The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

- 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑 -

Camden London 1901.

The early morning light filtered pale and silver through the winter haze, stretching across the rooftops of Camden like a soft veil. Chimneys released thin coils of smoke into the quiet sky, and the cobbled streets below were slick with frost, catching the light like tiny shards of glass. The city hadn't fully woken yet—the market stalls were only just beginning to stir, and most windows remained shuttered against the morning chill.

Outside the Wardens' modest terrace house, a lanky boy with wind-blown brown hair and a cap slightly too large for his head stood waiting on the front step. His breath fogged the air in little bursts as he shifted impatiently from foot to foot. His cheeks were red with cold, his scarf askew, and a leather satchel hung loosely at his side, thumping softly against his hip every time he moved.

Ollie Dahan, nine and a half years old and always in motion, gave the front door another brisk knock, sharper this time. "Florence!" he called, the sound echoing slightly in the narrow street. "We're going to be late! You said you'd be ready this time!"

Inside, there was the sudden sound of hurried feet on stairs. Florence, now seven and already more sure-footed than most girls her age, came bounding down with her curls hastily tied back in a crooked ribbon. She was clutching her little satchel against her chest with one arm while using the other to button up her coat. The moment she reached the bottom, she grabbed her red scarf from its hook, tugged it around her neck, and swung open the door with a puff of cold air trailing behind her.

"I am ready," she insisted, breathless but beaming. "You're just too fast." She stumbled a bit while cramming her feet into her worn shoes, then turned to close the door behind her as softly as possible.

Ollie gave her an exaggerated look of relief. "Well, finally," he teased with a grin, already turning down the path. "If we'd waited any longer, we'd have missed all of arithmetic—and then where would we be, eh? You with no sums, and me with no chance at the window seat." Florence hurried to catch up, the familiar rhythm of his teasing drawing out a laugh. "You're always early. We've never been late once."

"Gotta be early if you want the good seat," he replied confidently, kicking a pebble down the path. "You can see the baker's cart from there. And the horses, when they stop at the trough."

They fell into step together, their bags swinging in time with their stride. Camden's streets, once intimidating to Florence, now felt as known to her as the folds of her own coat. The sounds of waking life were beginning to rise—stallholders hammering crates into place, the clatter of wheels over stone, the distant bark of a dog. The warm scent of fresh bread drifted out from the bakery on the corner, mingling with the sharper tang of coal smoke and damp earth. A woman across the road swept the stoop of her shop, nodding to the two children as they passed.

Florence glanced up at Ollie as they turned onto the main road. "Did you finish the sums from yesterday?" Ollie groaned as though she'd asked him to lift a horse cart. "Barely. It's like Miss Cromwell wants us to go mad. Numbers this, numbers that—what's the point of it all?" Florence giggled, pulling her scarf tighter as the wind picked up. "You say that every day."."Yeah, well," he muttered with mock grumpiness, "that's because it's true every day." She smiled at him sidelong. "But you always finish your work. And you get most of it right."

"That's only because of you," he shot back with a grin, nudging her lightly with his elbow. "You explain it better than the teacher does. If I ever do end up running a shop, I'll be the one begging you to keep the books straight." Florence's cheeks warmed at the praise, her breath catching in the chill air. "I do like the sums," she admitted softly. "Numbers always stay the same, no matter what. You can trust them."