Music & Mirrors Sample

Igor runs through the opera house's secret passageways. Running silently, quietly, secretly. Just like the Mistress ordered.

How large is his kingdom. How wide, how full of nooks and crannies and peepholes.

But no, that isn't right. It is not Igor's kingdom, but the Mistress's, and Igor is just her humble servant. Yes, he is.

He is lucky—lucky—that she allows him to enjoy the run of her domain.

He slithers through the passage. It’s so narrow, anyone else would get stuck. But the Mistress made him well. Made him perfect for this.

Eyes that see well in the dark. The dark of the opera house’s secret passageways. Long arms, strong fingers—good for climbing. Shoulders narrow, perfect for squeezing into small spaces. And flexible—flexible like rubber.

Igor runs a hand on the rough stone of the passage’s wall. Sometimes he has to turn sideways to squeeze through the narrow gaps. He likes these moments best of all, because they are a reminder that only Igor is fit for this job.

Only Igor can be depended on to be the Mistress’s eyes and ears.

And it is a reminder of how much thought and care the Mistress put into the making of him.

Igor almost laughs with the joy of it, until he remembers—he must be silent. He must move silently, quietly, secretly. Secrets must always be kept.

He peeks out through a peephole. The workmen are there, doing their work. They bang and cut and saw. They bring to life the Mistress's vision.

The Mistress told him that the pharaohs of Egypt had great tombs built, and when the tombs were finished, they killed all those who had built them so no one would know the tombs' secrets.

This is not a tomb, but the opera house has secrets, and Igor must make sure its secrets are kept. Secrets, he hisses inside his mind.

He slithers away from the peephole, checking on the other lot of workmen. He does this every day, without fail. Check on them, check on their work, go down below and report to the Mistress. Then back to the surface, check on the workmen, check on their work, return below to report.

And all the while, he is free to run through all the passageways. Run, run, run.

Is anyone lucky enough to have a life as good as Igor's? Igor doesn't think so.

Once he has finished checking on the work, he heads back. But when he hears a voice, a voice in a place where no voice should be, he hisses in shock and anger.

“Hey, did anyone know there are stairs going down here?” a workman calls out. No one replies.

Igor hisses again. He reaches the corner ahead and looks out carefully. A bit of luck—it doesn’t seem that anyone has heard the workman.

Yet.

Quickly, softly, secretly, he slides through another side passage and steps out right by the entrance to a non-secret part of the opera house. First he picks up a hammer that was left behind, then he slides shut a panel that should never have been open.

There. Now no one will see, and Igor will make sure no one hears. He flexes his fingers, the strong fingers that the Mistress gave him.

Then he creeps around the passages until he is behind the workman on the stairs. The man has begun to climb down. Down, down, down. “Hello?” he calls every so often.

It is all right, no one will hear him so deep. The secrets will be kept.

The stairs are large and made of stone. The stone is old and worn and smooth. The man's footsteps are loud because he wears boots.

He doesn't hear Igor, because Igor's feet are bare. They are always bare. Bare feet, large feet, toes that can curl—all the things the Mistress gave him so he could climb better.

Softly, secretly, silently, he follows the man down the stairs.

The stairs go down for a long time, but Igor is patient. Time means nothing to him.

At the bottom, the steps open out onto a stone platform. And there, beyond, is the lagoon. The water is flat and smooth as glass. And it is green—green as jade, green as grass, green as… The man steps up to the edge of the platform where Igor has tethered his gondola.

The man pushes the gondola with one boot. The movement sends ripples all through the water, disturbing the glassy surface.

Igor represses a hiss. This is his water. His water of glass, his water green as jade, green as grass, green as emeralds. The man has no right to disturb it.

Lucky that workmen have a lot of tools. Igor clenches his hand hard around the hammer’s handle, feeling the strong wood again his palm.

He approaches the man from behind, his feet silent on the stone. He swings once. Then he swings again, and again. Just to be sure.

He carefully places the hammer in the gondola and then drags the man into it. It rocks dangerously from side to side, but Igor grabs the pole he punts with and steadies the gondola.

