The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 8 ~

Camden, London 1910.

Florence had just turned sixteen. The sun hung low in the sky as she made her way home from the shop, her arms laden with groceries wrapped in brown paper. Her hands, once small and soft, had become calloused and strong from work—work that never seemed to end. She had taken on more responsibilities since she left school, stepping fully into the role of helping her mother with their laundry business and making sure their household stayed afloat.

The streets of Camden were busy as always, filled with the clamor of people rushing home, the smell of coal smoke in the air, and the occasional rumble of a horse-drawn carriage passing by. She navigated the familiar route back to her small house, her mind a jumble of thoughts. There was always so much to do, so much to think about. Her mother's health had begun to falter in the past few months—nothing serious yet, but Florence could see the strain in her eyes, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly when she carried the laundry.

As she approached the front door of their terrace house, Florence took a deep breath, trying to push down the gnawing worry that had become a constant presence in her life. She juggled the groceries to free a hand, carefully unlocking the door and pushing it open with her shoulder. The familiar creak of the hinges greeted her, and she stepped inside, shutting the door behind her.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Florence paused for a moment, listening. Usually, by this time of day, her mother would be in the kitchen, humming some old tune as she stirred a pot of stew or tea. But now, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fireplace.

"Mum?" Florence called out, setting the groceries on the table. She received no response. Frowning, she quickly put away the items, stuffing the bread into a cupboard and placing the vegetables on the counter for later. She hurried toward the back of the house, her heart beating a little faster. When she entered the kitchen, she found her mother sitting by the fire, a worn blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Mrs. Warden's eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and steady.

"Mum?" Florence asked again, her voice softer now. She knelt beside her mother, gently placing a hand on her arm. Mrs. Warden stirred, blinking her eyes open. When she saw Florence, she gave a weak smile. "Oh, Flo, you're home," she said, her voice tired. "I must have dozed off."

Florence studied her mother's face, noticing the dark circles under her eyes, the way her skin looked more fragile than it had just months ago. "Are you all right?" she asked, concern threading through her words. Mrs. Warden nodded, though it seemed more to reassure Florence than to reflect the truth. "Just a bit tired, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

But Florence was worried. She had been watching her mother closely for some time now, noting the small signs that something wasn't right. Yet, despite her concern, she didn't press the matter. Instead, she stood and began to prepare dinner, her hands working quickly as she peeled potatoes and chopped vegetables. She could feel her mother's gaze on her, though it was soft, filled with love and pride.

"You're such a good girl," Mrs. Warden said after a while, her voice quiet. "Your father would have been so proud of you." The mention of her father sent a pang through Florence's heart. She missed him every day, though the sharpness of the grief had dulled over the years. It was a constant presence, like a shadow that never fully went away. But she didn't let it show. Instead, she gave her mother a small smile, nodding her thanks before returning to her work.

The next day passed in much the same way—Florence rising early to help with the laundry, tending to the shop, running errands in town. Life was a relentless cycle of work and responsibility, but she had grown used to it. She had no choice but to keep moving forward, even when the weight of it all felt almost too much to bear.