Dear Future Husband

26. Who Are You?

31 October 1890

"And who are you, truly?" Maximilian demanded as the bonfires crackled. He knew they were lit to ward off evil spirits, but as he followed behind Edgar's dark figure–or the figure who was possibly Edgar, as his face was fully masked for All Hallow's Eve–he couldn't help but think that they hadn't fully succeeded. "Why are we here?"

"We are here, Max, for you to do me a very special favour," Edgar responded, his hand clamping tightly around Maximilian's upper arm until it was almost painful. He jerked away with an angry glower. "You are familiar, I am sure, with the practice of souling?"

"Do you mean going to people's doors with the intent of receiving those so-called soul cakes from them?" he asked, a frown pinching his brows together. He had never liked the practice; Maximilian had always likened it to begging.

"Precisely," Edgar responded. He fiddled with his watch chain, keeping an eye on the time before snapping the watch shut. "I wish for you to follow my instructions exactly. Do you understand me, boy?"

Maximilian nodded, schooling his expression into one of calm. "Yes, sir."

"Very good. Now, go to that house on the corner there, and ask them for..." Edgar's instructions entered his mind, and his memory, but the lively atmosphere tugged him in a dozen directions.

The air was thick with the scent of mulled wine, spices, and crackling flames. People were milling about and jostling into each other for the All Hallow's Eve festivities. There were children bobbing for apples, peeling strips of the ruby skin back with their teeth and throwing it over one shoulder to see the first initial of the person they would marry. He thought, for one ridiculous moment, of joining them and seeing if the letter R appeared over his shoulder before dismissing the thought.

Rosalie would never sully herself with him now. Especially now, when he was not only a poor boy, on the cusp of manhood, venturing deeper and deeper into the shadowy, underground criminal world of London. No, not only had he been beneath her in station, but also in morality. How could he ever face her now, knowing what he had done?

Although much of Edgar's business involved stealing from the wealthy through various means such as smuggling, pickpocketing expensive jewelry and rolls of cash at dances and balls, as well as other business that was not conducted with purity under the eyes of the law. As Maximilian had learned, Edgar had several magistrates and judges in his deep pockets. What Maximilian had assumed to be gambling debts and drinking debts, common sins for common folk, were far worse, covering a lifestyle that was far more sinister.

And now, they all seemed to be coming to a head on All Hallow's Eve. He slipped into the crowd, a large man carrying his daughter on his shoulders accidentally bumping an elbow into his ribs. "Ouch!"

The man either did not notice or did not care. Maximilian had hardened his heart enough these past few months that he no longer wished to start a brawl or seek his so-called just desserts. Rather, he kept moving swiftly through the rabble. However, he saw the man's daughter drop a patchwork doll. A ribbon was tied around the doll's neck. It was bright blue, the sort that girls used to tie the straps of their bonnets and secure them firmly in place. Rosalie had once donned a ribbon like that.

The girl's father, the same man who had jostled him, didn't seem to notice as his daughter made an expression indicating her sorrow at the loss of her doll. She was quite young, around five, and kicked her small legs despite her father's best efforts to grasp them tightly, and nearly fell off the man's shoulders. Before he knew what he was doing, Maximilian picked up the doll, the cool satin of the ribbon soft between his fingers as he passed it back to the girl. She gave a smile of innocent, gleeful delight.

"Fank you, sir," she said in the garbled way that all young children spoke.

Her father looked at him. "Oh, thank you most kindly, young man."

Then, before Maximilian could say anything in response, the man passed him a five pound note. His eyes widened in shock. "I couldn't possibly accept. It was only a trivial favour."

"No, no, I insist. It was a gift from Flora's older brother, you see, and he's lost to us now," the man said, a tinge of grief entering his otherwise jolly, rubicund face. "Take it as a token of my thanks, lad."

"Well, I must express my thanks," he said, bowing deeply and tucking the note into a secret pocket of his coat. His breath came out in chilly puffs, obscuring his vision of them. The man and his daughter reminded him of Rosalie and her father, and before he could stop himself his thoughts began traversing to what had been and could never be, would never be, again. "I have to be on my way now, but it was lovely to meet you, Flora, and your father as well."

"I am Redmond, Redmond Flynn. We're only one house over there, now, so we might very well be neighbours," her father suggested. He passed him a card that Maximilian glanced at. REDMOND FLYNN, ESQ. with an address beneath it. "You could join us for supper at any time."

His invitation reminded him of Aunt Caro–of a life he had loved that he could not return to. "I thank you for your too generous offer, sir."

"God bless you, now, Max. Don't be a stranger." The man clapped a hand on Max's shoulder before walking away, whistling to himself.

Max pulled his coat shut and hurried off to the house, never pausing once to wonder how the man had known his name.

Carrying the wrapped package tucked under one arm, Maximilian whistled to himself as he slid a card with Redmond Flynn's address into the pocket of his trousers. He had successfully absconded from the manor home of John, one of Edgar's associates, under the pretense of souling. The taste of spiced cake was in his mouth and out of some small modicum of respect for the tradition, he said a prayer for the souls of the dead.

Nearly sliding on a slick patch of ice, the worn-out soles of his shoes unable to provide him with much useful traction, he almost skidded to his death directly in the path of an oncoming carriage. Thankfully, an arm seized him and pulled him to safety. Breathing heavily, he turned his head to thank his rescuer, but they had disappeared into the crowd. He realized that in the near-death incident, he had dropped the package. When he bent down to pick it up, the binding had unravelled. He realized that it was simply a book wrapped in a cloth.

Maximilian undid the flap and opened the book, despite all of Edgar's instruction that he was simply a messenger, not someone who ought to be looking too closely into the contents of the items that he was delivering. Inside, the pages had been hollowed out, leaving behind only a small compartment for hiding items. Inside was a handful of small gems, and even to his untrained eye, he could tell that they were worth a fortune.

Would Edgar notice if he–but, no, he could not. He would not. Though the man he now worked for was a criminal, he still found himself clinging to his morals, as ground-down and faded as they may have been. Besides, to steal from a thief was double-crossing. For all he knew, Edgar had ascertained the exact amount of gems that he was to receive, and would be expecting them. If Maximilian took one, he would likely have his backside tanned, or some far worse punishment. He returned to Edgar, buckling the leather flap and wrapping the book back in its cloth.

"Here you go, sir," he said, passing the parcel to Edgar, who still stood at the same corner, surveying the festivities without participating in any of them.

Detached, separate, his gaze utterly uncaring. Maximilian shuddered at the thought of becoming anything like him, but he feared he was already in too deep.