The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~ Chapter 1 ~

Aberdeen, Scotland 1936

"The boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me,

There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief,
As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.

The boy that I love, they call him a cobbler,
But he's not a cobbler, allow me to state..."

Florence lay sprawled across the crimson velvet sofa, a still life of faded elegance and violence. Gold trinkets glinted around her motionless form, scattered as if tossed by an unseen hand. Her blue dress, once pristine, now bore the dark stain of her own blood, a garish smear spreading from her collar to her shoulder. The scent of iron mixed with the heavy, perfumed air. Early morning sunlight crept through the rich red curtains, casting long, dappled shadows that played over the room. Everything seemed suspended in that fragile light—still and silent, except for the faint sound of Florence's breath, shallow and labored.

Her eyelids fluttered open as if weighed down by invisible hands, her vision swimming. The pain in her head came in waves, dull and throbbing, like an unwelcome drumbeat behind her eyes. She blinked against the blinding light that fractured into dizzying patterns on the ceiling. Every breath she took was sharp, filling her lungs with aching fire. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

The last clear memory she could grasp was the expanse of a sapphire sky above the sea, the tang of salt air on her lips. She had heard her name, called out by a familiar voice. Whose? She couldn't say. Now, that memory was as distant as a receding tide, leaving only the present moment—dreadful, suffocating, and real. The room around her felt impossibly silent, as though the world outside had stopped spinning, pausing to observe her fate.

Her fingers trembled as they lifted to the back of her head, combing through her short, dark hair until they met the source of her agony. A gash, ragged and raw. She winced, gasping as she traced the uneven edges. It wasn't clean; it wasn't precise. It was blunt, forceful—deliberate. The work of a man. The realization sent a new pulse of pain through her skull, as if the wound was tightening, compressing her very thoughts into a dark, narrowing space.

And then she noticed. The birds outside had ceased their morning song. The world had been filled with their joyous noise only moments before, but now there was nothing—only a void. The once-soothing hum of the record player had faded into eerie silence. It was as if every sound in the world had been snuffed out.

Florence's eyes shifted, focusing slowly on the brass clock resting on the side table. The time read 7:14 AM. She stared at it as if expecting the hands to suddenly reverse. But they didn't. Time marched on, unaware of the blood and the pain and the fading light of her life.

With slow, deliberate movements, Florence pushed herself upright. Every creak of the floorboards echoed like a gunshot, ringing inside her skull. She staggered toward the silver tray that held the remnants of last night's escape: a half-empty bottle of rum. Shaking, she poured a glass, the amber liquid spilling over the rim before she brought it shakily to her lips. She drank deeply, the burn searing down her throat, chasing away the bitter taste of fear for just a fleeting moment.

As she lowered the glass to her lap, she became acutely aware of the ticking—slow, rhythmic, maddening. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each second clawed at her nerves, tearing them thin. The gilded clock on the side table, with its intricate vines and roses, was the source of this ceaseless torture. Her eyes flicked toward it, and the ticking grew louder, louder until it drowned out everything else. And then, without thinking, Florence hurled the clock across the room. The crash of shattering glass was deafening, shards scattering across the wooden floor like the broken remnants of her peace. Silence followed, but her head still throbbed. The ticking had stopped, but her torment hadn't.

She closed her eyes, her hand coming up to press against her face, fingers curling into her skin as though she could somehow claw her way free of the pain. Her nails dug in, and she felt a strange relief from the sharp sensation. But it was fleeting, leaving her no closer to salvation.

As her hand dropped wearily from her face, a glimmer of light caught her attention. It was shining on the side table, in the very spot where the clock had once stood. She blinked, trying to focus through the haze of pain and fatigue. There, where the clock had been, lay an envelope, creased and battered as though it had traveled through hell to find her. The edges were smudged with gunpowder, the scent of it faint but unmistakable. Her name was scrawled across the front in a hurried, jagged hand.

Florence stared at the envelope, her pulse quickening. She recognized the handwriting. How could she not? She had taught him to write it herself.

*Authors note*

Hey guys, hope you're all doing really well as always and well I hope that you all enjoyed this little part. I promise the rest will be a lot lot longer as this just the opening part. I'm really excited to start this little fic as I'm already deeply in love with all the characters, but I hope you all enjoyed this little part, and hopefully I get time to write more soon and get to explain this little moment, but anyway thank you all for reading, commenting and voting you know I love to see all your guys comments and especially replying to them, you all make me laugh a lot and as always love you all xxx