The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 9 ~

Camden London 1911.

Florence sat by the small, cracked window of her parents' old house, staring out at the dull, grey street below. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the faded stitching on the armrest of her worn-out chair, the one she had refused to sell despite everything else being gone. The room felt emptier now—bare walls, a missing dining table, the absence of warmth that used to fill the space when her parents were alive.

Her mother had died six months ago, collapsing in the kitchen with that same cough she'd ignored for weeks. Florence had been there, helpless and terrified, as her mother clutched her chest, gasping for air before slipping away. It was sudden, unexpected, and brutal. The house had never felt more lonely than in the days that followed, as Florence tried to pick up the pieces of her life. She had lost her job at the shop due to the owner packing up shop and moving to a "cleaner" place this was just before her mother passed—bad luck, or maybe it was a curse. The owner had been kind about it, apologizing profusely, but Florence knew there was nothing to be done. Times were hard for everyone. It didn't matter that she had been a good worker. The business just couldn't keep her on.

Now, at 17, Florence felt like she had aged decades. She had sold off most of the furniture just to make rent for the house—her parents' house—the last link she had to them, to the life she had known. The thought of being evicted from that place, of losing that last piece of them, terrified her. She had no one else. There were no cousins, no aunts or uncles to turn to. She was alone.

Her thoughts drifted back to Ollie. She hadn't seen much of him in the last year, though she'd heard rumors. He had changed, too. People in Camden talked, and they whispered about him running with dangerous men. She knew he worked for some gang now, though Ollie never spoke to her about it. They had grown distant, and while a part of her wanted to reach out to him, another part felt ashamed of her own circumstances. She didn't want him to see how far she'd fallen.

The sun was setting, casting a dim orange glow over the rooftops, when there was a soft knock at the door. Florence hesitated, frowning slightly. She wasn't expecting anyone. Maybe it was the landlord coming to check on the rent again. With a sigh, she pushed herself up from the chair and walked over to the door. When she opened it, she was surprised to find Ollie standing there, his face a mix of concern and something else—guilt, maybe. He was dressed sharply, as usual—his dark coat tailored to fit his lean frame, a grey woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. But there was a hardness in his eyes now, something she hadn't seen before.

"Flo," Ollie said softly, his voice filled with an unfamiliar seriousness. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, glancing around the nearly empty room before meeting her gaze again. "I've been meaning to come by sooner... I've been hearing things." She stiffened slightly, feeling the weight of his words. "Ollie, I'm fine," she said quickly, trying to brush it off. "I don't need you to worry about me." He frowned, not believing her for a moment. "You've sold most of your things, Flo. People talk. I know you're barely getting by."

Florence felt her cheeks flush with shame, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. She hated this—hated being pitied, hated being seen as weak or helpless. She had been taking care of herself for years now. She didn't need Ollie—or anyone else—feeling sorry for her. "I'm managing," she replied, her voice sharper than she intended. "I'll figure it out." Ollie sighed and stepped closer, lowering his voice as if trying to soften the blow. "You shouldn't have to 'figure it out' on your own, Flo. You shouldn't be doing this alone."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" she shot back, her frustration spilling over. "There's no one left to help me, Ollie. My mother is dead. My father is dead. I lost my job. Do you think I like selling everything just to keep a roof over my head?" His expression softened, and he reached out, placing a hand on her arm. "No, I don't. But I've got work now, steady work. I can help you." She pulled away, shaking her head. "I don't need your charity."."It's not charity," Ollie insisted. "We were friends once, weren't we? You helped me plenty when we were kids."