The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

- 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟔 -

Camden, London 1908

The air hung heavy with the familiar grime of the city—coal smoke from the chimney stacks, the pungent reek of horse manure mashed into the cobblestones, and, somewhere beneath it all, the comforting hint of warm bread wafting from the corner bakery. Life in Camden moved at its usual pace: loud, relentless, indifferent. Children shouted in alleyways, street vendors called out their prices, and carts rattled past with squealing wheels. But for Florence Warden, the world had taken on a quieter, grayer hue.

At fourteen, she had learned how to disappear behind a smile.

The general store where she now spent her days was cramped and overstocked, the walls lined with tins and jars, sacks of dried goods, and coils of thick rope. Barrels of flour stood like sentries beside the door, and the floorboards creaked beneath every step. The bell above the entrance jingled faintly with each new customer, its chime as regular as breath. Behind the counter stood Florence in her plain grey dress and neatly tied apron, her dark hair pinned back, her green eyes watchful but tired.

Three years had passed since her father's death in the mine—a collapse that took more than a man. It took a future. The plans she'd once whispered to herself before falling asleep—of staying in school, becoming a teacher, of one day standing in front of a classroom with chalk-stained fingers—had faded like dust on old parchment.Now, her world was tills and ledgers, deliveries and folding paper parcels with quiet precision.

The door opened again, and a familiar figure stepped inside, stooped and slow-moving. "Good morning, Miss Warden," croaked Mrs. Hargreaves, the old woman's cane tapping with each step. Her shawl was tightly wrapped against the damp, and her eyes were rheumy but kind. "How's your mother faring? Still keeping strong, I hope?"

Florence smiled automatically, the expression gentle but worn at the edges. "She's managing, thank you. A bit tired these days, but still on her feet."

"Ah," Mrs. Hargreaves sighed, peering up at the shelves. "A strong woman, your mother. And lucky to have a daughter like you. You've grown into a fine young lady."

The words hung in the air between them like something fragile. Florence only nodded, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you, ma'am," as she reached for a tin of tea. She didn't feel fine. She felt... trapped. Not ungrateful—never that—but bound. Tied to duty, not by chains but by the heaviness of love and necessity.

Mrs. Hargreaves collected a bar of soap and a small loaf of bread, her movements slow and deliberate. Florence rang it up with practiced ease, wrapped the items in brown paper, and handed them across the counter with a polite nod. "Be well, Miss Warden," the old woman said kindly as she turned to leave. "You too, Mrs. Hargreaves."

The bell above the door chimed as she left, swallowed by the flow of passersby outside. Florence watched for a moment, her hand lingering on the counter. Outside, the world bustled forward. Inside, she returned to her rhythm.

A voice called from the back room, sharp and familiar. "Florence!". "Yes, Mr. Booth," she replied, already untying her apron as she made her way past the shelves.

Mr. Booth stood hunched over a delivery manifest, the scent of damp wood and dried tobacco clinging to the storeroom. He was a squat man with a barrel chest and a permanently furrowed brow, his thick mustache curling like punctuation under his nose. His spectacles were perched precariously on the tip of it as he squinted at his books.

"Come have a look at this crate—supplier says we've short a dozen tins, but I count ten." He paused, glanced up. "And before I forget—" Florence straightened, expecting some correction, another task.