Eventually, the rolling green hills and gravel road changed into cobblestones, stonebuildings towering over their carriage and the crowds of people who were takingup a majority of the street, almost all well-dressed with suits and longdresses. 

“Bacon! Pork! Sausages! Get your meats here!”

“New edition of the Daily Courant, get your copy here! See the updates on theCollins court case!”

“Hey! Get back here, you scoundrel!” Abigail peeked out the window, taking in the foul stench that was city air: smoke-filled, cold, and wonderfully rancid, the sky much grayer than it had been farther out. A small boy holding a bag of applessprinted past her, a large rounded man chasing after him with a heavybreath. 

She looked upwards, and saw the buildings that loomed over their small coach, iron barring each of the windows in a net-like fashion, with shops taking up the entirety of first floors in almost every single one of them. Some of them consisted of smooth white stone with various ornamentations and curved glass windows, swirls upon swirls of miniscule yet elaborate designs etched into the walls itself. Others were simply mismatched brick buildings with squarish windows, all attention to detail forgotten in order to cram the whole line of them together in what little space the city itself offered. Carriages very much like their own were also seemingly caught in the mass of people who had decided to go out that morning, a distant honk to be heard from what one could assume was the only automobile around. 

“Sorry ladies, it looks like the streets are a tad crowded today!” the coachman shouted from the front, and Abigail sat back in her seat, Gran looking throughthe window with an intrigued expression. 

“I’m surprised there aren’t any more of those ‘automobiles’ around today,” Gran said.

“I’m quite sure that only the likes of William are able to afford them.”

“Are they really that much?” 

“It’s what I’ve heard.” Gran took this as an acceptable response, and moved back into her own seat across from Abigail, using the cane as a railing of sorts to notfall over while doing so. And ever so slowly, the streets outside the smalls quare window began to shrink, and with it, the crowds of people seemed to dwindle away as they delved deeper and yet farther away from the center of the city. The brick houses grew more dilapidated and shanty-like, with barely an alleyway between them, and the rough cobblestone street became more narrow andrough from lack of maintenance. After many bumps and turns, the carriage skeetered to a stop, the horses up front being shushed by the coachmen as they neighed in horse-like complaint.

"Relax, relax, you're alright." A minute later, the door clicked and swung open."And we're here! Sorry for the long trip," he said, helping Gran as she stepped down the rickety steps, "Will you need assistance with your packages?"

"Oh no, it's alright," Abigail quickly replied, pulling each of them out ofthe black coach one by one, leaning them on the large wheels in order to grab the next one.

"You're sure?"

"Quite, thank you though." Taking the last one out, she held up the bunch of them together, and then turned back towards him. "Can you return within thehour?"

"Consider it done!" He bowed in an extravagant fashion, and then leapt back onto thefront seat. With a single whip of the reins, the horses pulled the coach away,back towards the main streets. Gran took a good look at her surroundings, the rickety road and crammed buildings, with what obviously looked like a face of displeasure. 

“Your friend… lives here?”

“Not everyone lives in an estate, Gran.” Abigail looked at the brick buildings that stood before her for a minute, until she found what she was looking for. “It’s this way,” she said, and holding the packages securely in her arms, started walking. Gran closely followed behind her, the old woman’s walking stick rhythmically hitting the sidewalk with an uneven tempo.

“Where are we going, might I ask?”

“There,” Abigail promptly replied, gesturing at a shop squeezed in alongside several other somewhat misshapen shop buildings. It wasn’t very large, two floors of coarse brown bricks stacked upon each other, the roughly painted wooden fittings over the windows and and door a light shade of cream: dirtied, weathered, and in dire need of repainting. The sign was painted on the largewindow of the lower floor, neat golden letters spelling out the shop’s name onthe glass. “This is it.” Gran squinted at the sign as Abigail pulled open the shop door, a tiny bell ringing as she did so. 

