The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~ Chapter 37 ~

Camden, London, 1924.

A few days passed, and Florence found herself working late again, the solitude of the office settling around her as she finished up the last of her tasks. The dim light of the desk lamp cast a warm glow across her paperwork, and the only sound was the gentle scratch of her pen against the ledger as she updated inventory, her mind wandering just a little. It was easier now—the work, the surroundings, even Alfie himself. There was a rhythm to her days she was becoming accustomed to, and though she wouldn't call it peace, it was something close.

With a sigh, Florence shut the ledger and stood, stretching the stiffness from her shoulders. She tidied up her desk, glancing briefly into Alfie's office through the partially open door before turning out the lights and locking up for the night. The streets were quiet as she made her way back to her flat, the cool evening air carrying the faint scent of rain and a welcome silence.

But as she approached her building, something felt off. A small crowd was gathered outside, her neighbors chatting in hushed tones and pointing toward the windows of her flat. At the center of it all stood her landlord, wringing his hands, and Lara, her loyal dog, resting at his feet as if she were guarding the situation herself. Florence felt her stomach tighten.

"What happened?" she asked, glancing at her landlord, who looked equally distressed. "Miss Warden, I'm so sorry—there's been a pipe burst. Main line's gone, flooded nearly all the flats on your floor and the one below," he explained, his voice tinged with frustration. "The water's gone everywhere. We're going to need a few days to make repairs, maybe a week." Florence blinked, feeling the weight of the day settle heavier on her shoulders. "A week?" she repeated, exasperation slipping into her tone as she took in the scene. "And there's no other option?"

"I'm afraid not," he replied apologetically, glancing toward the stairwell. "Your flat took on quite a bit of water, Miss Warden. I'm afraid it'll be unlivable until we can fix it." With a weary sigh, she nodded, knowing she'd have to deal with it and hoping the damage wasn't too extensive. Florence gave Lara a gentle scratch behind her ears, murmuring a few comforting words before hurrying inside. She could see the water damage as soon as she stepped in—puddles glistened in the hallway, and a steady drip echoed from the pipes above. Her belongings were scattered, some waterlogged, and the faint smell of dampness had already begun to seep in.

Quickly, she grabbed a suitcase from her wardrobe, throwing in clothes that had escaped the flood, toiletries, and a few other essentials. Her movements were brisk, her frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior. When she was done, she took a last look around her disrupted flat, suppressing a pang of regret as she closed the door behind her.

Once outside, she made her way to Ada's. It was her first thought, her one reliable place to go. But when she arrived, her frustration only deepened—Ada wasn't home, and Florence had no key. She stood outside the door for a moment, her suitcase at her feet, trying to gather herself. In the quiet doorway, she let out a breath, her mind churning with options. Staying at a hotel felt like an unnecessary expense, and she didn't want to impose on anyone else. She looked down at Lara, who stared back with calm, trusting eyes.

Florence glanced up at Ada's top-floor window, just barely open, enough for her to shimmy through if she could make the climb. She hesitated, her sensible side telling her she'd look ridiculous—and knowing Ada, she'd never hear the end of it. But her options were limited, and the thought of finding somewhere else at this hour felt even worse. With a sigh, she set her suitcase down, giving Lara a quick command to stay. She steadied herself, glancing around to make sure the street was empty. Grabbing hold of the trellis, she took a deep breath and began to climb, the cold metal biting into her palms.

She'd barely made it halfway up when a familiar voice, low and unamused, cut through the quiet night. "Florence... I do hope this ain't a fucking hobby of yours." Florence froze, her heart dropping, and she turned her head just enough to see Alfie Solomon's standing below, his expression an inscrutable mix of disbelief and irritation. The sight of him, sharp and shadowed in the streetlight, made her suddenly very aware of how absurd she must look.