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

𝙴𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚃𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢

THIRD 

Sometimes the unexpected, isn't unwelcome, it's just not expected 

- MJT 

BY THE NEXT MORNING, Mary had risen to an empty bed, cold sheets, barely slept in, rain battering against the misty cracked windows of her bedroom. Although it wasn't rare, that the bed was left empty, it was never often that she herself was the one left within it. Therefore, it still continued to cause a feeling of dread throughout her stomach. She was surprised she'd slept at all with the knew, unwelcome presence within the cottage, and she wasn't sure if it was a good thing, or a bad thing.  

The long day ahead consisted of errands, small, time enclosing errands she'd dreaded the entire week. Today was the day she would be solving the dreadful issues of her fiancé's gambling complications, properly, thankfully, she plans to end it with seeing her dearest school friend, Esmerelda, who is also the local gypsy. 

However, by the sound of the rain, the day she'd woken up to was dawned grey and sodden, the cold air of the morning sent dew upon the windows, the kind of wet that clung to bones and turned breath to fog. The hearth had long since gone cold; only a faint curl of smoke drifted from the ashes and she sighed at the sight. 

Her stomach was still churning despite the tea Jack made for her when she'd woken with a burst of nausea during the night, although she refused to accept it, it was beginning to become a little too obvious that she was no longer well. 

Early this morning, Jack rose before the others, his head still heavy from a night spent turning in circles — every sound from the floorboards below had kept him half-awake. 

Fagin had been pacing in the small hours. Jack had heard it. Mary, despite being unwell, had gathered the energy to state numerous complaints to the man. Threatened for him to sleep in the dog kennel outside if he didn't stop, It worked. Just until she'd fallen back asleep. Then he continued the soft footfalls, deliberate, patient, agonisingly repetitive. 

Now, as dawn seeped through the shutters and the cold settled deep within the stone cottage, Jack moved quietly through the kitchen, trying to scrape the last of the charcoal singed appliance to work. He had plans to start on house work today, since the Professor had drunkenly granted the week for reoccurring home visits, rather than working at the Hospital. Unknowingly, Jack had hidden every bottle of liquor he could, including the secret stashes, and ordered Hetty to keep the Professor in line, if not and all goes to hell, to request for Jack.  

Now, Fagin sat by the fire, already awake, a cup of milk in his hands like it belonged there. Like he belonged. 

"Couldn't sleep," the old man said before Jack could speak. "Place creaks like a coffin when the wind comes in."

Jack didn't answer. He poured water into the kettle, watching the reflection of Fagin's grin ripple and distort on the surface.

A faint cough sounded from above — Mary. Sharp, dry, repeated once, twice. Then silence. She hadn't expected him to still be here, likewise, he hadn't expected her to be awake yet.