London – November, 1840

Oscar’s worn brown shoes tread mechanically across a cobblestone road. The path opens up gradually as the twelve-year old’s surroundings lighten. He emerges from the common street and flinches at the brightness of a world foreign to him. The tall iron gates tower over him, barring off an elegant blue-themed estate in the distance.

The inscription on the marble beam reads: BLACKWOOD MANOR. His cerulean eyes trail over it dismissively, lingering instead on the white pavement leading to the gardens and dainty tea tables peeking out from behind rose bushes. A fountain sparkles in the courtyard, and white birds land at its rim. There isn’t a speck of dirt in sight. He swallows nervously at how neat it all is.

A lady in a silk green dress emerges from within this fairy-like world, heels clacking against smooth pavement. Lady Adelle. His fingers fidget as they clutch yellowing papers closer to his chest. The iron gate is thrown open and the world beyond is no longer framed by intrusive black bars. Oscar greedily takes the scene in as he allows himself to be guided over to a garden bench.

“Tea?” Adelle asks, gesturing to the table beside them where a gold-rimmed fine china set is already laid out.

He shakes his head.

Adelle frowns. “I insist you try this at least once.”

Oscar takes the offered cup and brings it close to his mouth. He’s hit with a wafting, fragrant aroma. This isn’t anything like the pale teas he usually drinks that taste more like water. At the bottom of the cup are little pearly pellet leaves, slowly unfurling like tiny tulips in blossom. He sips the steaming green liquid and the warmth spreads through his chest. An almost minty aftertaste lingers on his tongue.

Satisfied, Adelle takes the cup back and places it on the table. “Have you made up your mind?”

He shifts, uncomfortable under her gaze. Kind yet piercing—the type that belongs to a monarch. Oscar’s voice catches in his throat and he finds himself stiff, unable to nod. He feels her observing him carefully, weighing his worth.

I’m already at the Blackwood estate, he chants to himself. I can do this.

“If you don’t want to do it, I won’t force you to. I’ll ask somebody else,” Adelle continues after a moment. She stands up from the garden bench, green silk dress shifting and sweeping across the ground.

Suddenly, Oscar tugs on her sleeve. He winces, inwardly berating himself for getting his dirt on the expensive fabric. But Adelle doesn’t seem to mind. She stops and turns back to him, waiting.

His other hand clutches the crinkled papers closer to his chest. He knows that if he succeeds, his dreams will come true. It’ll be all the better for Alan too. The thought of his little brother gives him the final push he needs.

“I’ll do it,” he whispers.

Adelle kneels down, looking into his eyes. Oscar gazes back into fervent green orbs.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

All Oscar has to do for his dreams is to throw away his dignity. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“You cannot back out of this, you understand?”

“I know.”

“You cannot tell Alan anything either.”

A pause.

Adelle rubs Oscar’s shoulders soothingly. Her thin pink lips part. “I understand Alan is your only family, but family matters not in this line of work. I’m sure you know what will happen to your brother if you break this rule, hm?” The grip on his shoulders turns pointed and sharp, nails like claws digging into his tender flesh.

Oscar’s lips twitch. For a moment longer, he holds Adelle’s gaze, anger and resignation swirling in his gut. But he can’t bring himself to truly hate her.

They are the same, after all—Edward, Adelle, the nobles, the wealthy, the powerful. They’ve never had to fight. Not truly. Not by their own strength. And even if they did, they landed on mats when they fell, not the cold, hard ground.

For that, Oscar pities them. For that, he is superior. For that, he is worthy of power.

Oscar’s fire settles, and along with it, the little voice telling him there is a line he shouldn’t cross goes silent.

“Yes, I understand,” he says.

Adelle smiles, extending a hand towards him, uncaring of the dirt on his face or the raggedness of his clothing next to hers.

“I chose right,” she says proudly. “You are one who has potential, Oscar. Even if you do not yet understand it yourself.”

Oscar’s vision narrows until he can see only her outstretched porcelain hand, ghostly white and well-manicured. It speaks of a different pedigree. A smaller, dirtier, rougher hand reaches out, hesitating yet sure. Only after a moment does he realize it’s his own.

Adelle grasps his hand firmly and they shake. His palm sears briefly, unbearably hot. Numbly, he lets go. When he looks at his hand again, there is nothing to indicate a burn. He frowns.

“Do you have any questions about your job?” Adelle asks, gesturing to the papers he clings desperately to. She sits back down, intent to continue their conversation. “I see you’ve brought the files with you.” She leans back, sipping her steaming pearl tea.

The afternoon sun’s glare reflects off the teacup’s gold handle, catching in Oscar’s eye. He flinches and averts his longing gaze to the lush gardens in the distance. Despite being so far away, he makes out a young boy’s silhouette in front of a piano through an open window on the second floor above the roses. White curtains dance with the spring wind to a light, harmonic tune.

“Don’t be shy.” Adelle’s voice brings him back. “It’s your first time doing this kind of job, right? Surely you have questions.”

Oscar looks down at the yellowing papers once more, burning the face of a boy his age into his memory. The boy on the page looks kind, gentle even. Soft caramel hair delicately frames stardust grey eyes, innocence painted in a boyish smile. His name is Edward Blackwood.

In Oscar’s eyes, a strange fire burns low and bright. It twists and coils in his belly, fiery and deep, angry and hungry. The corner of his lip quivers slightly, but otherwise, his face remains schooled.

He welcomes this warmth.

Adelle gazes at him approvingly, waiting expectantly with a twinkle in her eyes. There is nothing you can do wrong to make me hate you, they seem to say to Oscar.

Is this the love of a mother? But his thoughts wander, brushing away the question he’ll never get an answer to.

Edward would get to go to school, but not him. Edward will inherit a vast fortune one day, but he would sooner die on the streets without a coin to his name than ever hope to inherit anything. In a world built on the blood of innocents like him, who toil away until they die, society will tell them it’s their fate. It’s his fate.

And he hates that.

Because people like Edward happened to be born lucky. Because he wasn’t lucky enough to be born like Edward.

Oscar grits his teeth and his fists clench in silent, righteous fury.

Spoiled, immature, oblivious people are the worst. I bet Edward doesn’t know half the things I have to do just to survive… The things I’ve already done to survive.

“Can I do it any way I want?” he asks, swallowing thickly.

“Yes. If you have something in mind, I can procure the necessary supplies for you,” Adelle chuckles. “Anything at all.”

Oscar’s fists clench. “Then something quick. Something that lets me keep my distance.”

Adelle grins wolfishly, her predatory eyes blazing into his. He steels himself, and with great difficulty, he glares resolutely back, stilling the slight tremor of his cold, cold hands.

“I see, Oscar…” Adelle drawls, tapping her chin in thought. “I have just the thing for you. Run along, child. I will see you again at your interview.”

She leaves first, heading back into the dazzling world of Oscar’s dreams. Along with her absence, the music stops too. His eyes trail over to the windows once more, but the boy at the piano is nowhere to be seen.

I liked it. That melody. A lump forms in Oscar’s throat and he swallows quickly, brushing away what-ifs of a world where happiness doesn’t require blood.

Distantly, he wonders how long it will take him to forget Edward’s music once he kills him. How long it will take until stardust becomes mundane.

The world reflected in Oscar’s glassy eyes has rose gardens and crystal water fountains, song and art. That world has delicacies and exotic spices, safe and warm. It’s draped in the silk of dreams. The epitome of London’s finest, leaving only pleasure to the imagination. The West End.

And if Oscar succeeds, it will become his world too.