Then he untethers it and pushes out. The gondola cuts through the water, as smooth as scissors cutting through silk. Green silk. Green as jade, green as grass, green as emeralds.

Across from the lagoon is the start of the maze with its walled canals.

When Igor is far enough into the labyrinth, he stops and heaves the man out of the gondola and into the water. It makes a big splash.

There is blood all over Igor's gondola. He frowns at it. He'll have to clean that. The Mistress likes things to be clean.

But for now he waits, crouching down in the middle of the gondola, watching the dead man beneath the water. The green water.

At least, Igor thinks the man is dead. Death confuses him. He was dead, after all, and then the Mistress made him alive. Or rather the various parts of him were dead, and the Mistress brought them together to make Igor, to make him live.

Does that mean the workman might also become alive again? Igor isn't sure. He can't take the risk, though, not now that the man has uncovered a secret. Secrets must never be found.

Igor can't risk the man finding out about the Mistress.

So he waits, hammer in hand, patiently, to make sure the man doesn’t come back to life.

Igor is patient. Time means nothing to him.

“Is everything all right with your hair, my lady?”

Ada Byron looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was piled up on top of her head with a decorative something stuck to the side of it. Her shoulders were bare, and around her neck hung a large teardrop diamond. A present from her father.

In truth, she had no idea about the state of her hair. However, she knew that feedback was important to her maid, Bridget, who hovered behind her.

It had taken Ada a long time to puzzle this problem out. If she always told Bridget that her hair looked great, the maid grew anxious that something was terribly wrong, something that Ada wouldn't say. It had once got to the point where Bridget, in tears, had asked if Ada was thinking of firing her.

Absolutely perplexing.

But if Ada picked imaginary faults with her hair or clothes every time, that also caused Bridget to become distressed. So Ada had devised a mathematical algorithm to establish the days on which she should be dissatisfied with her appearance. She used a distribution coined by Simeon Poisson—the Poisson distribution.  She’d had such fun working out that algorithm.

What Ada wouldn't give to have something named after her. A theory or invention of hers. But nothing was ever named after women. Instead, women sat in front of pale blue vanities, surrounded by hairbrushes and vials of perfume, and talked to their maid about their hair.

Nothing in Ada’s bedroom was her choice. Not the Wedgwood blue and gold silk canopy above the bed, not the matching wallpaper, and certainly not the pale blue furniture that looked like it belonged in a macaroon shop.

None of this suggested a scientist, serious or otherwise. Ada’s beloved books had to be hidden out of sight in a cupboard, the only way they were tolerated. And it was best to ensure Mother never saw her notes, although Ada could thankfully rely on Bridget to keep quiet about them.

Young ladies of breeding were Not Allowed to take an excessive interest in Mathematics and the Sciences. And any interest seemed to qualify as being in excess, something Ada had also taken a while to figure out.

She quickly went through the calculations and established that today was a day for her to be happy with her hair. She smiled at Bridget's reflection in the mirror. “It looks beautiful.”

Bridget beamed with pleasure. “I'm so glad you think so, my lady. Your mother told me that tonight was an important evening, and that you had to look your best.”

At the mention of the evening awaiting her, Ada’s smile faded. She made the noncommittal noise in reply. This was the noise she used when she either couldn't figure out what reaction she should have, or when she knew her natural reaction was Not Allowed according to her Code of Human Interaction.

She returned her attention to her notes. Poisson's distribution was a far more comforting topic to focus on—it went without saying that Bridget had no idea the figures neatly written out onto the paper pertained to her hairdressing efforts.

A soft knock at the door made Ada look up. The housekeeper entered. She was a stout woman in her fifties, with greying hair and kind, soft features. Ada had never seen her wear anything but black, and when she moved, the ring of keys at her belt jangled, announcing her arrival.

She was Ada’s favourite person in the house.

“A note for you, my lady.” She brought it over, the white envelope resting on a slim silver tray. “I kept it aside from the rest of the post. I thought you'd prefer your mother not know about it.”

