and Italian cuisine. He had eaten Huitlacoche and Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, although he still didn't know how to pronounce either. He had even, on several occasions, particularly when dining with his mother or sister, been forced to eat humble pie. He could confidently and without exaggeration call himself a gourmet of highest distinction. However, never in his life had he been forced to eat something like this.

He couldn't help himself. This couldn't be right. He had to check. He leaned over to one of the other patrons and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned.

"Aye?"

Patrick cleared his throat. "Err...Do ye like pig ears?"

The man gave him a big grin. "Aye, of course! Who doesn't?"

Patrick gave up. When he turned towards Amy, the darn woman was smirking. "Told ye."

"Ye did." He narrowed his eyes. "Not dat dat would be enough reason for me ta believe ye."

"Ye 'urt me feelings!"

"Aye, I'm sure."

"Ye know...ye ain't half bad at dis Cockney thing." She scrutinized him closely. "Are ye sure yer father didn't 'ave a little romp with a chambermaid from the Devil's Acre?"

Patrick's face flooded with colour. Narrowing his noble eyes, he lowered his voice. "I am fairly certain that is a very remote possibility."

Amy nodded. "Aye, when ye start talkin' like dat, I'd 'ave to agree with ye."

"So...what now?"

"Now?" She gave him a sweet little smile that would haunt him in his nightmares. "Now it's time ta eat."

Lord Patrick glanced down at what was in front of him on the table. Dang! He had almost managed to forget.

He stared at the plate.

And more importantly, what was on it.

Did he really have to?

But...if he stumbled over this little hurdle, how could he possibly infiltrate the filthy depths of the East End? Compared to the things he would have to see and do, a plate full of porcine auditory protrusions would most likely be easy to stomach.

Hopefully.

He lifted a something from the plate. He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth.

Crunch!

Fried shrimp! Just imagine it's fried shrimp!

"Fabulous, ain't it?" Amy enquired with a sweet smile in her voice. Not nearly sweet enough to overpower the taste in his mouth, though.

"Ye think?" Patrick ground out between clenched teeth. His eyes snapped open. "Then 'ow come ye're eatin' dat instead?"

He jabbed his fork towards the plate of delicious bacon and eggs in front of Amy.

She shrugged. "I just felt like having a little appetizer. Don't ye worry. I'm gonna 'ave me some pig ears later."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Ye are?"

"Of course! Lots! Why wouldn't I?" She gave him a smile. Such a sincere, convincing, innocent smile.

Patrick mistrusted it instantly.

And yet...she seemed to be telling the truth.

So...what could he do?

Well, there's really only one thing, is there?

Bringing down the fork, he speared another piece of what he was hesitant to call "food". Eat. That was the only thing he could do now. Eat and prove himself.

You can do this! You are a noble of the realm! You have the strength and fortitude!

Grinding his noble teeth together—which was easy, since they didn't seem to want to part and make way for another mouthful—he took a deep breath. Three...two...one...

Tearing his mouth open, he shoved in the "thing" and clamped down.

Gnnark! Ddrrmnk! Fgg! (Insert other exclamations that do not appear in the Oxford English Dictionary!)

It took an interminable amount of time, but finally, bit by bit, the mountain on his plate began to shrink. Patrick soldiered on, while Amy happily munched on her bacon. As did he, technically, he had to admit. After all, his meal had once been part of a pig. Still...

Silk came out of the bottom of a silkworm. That did not mean he'd like to wear clothes made from the other things that came out of an insect's backside.

"Aaah..." With a satisfied belch that shook the table, Amy leaned back and stretched herself. "Dat was delicious, wasn't it?"

"Gnrgf!" Patrick grunted. "Gnark!"

He might say something more intelligible in about three months or so, when the taste buds in his mouth had stopped revolting.

Patting her stomach, Amy took a deep breath. "Ye know what would 'it da spot right about now?"

Patrick speared her with a suspicious glare. "What?"

Amy beamed. "Pig ears!" Turning around to the innkeeper, she waved at him energetically. "Oy! Bring over two rounds of pig ears, won't ye?"

"Comin', Miss Amy!"

Patrick stared at her. Two? Two? As in, one for each of them? She was actually going to eat...? Herself?

Impossible!

But the innkeeper was already disappearing into the back room. Could it really be that...?

"And while we wait," Amy continued, her voice as chipper as it had ever been, "we've got just enough time for one more language lesson."

"Can it last a week?" Patrick requested. "A month, even?" He'd gladly torture the grammar and pronunciation of his beloved English language for eternity, if that meant his mouth and tongue wouldn't have to come in contact with....certain other things.

"Oh, I don't think it'll take dat long. In fact it'll be over fairly quickly."

There still was a smile on Amy's face. But the way that smile looked...

No one could look that innocent. Not unless they were, in fact, completely and utterly guilty of something, and having enormous fun into the bargain.

"What is it?" Patrick demanded, his spine stiffening.

"I was wonderin'....'ave ye ever 'eard of somethin' called 'Cockney Rhyming Slang'?"

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"Ye mentioned it in yer lessons I think? It's..." He lowered his voice, until only the two of them could hear. "Let me see if I remember correctly. It's when you switch a word or two for others that rhyme with the originals, and use it in the originals' place, right? But what does that have to do with this situation?"

"Oh, quite a lot. If ye're gonna spend any time in da East End, ye should definitely be well-versed in Cockney Rhyming Slang. Otherwise, ye might stumble into some unexpected trouble."

Patrick's frown deepened. Did they really have to talk about this now? He didn't have time for this! "Do you really think that's necessary?" he remonstrated, lowering his voice even further. "There are lives at stake right now, and we have only a limited amount of time at our disposal! What sort of bad trouble could you possibly get into simply by not knowing some obscure slang?"

Just then, the innkeeper arrived at their table, with a big smile on his face and two mugs in his hands. He sat them down in the middle of the table. Both mugs were filled to the brim with delicious, foamy beer.

"'ere ye go! Yer pig ears."

Patrick froze.

Cockney Rhyming Slang?

Beers.

Big Beers.

Pig ears.

Oh no. No, she didn't!

"Well..." Smirking, Amy grabbed her mug. Taking a deep swig from her pig ear, she threw a meaningful glance at his empty plate. "How bad can it get if ye don't understand Cockney Rhyming Slang? To answer yer question....pretty bad." Raising her mug, she clinked it against his, while he fought mightily against the urge to smash his mug over her head. "Welcome to the East End. Let's drink to a successful operation, shall we?"