Wonderwall, JJ Maybank

Chapter One. The Door Is Open To Other Dimensions.

CHAPTER ONE . . .
THE DOOR IS OPEN TO OTHER DIMENSIONS. 

     THE STREETS OF GREAT BRITAIN WERE QUIET THAT NIGHT. The weather was so rotten and rainy that no one could be bothered to be anywhere but the sanctuary of their own cozy homes.

No one except Cordelia Edwards.

Her tried and true button boots splashed in the small puddles gathered along the uneven grooves of the cobblestone ground, vivid moss sprouting generously from every fissure in the stone as light rain continued to drizzle from the gloomy sky above. Her socks were soaked through from the pathetic quality of her shoes deteriorating soles; the girl having taken a needle and thread to them more times than she could count just to keep them wearable enough.

Her dress— the only clothing she owned— was blemished with coffee stains and grime from her long day's work. Luckily, the splotches didn't show as heavily against it's dark material, which was almost the same rich soil color as the beverage she sold. It had long sleeves that buttoned at her wrists, and it's scrappy hem nearly brushed the ground on which she walked. It was spun from wool, the only thing she could afford. On a night as cold as this one, a more warming material like silk, with extra layers full of fringe and ruffles sounded enticing. But her thin underskirt and corset kept her warm enough, and her wool dress was durable and long lasting, which was all she needed it to be.

A gray strip of cloth was tied just above her ears and around the top of her head, keeping her thick hair at bay so she could focus on her work. Her cocoa-colored locks reached past her waist, and tonight, they were damp and disheveled by the ongoing rain; turned a starless ebony when rendered wet. Her hands were protected by fingerless gloves the same smokey hue as her headband, but it didn't stop her fingers from going numb.

     The occasional shaft of warm light filtered through the windows lining the homes above, the alleyway so narrow she could reach both hands out and graze her fingertips along the maroon bricks on either side of her. But mostly, her path was illuminated by the barely burning, ever-flickering oil lamps that embellished the entire town; the cast iron posts holding them up contorted into the most elegant of designs where it met the lantern.

     Before her, she pushed a large cart; it's wooden wheels creaking in the night and threatening to fall entirely from their loose hinges. The heavy cart was her coffee stall— her saving grace, the reason she hadn't yet starved like a stray cat in the streets.

Though it was one of the few jobs typically run by women, you could usually only catch the wealthy ones doing it; Cordelia having managed to cheat her way around the system a bit. Since coffee wasn't essential, it meant the only people buying it were ones with cash practically pouring from the deep pits of their pockets— the kind of people who never seemed to run out of the green. It cost more than she had to her name to purchase everything she needed to keep her cart afloat— milk, sugar, fruitcakes for the common rich person snack. Even after a full day's earning, those weren't things she could afford.

Not everything about her practice was entirely legal. The old man running the local post office had a nasty habit of forgetting to lock up most nights, and since she didn't have enough money to buy the ingredients herself, she'd found a dealer who was willing to trade her milk and sugar and all the things she needed for stamps. And so she stole. Never more than necessary, and never enough to actually damage the old man's company— probably why he had never noticed.