“Thank you, Mrs Carson. That's very kind of you.”

The housekeeper said something else, but Ada didn't hear. Her senses were entirely occupied by the white envelope she now held in her hands. Her heart was beating hard, the thumping loud in her ears. Heat was rising up her neck. The reactions of adrenaline freshly released into her body. Knowledge didn’t make the sensation any less visceral.

She licked her lips and took a breath to steady her nerves. Then, carefully, she slid her finger beneath the sealing wax and cracked it open.

She scanned the letter quickly. The heat that had risen up her neck to her cheeks disappeared abruptly, replaced by ice. The letter weighed no more than a feather, and yet it suddenly seemed heavier than lead in her hands.

Nothing. Nothing was mentioned about the theory she had submitted to the British Scientific Journal. Nothing of all the extensive work and research she had done. To say nothing of all the complications since her mother couldn't know about any of it.

Of course the journal wouldn’t know that, but the rest... Her theory was good, and her results had been conclusive. And yet the response she held in her hand only spoke of how neat her handwriting was, how commendable her attention to detail when she had copied the text.

Copied? This was original work.

The letter went on to confirm they had found no errors, so she had obviously done a perfect transcription.

Ada clamped her lips into a thin line. The reason they had found no errors was because she had checked the theory, not because she had copied it from a book. How did they not realise that this was new work?

Instead, they assured her that as soon as they had need of a secretary they would contact her, and they assured her of their best wishes.

A strangled sound escaped her.

“My lady?” Bridget asked, sounding alarmed.

Ada realised she had completely forgotten that she wasn’t alone. Mrs Carson had obviously already left, but Bridget was still here.

A fit of anger in front of witnesses was far too dangerous a thing—that led to the doctors being called and words like ‘Hysteria’ being mentioned, or worse, whispers of ‘Child Psychosis Can Result In Unstable Adults’, and mentions of the ‘Institution’. Ada knew she was neither hysterical nor psychotic, but she’d never been able to convince the doctors of either.

With some difficulty, she reached for the pencil on her vanity. She grasped it tightly in both hands, crumpling the letter around it. The Anger Management Protocol worked well, and she knew she could rely on it.

Rudolf Clausius's first law of thermodynamics stated that energy could not be destroyed, but it could be transformed. Ada found this worked equally well for emotions. She couldn't destroy her anger or make it disappear.

Instead, she could transform it. She squeezed the pencil until her nails were digging into her palms. It was like a safety valve, letting out excess steam in an engine.

The pencil snapped.

“Oh dear, I seem to have broken my pencil,” Ada said, the words coming out jerkily. “Bridget, would you get me another?”

The maid bobbed and walked out briskly. That was also part of the Anger Management Protocol—it gave Ada a few precious moments alone to gather herself. She turned to face the clock hanging above her mantelpiece—another gift from her father. It was a miniature replica of Prague’s famous astrological clock. She took deep breaths, following the ticking of the hand marking the seconds. She rubbed her earlobes between her thumbs and the sides of her forefingers, swaying lightly. Doing so was soothing, but could only be done when she was alone.

By the time Bridget returned, Ada knew she would be calm again. Her Anger Management Protocol had been honed until it had a hundred percent success rate. Looking at the clock helped, too. It reminded her that her father, Lord Byron, also knew what it meant to be different from everyone else. To be misunderstood, misrepresented.

By the time Bridget returned Ada was once again composed.

* * *

Finally, it was time to go. Ada could delay no longer. Still she sat at her vanity, staring down at her gloved hands.

“You'll have a great time, Miss,” Bridget said encouragingly.

Ada nodded and made the noncommittal noise. A knock at the door, this one the bearer of bad news.

“Her Ladyship requests that Lady Ada come down, so they can get ready to leave,” a footman announced.

“You'll have a great time, and you look beautiful,” Bridget repeated.

Ada didn't have it in her to attempt a smile in response. She headed silently downstairs.

“Ah, there you are,” her mother said. Lady Byron looked Ada over critically. “Good. You look presentable tonight. Bridget, get my daughter's wrap.”

