𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑜𝑛-𝒯𝒽ℯ 𝒜𝓇𝓉𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝒟ℴ𝒹𝑔ℯ𝓇//ʲᵃᶜᵏ ᵈᵃʷᵏⁱⁿˢ

Entry Nineteen

Fagin's first morning as a "servant" in the Dawkins household was chaos disguised as order.

Jack thrust a broom into his hands and barked orders that rang sharper than necessary, his voice straining with authority. "Sweep the hearth. Don't miss the corners. Wash the soot out of the pans when you're finished. And for God's sake, don't touch the fire."

Fagin gave a mock salute, his grin never faltering, though his bent back and muttered hum made the picture of obedience. The broom scraped along the stone, scattering ash into the air.

Mary-Rose kept to the kitchen, her eyes never leaving him, not even when she sliced bread or poured milk. She didn't trust him out of sight, and her silence was a wall Jack felt pressing harder with every passing moment.

The brothers didn't know what to make of it.

Tommy, forever observant, lingered by the desk, sketching half-heartedly while sneaking glances at their new "servant." His pencil slowed, as if each stroke carried suspicion.

Will was less subtle. He scowled openly, muttering under his breath about "old foxes with sharp teeth." Every time Fagin stooped near, Will's hand twitched toward the knife on the table.

Charlie, curious but wary, kept close to Mary's skirts, tugging at her apron and whispering questions she refused to answer.

And Theo—sweet, trusting Theo—beamed as if they'd simply gained another lodger. He toddled up to Fagin with a wooden horse clutched in his tiny hand. "You can play," he offered in his piping voice.

Mary darted forward, snatching the child back before Fagin's fingers brushed his curls. Her voice was sharp, a blade drawn between them. "Go and sit with your brothers, Theo."

Fagin only chuckled, bowing his head in mock innocence. "Sweet lad, Jackie. Sweet as sugar. Shame to raise 'em all on fear."

Jack's temper flared, though he forced his tone flat. "Get back to sweeping."

By midday, the house was tighter than a drawn bow.

Fagin had scrubbed pans, gathered firewood, even carried water from the well with his bony arms trembling under the buckets. He did every task with that maddening grin, as though each humiliation was secretly his victory. This, made Mary's lips curl. She was trying so awfully hard to figure him out, yet, it still came up empty. 

When Jack caught him humming an old thieves' rhyme under his breath, he snapped. "This isn't one of your dens, Fagin. Keep your tongue clean in front of the children."

The old man raised his brows, tilting his head. "Den? Oh no, Jackie-boy. This here's a palace. A king's court. And you—" he jabbed the broom handle toward Jack's chest, "You're the one wearin' the crown, ain't you? King of the hearth. Master Dawkins. Ain't it fine?"

The room went still.

Jack snatched the broom, slamming it against the wall with a crack. His voice dropped low, dangerous. "You don't speak to me like that. Not here. Not in front of them."

For a moment, something flickered behind Fagin's eyes—fear, or maybe memory—but it vanished as quickly as it came. He dipped his head, lips curling. "As you wish, Jackie."

Mary's gaze met Jack's from across the table. Her expression was unreadable, but her meaning cut deep: This is what you've brought into our home. This is what you've chained us to.

That night, when the brothers had finally quieted and Daisy slept, Jack found himself alone at the table, staring into the dying fire. His hands still itched from gripping the broom, his knuckles scraped raw.