“Hm… Mallory’s... Shoe Repair?” Gran questioned to herself, before following Abigail inside. 

~~~

The inside looked surprisingly better than one would think, considering how atrociously terrible the building looked on the outside. The wooden floor was a shining light maple finish with not a single speck of dirt on it, the mat in front of the door grabbing any of the messes that a visitor’s shoes would bring with them. Slippers, boots, heels and other shoes of all sizes and colors lined the dark red walls on shelves, which were made out of basic planks of wood, and organized in neat lines as it went throughout the room.

"Hello?" Abigail asked, but she was only answered with silence.

"Perhaps he's not here?"

"He is," she quickly replied with a dismissive gesture, and made her way towards the back. The room got just a tad bit messier the further she went in,the shelves instead filled with scuffed, clearly used shoes, as well as a various array of hammers, pliers, nails, and other sorts of strange metallic tools that she only somewhat recognized. "Mallory?" She asked again, Gran proceeding to take a gander at a particular pair of shoes that had managed to grab her attention.

It was then that Abigail noticed the small shadow hunched over at a large table, all the way in the back of the room. The lamplight over their head gave thespotlight to the object in their hands, while also shadowing their features inthe process. Upon noticing this, she quickened her pace towards the table,packages still in hand. Moving closer, the small figure became a man, his hair a brown mess of ringlets hanging over his wire-frame glasses and mustache as his hands, only a few shades darker than her own, gingerly held a shoe no bigger than his fist. Tools very similar to the ones scattered about the shelves lay on the table before him, along with small sheets of what Abigail could only assume was leather. 

“Charles!” The man immediately reacted to the sound of her voice this time around, the shoe in his hand practically flying into the air as he fell out of his chair, promptly followed by the sound of him crashing to the floor with flailing arms. Abigail winced as he did so, focusing her gaze away from almost anything that wasn’t the embarrassment that had only just occurred.

“Ab-!?What-” He pulled himself back up onto his desk with a flustered breath, andforcibly gulped down his anxieties into a forced smile. “What can I assist youwith, Madame Bayard?” 

“Youknow you can just call me Abigail, Charles.”

“Andyou very well know that I can’t, Madame.” Abigail gave out a huff as Charlespatted down his crinkled shirt, which was now covered in dust and several miniscule pieces of leather, the room around them settling into silence. The pair stood there for a quiet moment, the elegantly dressed lady regally standing before the small man in his plain, simple clothes, not a word spoken between them. 

"So,"Charles eventually said with a cough, "is- is there something I can help you with?"

"What?"

"I'm asking why you're here." She looked at him for a moment, one of her brows arched in quiet confusion.

"You don't know why I'm here?"

"I... I would not be asking such a question if I did." Abigail looked at him again, her face scrunched up in annoyance this time, Charles refusing to meet her glare.

"Charles. Did you not open a single letter that I’ve sent you?"

"Nope." 

Abigail gave out a deep, deep sigh. “Are you at least able to tell me why you didn’t open my letters?” Charles took this moment to finally take a solid look at her, his face a light shade of red.

“W-Well…you must understand what it looks like for a simple… shoe cobbler like myself to get letters, pink ones I might add, from someone as… esteemed as yourself. Madame.” Abigail looked at him for another moment, and then crossed her arms with yet another deep sigh.

“No, I don’t think I understand.” 

“I figured as much,” he said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Figured what?”

“Nothing, Madame. Now, if you could please tell me as to why you have visited my humble shoe store today?” 

“O-oh, right! I suppose I should tell you then!” It was now Abigail’s turn to lookaway, her cheeks slightly reddened.

"Yes,I suppose you should." The two stood there quietly for what felt like more than a mere minute, until Abigail, whose face was an entire shade redder than before, quietly mumbled.

"Well...if you must know..." 

"Let’s not make this any more awkward, alright? Just tell me why you’re here."

"Paintings!" She blurted.

"P-Paintings?" Abigail vaguely gestured to the large, yet very flat brown paper packages thatshe held in her arms. 

“I attended a painting lesson of sorts, and I’m not able to keep these at home. So I was hoping that you would be able to keep them here. O-or anywhere really.” The previously terrified man now looked at her with a furrowed forehead.

“So, you’re telling me, that this moment of sheer anxiety you’ve given me is because you… wish for me… to hold onto some paintings?”

“You would have known if you opened my letters, Charles.” He let out a harsh breath, threading a hand through his hair once more before outstretching his arms towards the paintings. 

“I suppose I can take them. But don’t expect me to hang them up.”

“That’s alright with me,” she replied, a small smile dancing on her flushed face. With a huff, she lifted the paintings into Charles’ open arms, the small stack easily covering up the small man’s face behind a wall of packed canvasses. 

“Yes, take away my ability to see, why don’t you,” he mumbled, slowly turning around to one of the spare tables behind them. 

“Sorry! I forgot. That-” she stifled a laugh- “That you’re quite short.”

“Mhm. Of course, Madame. Whatever you say.”Charles struggled for a moment with his lack of vision, cautiously making hisway towards the nearby table. The moment his hands bumped into the sides of the table's wooden top, he gently slid the tall pile onto it. "There we are, all safe and sound," he said with a satisfied sigh, "will that be all, Madame?"

"Hm?"

"I asked, is that all?"

“Oh! Well… I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Do you really need to?” Abigail glared at him. “Alright, ask away.” 

Abigail reached into the tiny purse that hung at her side, rummaging through sheets of paper, though Charles could not be sure unless he actually looked inside (and he knew not to peer into a lady’s purse). After a few moments of digging, he saw her pull out an envelope with a familiar golden sheen.

“I’m assuming you received one, yes?”

“Surprisingly enough, yes, we did receive one.” 

“I’m sorry, we?”

“Yes, we. Paulette and I live together, remember?”

“Ugh, still?”

“Is there a point to this?” Charles said, his expression hardening into a steely glare. 

“I was just going to ask whether you planned on attending, and who this fourth person on the invitation was! Goodness gracious, Charles.” He sighed in frustration, leaning against his work table.

“Considering that he sent the invitation, we are still debating on the matter.”

“And this Dr. Collins? Who is he?” 

“I do not know, nor do I care. Do you plan ongoing, or do you have aristocratic matters to attend to instead?” She frowned at this comment for a moment, and then pulled out a sly smile.

“It all depends on whether or not I can find a ride, Mr. Mallory.” Charles could feel his stomach twisting into a knot, and he gulped.