Lady Byron was fashionably doll-like, her face framed by blonde ringlets, her skin pale, her eyes round and blue. Ada got her colouring from her mother but her features were all from her father.

Ada had heard it said that her mother was always dressed in the absolute latest fashion. All she knew was that her mother’s dresses were always complicated, with much ribbon, lace, and gemstones decorating them.

The carriage ride over to the ball took place mostly in silence.

“Now, try to be charming, tonight,” Lady Byron said when they were nearly there. “God knows that's difficult for you, but try. It's bad enough that we have to contend with your father's latest scandal, but with your…disposition, we really have our work cut out for us. Don’t say or do anything strange, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama,” Ada mumbled. She kept her eyes trained on her gloved hands. Her mother always wore an ugly expression any time Ada’s difference was mentioned.

“And Ada, let me be clear. If by some miracle we are able to arrange it so that someone else proposes to you, you will accept this time.” She paused. “Do you hear me?” she added loudly.

Ada could feel her palms sweat at the thought. “Yes, Mama.”

Her mother often confused Ada's difficulties in navigating interactions with difficulties in hearing. When Ada struggled, Lady Byron simply spoke more loudly, which paradoxically made it even harder for Ada to navigate the situation.

Ada’s Code of Human Interaction made it clear that the easiest way to deal with people outside of Bridget and Mrs Carson was simply to respond yes to everything.

The only notable exception to that being, obviously, the time she had replied no to a marriage proposal. But any other response had been impossible. The whole stress of the situation had been awful—having to break her Code, having to deal with the pressure of saying ‘No’ to someone, having to deal with her mother and the consequences of her rejection.

Ada had broken down, lapsing back into behaviours that were Not Allowed. In front of her mother and the servants. The doctors were called. They’d poked and prodded her. Locked her in her room, and for a short while even tied her down to the bed.

“She was a Child Psychotic,” they whispered.

“Return of Hysteria,” they murmured.

“If continued lapses occur, we may have to consider moving her to an Institution.”

Of course they made it worse, causing her so much distress she had struggled to manage her agitation. It had taken her enormous force of will to overcome the stress and return to Allowed behaviours only.

And all of that because a man had proposed marriage to her, which was impossible for her to accept. Ada knew she had to ensure no one else proposed to her ever again.

“…because of your father’s latest scandal,” Lady Byron was saying. She drew a shuddering breath, looking out of the window. “It’s his bad blood that causes your problems, I know it. If I had married someone decent, I’d never have bred a daughter such as you.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Lady Byron shook her head. “After all I have done for you, I still can’t believe you had the nerve to turn that young man down.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Do you really think it’s fair for me to be saddled with your…your…difficulties for the rest of my life? I already have to deal with the consequences of your father’s behaviour. When am I to find happiness, a life free from scandal? When you are married, that’s when.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Ada drowned out the rest of her mother’s words. She had never explained to her mother that marriage was impossible for her. That her only option was spinsterhood.

She had to hope she’d make it to an age where she would be considered too old, and therefore ‘on the shelf’, so she would finally be safe and maybe even left in peace.

Eric Asher looked out of the window, taking his time. Rushing at this point could be disastrous. He gazed over the neat street outside, bordered by large white houses, each one with a wide entrance flanked by columns. Sleek carriages rolled past to the gentle rhythm of trotting horses. Women in expensive dresses waved greetings at men in flawless top hats, which they raised in answer.

This was not his world, had never been, and nor would ever be. He was a parasite, no better than a flea or tick, sucking what lifeblood he could before he was removed.

But today was not the day he’d get tossed back outside. He’d make sure of it.

He composed his expression and turned back to face the room. Clenched his jaws and allowed pain to show in his eyes, just enough to suggest devastation but make it look like he was trying to hide it.

He caught Lady Eleanor's gaze. Her own eyes widened, and Eric experienced the quick flash of satisfaction a snake must feel when it has hypnotised its prey. Lady Eleanor was middle-aged and yet dressed as ridiculously as the room was decorated.

