Flora
"I don't think this is a good idea," James repeats for the hundredth time as we scuttle through the sordid, rain-soaked Oakley Street.
Down toward the left bend there is a small establishment that could offer us respite, albeit at a cost.
"There's nothing right or wrong about living on credit," I muster, trying to see through the sheets of rain pouring down on us.
"Almost all members of the middle and upper classes have accounts with suppliers, James. People are depending on credit more than ever."
"We don't belong to the middle or upper class," James retorts with a huff. "We're just poor. And that means we belong to that strata which can land us in a debtor's prison if we aren't careful, Flo."
I know he speaks in my best interest. Debt, both personal and national, are rife in our society.
Attitudes regarding debt, however, vary along class lines.
Aristocratic claims have long sustained themselves on lavish displays of consumption. The middle class, on the other hand, stresses the importance of moderation.
The wealthy would sooner die rather than involve themselves in concepts like a financial crunch or shortage, although, if news is true, we are fast catapulting toward an economic crisis.
James knows that we cannot survive on excess or moderation.
We're the scum of the earth, which means we seek debt over all that we already owe to the world only in times of desperation.
And somehow, the margin of what we owe is always the direct opposite of how wealthy we are.
"Look around, James. Do you think anyone is here out of choice, barring the rich few who're looking to exploit whatever remains to keep the poor going?"
James sighs. The street is filled with a motley crew of individuals, each engaged in their daily pursuits.
Men and women, their clothes threadbare and patched, hurry along the uneven pavements, seeking shelter or some form of employment.
Some carry baskets, brimming with scraps they collect for meager sustenance, while others push carts loaded with wares they hope to sell to the few who can spare a shilling.
The air is heavy with dampness, mingling with the pungent odor of nearby, open sewers.
Mothers, worn down by the hardships of poverty, guide their children through the muddy thoroughfare.
The children, in tattered garments, clutch their makeshift sticks—anything is a toy to a mind that is still untouched by the scourge of society.
"I wish we could get out of here," James says grimly. "I wish I could take you and all our brothers and sisters and build a house somewhere else."
"And we could become dealers in emeralds and other precious stones," I reply, humoring him for a moment. "Maybe even make some dealings with pirate ships and sell our wares to them."
Ragged market stalls line the street, displaying paltry offerings of bruised fruits, stale bread, and cheap trinkets.
The stallholders, their faces etched with lines of hardship, call out to passersby.
Amidst the bustling street are pockets of destitution. A group of unemployed laborers huddles together, seeking solace around a small fire made from discarded scraps.
Ragged urchins run through the crowd, nimble and quick-fingered, their eyes darting from person to person in search of an opportunity to pilfer a coin or snatch a loaf of bread.
I spot Harry, a scruffy little ruffian, running behind a merchant's carriage. I grin, knowing the merchant will be missing his billfold before the day is over.
"We should take Harry in."
"Do you think we have space for another mouth?"
I want to tell him we do. "I wish we did," I say instead. "I wish I could take care of every ragamuffin who ever winds up in this town the way you took care of me."
Occasionally, voices rise in animated conversations as men gather outside taverns, seeking solace in cheap ale and discussing their woes.
Some, defeated by circumstances, sit hunched on stoops or lean against walls.
We keep our pace even, and soon, we are standing outside the office of Mr. Reginald Hawthorne, a moneylender sent to be a necessary demon to folks like us.
Rain pelts down on the cobblestones, the bitter wind gnaws at my bones. With a deep breath, I push open the heavy wooden door, and we step inside.
We are overcome by the scent of old paper and ink. A large desk sits at the center, behind which Mr. Hawthorne presides like a spider in its web.
I approach the desk cautiously but keep my tone calm.
Today, for all intents and purposes once more, I am a scruffy little boy. "Mr. Hawthorne, I've heard you're the one to see when one is in need of financial assistance."
He looks up from his ledger, his eyes cold and calculating. "And who might you be? I don't recall seeing you here before."
"I am James, and I find myself in a difficult situation. I require a loan to help ease my financial burdens," I say.
