Chapter One

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Certain situations can make one contemplate the value of bread.

But as Ben stands dejectedly in front of the baker angrily waving a flour-covered fist at him, he resigns himself to his fate.

London mornings are not known to inspire joy, what with the neverending smog and perpetuating smell of piss, but there's something about this one that makes Ben feel the weight of the day ahead crush him at once in a quiet heartbeat.

His downcast mood is worsened by the chubby, middle-aged man currently reprimanding him on the proper etiquette of browsing at his store.

"You think you can simply waltz into any establishment without the proper money, dressed in tattered clothes, and expect them to take you seriously?"

Ben slowly recounts the words he's been repeating to himself since he noticed the hole in his trouser pocket on his walk."Well, sir, I had the correct amount with me last time I checked my pockets. The shillings counted up all proper. If you could only let me pay you back tomorrow, it's my payday and - "

"And?" Ben can see the fuse go off inside the man's  head. The baker's eyebrows rise as he opens his mouth again.

Ben's tired mind absentmindedly wonders how one can come to have eyebrows of such bush.

"Do you expect to pay me in trust? You get what you give in this society, and if you're not in the place to give me anything worth my while, I will ask you to vacate my premises. You're scaring off my customers."

Ben turns his back soundlessly on the warm light of the bakery, his trudging footsteps soon accompanied by the harsh slam of the wooden door behind him, as any illumination onto the cobblestone streets before him is interrupted. He sighs, breathing out a cloud of condensation that quickly disappears as Ben begins the familiar walk through London's winding maze of streets.

The bustling city is never quiet. It breathes in time with the rumble of carts on the road. But if Ben were to hazard a guess, he'd say that it is during these early morning hours that one can find a moment of peace. When only the workers are awake, he likes to imagine that the Sky is listening, finally able to hear his voice without the cacophony of life accompanying the day. So, during his trek to work, Ben likes to tell the Sky a story. As his daily life is not one of adventure, he admits to twisting the truth, adding in details that paint him as just a bit more brave and just a bit more opportunistic than his current self.

As he turns the corner onto a familiar street, a singular drop of rain tracks a path down his back. The road is not too different to the countless others he's walked on, but it is paved just a bit neater, the smell of poverty a bit less penetrating. As Ben's boots crunch over stray pebbles, he arrives at Thompson Manor, which greets him just like God's palace greets those at the gates of heaven.

A row of looming oak trees marks the winding drive up to the residence. They serve both to intimidate unwanted guests and to guard against the public's prying eyes. The iron gate abets the air of isolation, marking the shift from the world of people to the world of those who live above them. Spanning across a width to comfortably allow for two carriages, it serves as a reminder to Ben that no matter how close he gets to the lives of the upper class, they live a life too grand and too intrinsically alive for him to belong.

He directs a brisk nod at the guard who patrols the entrance. The man squints into the darkness before his eyes fixed on Ben's face. Upon recognising him, he makes his way to unlock the entryway.

Although, at this time of night, it is unlikely that anyone else will pass through here. Sparing a few rogue ruffians looking to cause a commotion and clients of the household's master who do not wish to disclose their visit to the public, the night tends to be empty.

You've reached the end of published parts.

⏰ Last updated: Jun 25 ⏰

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