In fact, she fit so perfectly Eric wouldn't have been surprised to discover she had been born of the room itself. Everything was floral. The wallpaper, the upholstered furniture, the lady's dress. It would have looked overly sweet on a ten-year-old girl and had no business on a woman in her fifties.

Sickly fragrance from the large porcelain dish of potpourri clung to the air, and it would be worse as soon as Eric was close enough to Lady Eleanor for it to mix with her perfume.

Gold accents on the wooden furniture added a gaudy highlight just to make sure every surface was overdone and clashing to the eye. Everything in the room jarred apart from the beautiful, gleaming, grand piano in the corner, its lid propped open. Eric could just make out a tantalising glimpse of the ivory keys, like a coy smile.

But there would be no piano for him today.

“I… I'm so sorry,” Lady Eleanor whispered. “I simply can't do this anymore.”

Eric allowed a low growl to rumble in his throat. “Eleanor.” His voice sounded heavy and strained. Just right.

Her hands trembled slightly.

It was the signal he'd been waiting for, and like the snake darting to bite his prey, he sprung forward, crossing the space between them in two large steps.

He took her hands in his. Hers were plump and soft, having never known work. The skin was growing loose, middle-age robbing it of its elasticity. He could see the small creases in her neck where the rice powder that she applied so dutifully every day collected. Her eyes were a watery blue, all the more so now because she was on the verge of tears. Her mouth was small, her chin weak.

And yes, there it was, the stench of her perfume. Eric could taste it in the back of his throat with every breath he took.

But he didn't mind any of it. Would have gladly put up with far worse. Not only did she pay well, she sometimes played the piano for him, although her late husband had apparently been the truly musical one of the family.

But still, she played well, and she enjoyed his singing. The days when they shared music were by far the best.

Lady Eleanor's ample bosom heaved as she gulped in a breath against the strain of her far-too-tight corset. “If anyone were to find out, the scandal...”

“Let them talk,” he said, keeping his voice low so that it sounded almost muffled. “Talk cannot keep us apart.”

Eric crushed her to him, covered her mouth with his. He had long ago honed his kissing technique down to a fine science depending on the emotion he needed his clients to feel.

He carefully went through the motions. Desperation. Desire. Pain.

When he broke away, she was breathing heavily, her hair and dress in disarray, her cheeks flushed.

This wasn't the first time Eric had needed to navigate her through her fears of scandal and discovery, although he was starting to suspect that a perverse part of her enjoyed it.

That was absolutely fine—he would reenact the scene for her as often as she wanted, so long as she kept paying him after.

“Oh, Eric,” she sighed.

The next signal. Eric swept her up into his arms—which was no small feat given how much she weighed. He didn't keep himself fit only to look good naked.

He carried the Lady Eleanor out of the sitting room and up to the usual bedroom where he would truly earn his fee.

* * *

Once he was finished, Eric departed discreetly, leaving the lady asleep and satisfied. He walked briskly, the plush carpet underfoot muffling his footsteps.

He was intimately familiar with the layout of the house by now, and he quickly found the servants’ stairs.

No carpet here, his polished shoes clipping against the hard surface of each step as he took them two at a time.

“Finished already?” a maid asked, giving him a saucy look. “Sir,” she added with a cheeky grin.

Seduction wasn't only useful for the rich who paid. It was always helpful to have the staff on side. Such a basic level of seduction Eric could do in his sleep.

In fact, he didn't need to do anything. His black, slightly curling hair and warm complexion added a darkness to his dashing looks. He only needed to smile to make women giggle.

He shucked the maid under the chin with a finger and gave her a wink. She blushed and laughed, and he felt her staring after him as he walked on.

It was so easy.

“Won’t you take a pastry, Mr Asher?” the cook called from the kitchen, hurrying over.

She was as round as a plum, with cheeks as red as cherries. Any time Eric saw her she always appeared from a cloud of steam, flour in her greying, curly hair which was forever escaping her white bonnet.

