• Long Listed for the 2018 Wattys
• A Wattpad Featured Story
• Top 30 in the first ever Historical Awards
[ A "GREAT EXPECTATIONS" RETELLING ]
GENRE: historical fiction
London, 1884
"Sometimes, even messiahs can't bring back the dead."
Instead of ea...
"Mathilda." A girl says, arms folding across her chest. "And I've never seen you here before."
"I'm mostly away for school and this is my home, should I add." I grumble, leaning against the bookshelves at my side.
"Then go back there and leave me to my books." She turns to the table behind her, an open book lying there.
Rolling my eyes, I do the exact opposite and walk over to the table.
She sighs and puts her hands on her waist. Petals of white and red roses in a vase wave by the summer breeze.
"Persuasion," I say the book's title.
"Do you read?" she asks.
"I wouldn't have been able to read the title if I didn't."
"Frankly, problems like your barging in would have solved if you didn't." Her reply creases my lips into an unexpected smile.
What surprises me more is that she smiles back, and that I keep coming back to the library at this exact time for the rest of summer.
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That memory... I was only fourteen years old at the time. And I was so very mortifying at that age. But her being in Edenfield's library so many years ago...
Why is she so different from anyone else I've ever met? And if she's so different, do I tell her about myself, my whole self? A weight settles behind my eyes like a shroud. I wouldn't even have been able to tell Henry if he hadn't revealed himself before. I grip her handkerchief within my pocket, all the while being conscious of the figure cloaked in black behind me. At least that takes my attention away from the shadows in my eyes.
Short; slips away easily enough; dark linen coat unlike most residents here, but lesser than where I come from. Can't observe more from my angle unless I acknowledge him.
I sigh, a thin twinge remaining of my morning headache. Gladly, breakfast and work assuaged it to some extent.
The man behind has been following me ever since I entered the East End. But if he were a thief, he would've taken his chance by now.
I stop circling around the Penroses' apartment. The person shifts in my peripheral vision, giving me a look at the long gash stretching across his unsleeved arm.
Cannot deduce the sort of gash from this short of viewing.
He disappears into a corner; I wait for a few moments, foot rising in his direction.
Do you want more questions or a few answers?
I turn away at the last moment, knocking on the apartment door.
