graceful flick of her wrist, she danced across the stage as though it were home, and perhaps it was.
*
For a man such as Alex, there was little life held in way of expectations. He could muddle through with the rest, put in a hard day’s work at the docks, or at the iron factory. He could eventually settle and find a good Irish wife from Whitechapel. And then he could have a family of his own. It would never be easy, but life ever hardly was.
But he hadn’t come to London to merely to survive. He had come to make the city his because he had nothing else.
He pulled his cap lower over his eyes, the sun too bright as it poked out from beneath the low clouds stringing across the London sky. There wasn’t work for him at the docks this morning. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d been out fighting the night before and overslept even though he had spent the night in the streets.
A flower seller at the corner held out a bunch of blossoms in her hands, thrusting them at him. “Flowers, flowers for your lady.” Her accent was thick, her letters encased with the hard edge of Russian.
Alex shrugged her off, about to step away before he spun around and grabbed a wilted yellow flower. He stuffed it into the buttonhole of his jacket before he could think further of it, ignoring the nagging suspicion that it reminded him of Anne.
Anne, the ballerina.
He sniffed, rubbing his nose along his shirtsleeve as he rounded the corner of Whitechapel Street. London Hospital rose above the horizon. It was a mighty building, and hard to miss with the line outside waiting for care once the gates opened. Across the street stood Millay’s Club. It was a social club by reputation, but was a casino as well. There was a rumor there was a boxing ring in the basement. But a place such as Millay’s was beyond Alex’s reach. He doubted they’d let him in with the tattoos etched into his hands and arms from his time in the brotherhood back in Liverpool.
Back when he had Danny by his side before he was shot dead. Living on the streets had made a thug of them both, even a titled gentleman like Danny.
Alex ducked behind a row of vendors, nicking an apple, then slide into the darkness of a narrow alleyway. At the end stood a door half on its hinges. By all means it was simple, nothing extravagant, but to him, well it was everything.
He peeked over his shoulder, glancing over the paper advertisements posted against the brick walls. He couldn’t read a word, but the woman’s smile resembled Anne when she didn’t think Alex was looking.
She was a ghost who followed him around these past few weeks. He’d be lying if he didn’t miss having her near. Anne made him feel safe, as foolish as that sounded. He wished he understood why.
The door gave way and he bent at the waist, stooping inside another cavern of darkness. He held his breath, listening closely as he crept toward the stream of light pouring down from the hole in the roof. Pigeons cooed overhead, their wings fluttering in the musty air.
The darkness lifted enough to the little light streaming in. He sucked in a gulp of air, his hands still clenched in fists. He hated the dark and the secrets it guarded.
The wood floor beneath his feet sagged from age as he circled the space, his eyes raking over the rows of seats beyond where an audience once sat in this grand mistress of a theater. Now it was reduced to a habitat for mothballs and rats. But when Alex was finished with it, it’d be so much more.
Because a man like Alex could do two things: he could go along with the rest and live as everyone did in Whitechapel, or he could make a name for himself by being a man of property. He’d spent too much of his life chasing for coin to line his pocket. There was always another who held him in a grip, dictating his life to profit their own.
He was used to living at the edge of the earth. He was accustomed to not knowing who he truly was. Danny had joked he was the bastard son of a duke. The
*
For a man such as Alex, there was little life held in way of expectations. He could muddle through with the rest, put in a hard day’s work at the docks, or at the iron factory. He could eventually settle and find a good Irish wife from Whitechapel. And then he could have a family of his own. It would never be easy, but life ever hardly was.
But he hadn’t come to London to merely to survive. He had come to make the city his because he had nothing else.
He pulled his cap lower over his eyes, the sun too bright as it poked out from beneath the low clouds stringing across the London sky. There wasn’t work for him at the docks this morning. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d been out fighting the night before and overslept even though he had spent the night in the streets.
A flower seller at the corner held out a bunch of blossoms in her hands, thrusting them at him. “Flowers, flowers for your lady.” Her accent was thick, her letters encased with the hard edge of Russian.
Alex shrugged her off, about to step away before he spun around and grabbed a wilted yellow flower. He stuffed it into the buttonhole of his jacket before he could think further of it, ignoring the nagging suspicion that it reminded him of Anne.
Anne, the ballerina.
He sniffed, rubbing his nose along his shirtsleeve as he rounded the corner of Whitechapel Street. London Hospital rose above the horizon. It was a mighty building, and hard to miss with the line outside waiting for care once the gates opened. Across the street stood Millay’s Club. It was a social club by reputation, but was a casino as well. There was a rumor there was a boxing ring in the basement. But a place such as Millay’s was beyond Alex’s reach. He doubted they’d let him in with the tattoos etched into his hands and arms from his time in the brotherhood back in Liverpool.
Back when he had Danny by his side before he was shot dead. Living on the streets had made a thug of them both, even a titled gentleman like Danny.
Alex ducked behind a row of vendors, nicking an apple, then slide into the darkness of a narrow alleyway. At the end stood a door half on its hinges. By all means it was simple, nothing extravagant, but to him, well it was everything.
He peeked over his shoulder, glancing over the paper advertisements posted against the brick walls. He couldn’t read a word, but the woman’s smile resembled Anne when she didn’t think Alex was looking.
She was a ghost who followed him around these past few weeks. He’d be lying if he didn’t miss having her near. Anne made him feel safe, as foolish as that sounded. He wished he understood why.
The door gave way and he bent at the waist, stooping inside another cavern of darkness. He held his breath, listening closely as he crept toward the stream of light pouring down from the hole in the roof. Pigeons cooed overhead, their wings fluttering in the musty air.
The darkness lifted enough to the little light streaming in. He sucked in a gulp of air, his hands still clenched in fists. He hated the dark and the secrets it guarded.
The wood floor beneath his feet sagged from age as he circled the space, his eyes raking over the rows of seats beyond where an audience once sat in this grand mistress of a theater. Now it was reduced to a habitat for mothballs and rats. But when Alex was finished with it, it’d be so much more.
Because a man like Alex could do two things: he could go along with the rest and live as everyone did in Whitechapel, or he could make a name for himself by being a man of property. He’d spent too much of his life chasing for coin to line his pocket. There was always another who held him in a grip, dictating his life to profit their own.
He was used to living at the edge of the earth. He was accustomed to not knowing who he truly was. Danny had joked he was the bastard son of a duke. The
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