Eric took the proffered pastry, which was wrapped in a bit of wax paper. He gave the cook his first genuine smile of the day and kissed her on the cheek. “Where would I be without you?” She was one he genuinely liked and didn’t have to pretend with.

She squawked and laughed and shooed him away, her hands fluttering at her hair.

Eric continued towards the exit. Immediately to the left of the back door was the room he used for changing. As usual, Williams the Butler waited for him there.

“Your money,” he sneered.

Eric took it. “My thanks.”

“Have you no shame?” the man hissed.

“None whatsoever,” Eric replied coolly. And he wasn’t lying.

“What you do is the devil's work. One day your sins will catch up with you.”

Eric shouldered past him. “You remind me of my father.”

And that wasn't a compliment.

He entered the little room, going to stand next to the bag he had left there earlier. He didn't bother closing the door, beginning to strip off his clothes.

“Were you hoping for a look, Williams?” He raised an eyebrow at the butler. “I might have to charge for that.”

The man made a strangled, flustered noise, and slammed the door shut.

The amused expression on Eric's face fell as rapidly as his clothes. He carefully folded each item, smoothing out any creases, before he began putting his normal clothes on.

He never even wore the shoes outside.

Eric had one good set of clothes, and they were worth their weight in gold. Nothing was more anathema to seduction than poverty.

Wearing his fine shoes in the street would lead to the leather receiving cuffs, to the heels wearing down. Sweat and dirt would yellow his fine white linen shirt. Wearing the good jacket beneath his coat risked crumpling the fabric, and the coarse coat would rub against the finer fabric and wear it down more quickly.

Once he was dressed in his regular clothes, he looked like what he was—a man who had been born of a very lower middle class family and now teetered on the edge of poverty.

Lady Eleanor wasn’t truly a lady. It had amused her when Eric starting calling her that, so of course he had made sure to continue. Her husband had been a successful merchant, which placed them both at the top of the middle-class. Although, of course, the gulf between the aristocracy and the middle-class was far greater than between the lower middle and poverty.

As Eric was well aware, the divide between the lower middle-class and poverty was little more than a thin line. A thin line on which he was currently precariously balanced.

He carefully wrapped his work clothes, including the shoes, in waxed paper, keeping the waxed side facing out to help repel any rain.

Then he wrapped the parcel in a cotton cloth and put the whole thing into his bag. He shrugged on his coat, which was a couple of sizes too big. It provided just the right amount of space so he could close it over his bag, keeping it cradled against his chest as if it were a baby.

A baby would have been less fragile cargo—getting it wet wouldn't result in it smelling damp the following day.

Eric opened the door to his changing room and in one smooth movement, without pausing to glance back at the house, he slipped out of the back door.

He never liked to hang around once he was out of his work clothes. Of course the staff knew what he was, what he did, but all the same, he didn't like to break the illusion he had woven around himself, not even for them.

It was one thing to know, it was another to be faced with reality.

Lady Eleanor's house felt like a distant memory as Eric ploughed deeper into London. Gone were the scrubbed streets, the white houses, the genteel carriages. The buildings here were of dull, brown brick. Carts clattered past, coal dropping out the back, quickly snapped up by snotty-nosed children in ragged clothes.

The sky was dark with rain clouds and coal smoke. Everyone was dressed in various shades of drab or black. Faces were pinched with stress, or bitterness, or frustration. Coarse voices cried out, shouting arguments or yelling the prices of goods being sold.

And then it began to rain. No great surprise for this time of year.

Eric lifted the collar of his coat and pulled his cap down. He cradled his precious parcel tighter against his chest, leaning forward to protect it from the rain.

By the time he got home, he was soaked. There was no warm fire for him to thaw himself in front of, though. The small fireplace was cold and empty. No great surprise there, either.

He placed down the parcel of supplies he had bought on the way home and then shrugged off his wet coat and cap. He carefully set his good clothes on the table. His eyes skimmed over the lighter squares on the wallpaper that spoke of the paintings that had once hung there.

He picked up the supplies and walked through into the kitchen. There, too, there was no fire. Instead, a soft snore rose up from the man fast asleep at the kitchen table.

His father.

It galled Eric that he'd had to buy a bottle of gin. Galled him so much that he didn't feel capable of taking another step forward.

He hovered at the kitchen's entrance, swallowing down his rage. He clutched the parcel of food in one hand, the bottle of gin in the other, squeezing it until it hurt.

Then, before he could do anything stupid, he marched in and plonked the bottle on the table.

His father spluttered and started upright.

They looked nothing alike. His father was fair, with ginger hair and pale eyes. Or rather he would have been fair, but the years of drink were showing in the red patches over his nose and cheeks, where tiny veins had burst.

“I'm home,” Eric snapped.

He placed the food on the kitchen counter and marched back out. He returned to the sitting room, crossing it quickly. He'd start the fire later.

As he passed the mantelpiece, he paused. He ran two fingers over the framed, glass-covered daguerreotype of his mother. She had the same colouring as him. Thick, black, curly hair that she used to love brushing out. A wonderful smile, and a voice… The best soprano in London. She could have been the best in the world.

His father snatched his wrist and jerked his hand away from the picture. “Get your filthy hands off her. She’d turn in her grave, she would, if she knew what her son has become. T'is the devil's work, what you do.”

Eric regarded his father coldly. “And she’d turn in her grave to know that her husband was incapable of providing for his family, forcing her son to do what he does.”

His father coloured. “I'll be getting a job soon. I've got some leads. Been talking to some people.”

“Of course you have,” Eric sneered. “You talked to them over a glass of gin, didn’t you? Even if they had a job to offer you, they probably decided to give it to someone else once they saw what a useless drunkard you are.”

His father grabbed him by the shirtfront with one hand, tearing part of the collar. He had thick, meaty hands. Hands that, once upon a time, had worked well.

“Not the face,” Eric said quickly. “Hit me in the face and I can't work. And if I don't work, Lily doesn't eat.”

“Everything you touch is corrupted by your sins. Lily deserves better than your misbegotten food.”

“On that we agree. Unfortunately, there is no one else to provide for her.” Eric pushed his face forward so that his nose was almost touching his father's. “No one else. Now either hit me or let go of me. I have things to do.”

His father released him, and Eric stepped back, straightening his crumpled clothing. Another reason why he never wore his good clothes back home.

He started up the stairs. He wished he could be rid of his father. But the reality was that it wouldn't do him any favours. Then he would need to pay someone to look after Lily while he worked, and that would cost more than a bottle of gin.

He knocked at the half-open door, schooling his features into a light, pleasant expression.

“Come in.”

At least it was warm in Lily's room, a small fire burning in the grate. For all his many, many shortcomings, Eric's father could not be accused of not caring for his daughter. He was just too much of a hopeless alcoholic to do anything of real use.

“I heard you and father argue downstairs,” Lily said.

“That?” Eric asked airily. “Just a minor disagreement. How are you, my darling?” As he crossed the room, Eric could already hear the breath rattling in her chest.

“I'm fine. In fact, a little better today.”

That was a lie. Lily always claimed to be better, and yet her breathing wasn't improving. If anything, the coughing was getting worse. She looked so small, in her white nightdress, the covers almost up to her chin.

A thirteen-year-old girl should be laughing, playing with dolls. A thirteen-year-old girl should, by rights, not have a care in the world.

Eric sat on the bed and pressed his hand to her forehead and cheeks to check her temperature.

“Stop worrying,” she scolded. “I'm fine.”

“Hmmm,” Eric replied distractedly. She was a little warm. “I'll make you dinner shortly.”

“All right, but first, tell me about your day.”

Obviously, Eric never told her what he truly did when he was out of the house. But being bed-bound, Lily loved to hear of life out in London. So he described the fancy houses for her, the gleaming horses and their shiny carriages, and all the fine ladies in their expensive dresses.

Lily listened raptly. “Maybe tomorrow I'll come with you.”

“Yes, maybe.”

Eric continued describing things that Lily wasn’t able to come out and see. One day she’d be well enough, and he’d take her to see the fancy side of London.