The man scrutinizes my face once more, looks over at the real James, and then back at me. I can feel a cold chill running up my spine. Something tells me I'm not going to get anything here.
"Wait a minute," he huffs. "You're those little scallywags who live in The Ragged Sparrow, aren't you? Hah. You're all a bunch of thieves and misfits. Loans are not extended to the likes of you. You'll land up in prison before you can return any debt."
"Watch your mouth," James counters, before I can say anything.
I turn to glare at him, but it is too late. Hawthorne emerges from the table. He is a big, imposing figure.
Too fast, he grabs us both by our collars and tosses us out of his shop.
Beside myself with fury, I land a punch on James's shoulder. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"Did you see how he spoke to you?" he shouts back, his ears red. "How can I just stand there and let him treat you like that?"
"Thanks to you, we have nothing! Nothing! Go away, James."
James closes and opens his mouth, gives a defeated shrug, and breaks into a run. I know I have injured his feelings. I know he loves me, and he understands I do not feel the same way.
I watch him vanish in the distance, my heart heavy with guilt and remorse. I—I just need to clear my head before I can follow him.
Seeking refuge from the biting cold, I search for a humble teahouse nestled amidst the labyrinthine streets of London.
As I push open the door, a wave of warmth and the comforting aroma of freshly brewed tea envelop me. I find solace in the clinking of china and the murmur of conversations filling the air.
The room is bustling with people engaged in various forms of entertainment, from card games to dice-rolling.
I make my way through the crowd, drawn to a corner where a group of men and boys are gathered around a makeshift gambling table.
The vibrant green baize, worn with age, beckons me to try my luck. I cautiously approach, my eyes scanning the scene before me.
A man with slicked-back hair and a mischievous smile acts as the dealer, expertly shuffling a deck of cards.
The others at the table, a mix of commoners, gamblers, and even a few disreputable characters, eagerly place their bets.
Intrigued by the prospect of winning some much-needed funds, I take a seat at the table, my heart pounding in anticipation. The dealer glances at me, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"Care to join the game, little boy?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
I nod. "Certainly. I'd like to try my luck."
Which is saying something because I have nothing more than a few shillings in my pocket. Worst comes to worst, I'll take off through the open window.
The dealer deals me a hand, and I study my cards. The others at the table eye me.
As the round progresses, I carefully play my hand, knowing I have absolutely nothing to lose.
To the surprise of those around me, and myself, I win a few hands, steadily amassing a small pile of coins.
"Looks like we have a talented player here," one of them remarks, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.
I offer a modest smile, my confidence growing with each successful hand.
After the game, we gather around a table.
Some of the players bury themselves in ale. I take a cup of tea and sit back in a worn-down chair, seeking comfort in knowing that I at least have enough for everyone's dinner.
"You'd do much better pulling off something bigger," another one replies. "You've got a good eye."
"Don't go putting ideas in the lad's head."
"What? He could be the next Night Owl. God knows he's out there evening the scales of justice a little."
"That's no way to make a living."
"Yes, because he hasn't stolen the Great Diamond yet. You wait until the news reaches him. He's going to pull the heist of the decade."
"There's no way he'll steal the diamond. Plus, even if he does get it, you know he's not going to make enough."
"You don't understand, you bloody simpleton," a bleary-eyed man blurts out. "It's not about selling the damn diamond. This is a Crown jewel.
"It's connected to some political tension between the French and the English—rumor has it that it belonged to the French and got lost during the Revolution."
"So, you're saying he can strike a deal and return it to 'em? That's scandalous!"
"You think the Night Owl gives a damn about the Crown's sanctity? How has it ever helped us? Why should we care?"
"We're loyal to the Crown," his opponent counters. "Even the Night Owl wouldn't sell himself to the French."
"You know nothing about the human mind, you dimwit."
I can see a full-blown debate is about to break out.
But I can also see an opportunity.
I just need to know what the hell this bloody diamond is about.
"What's this about a diamond?" I ask, keeping my tone casual.
"You didn't hear?" Bleary Eyes chuffs. "Word on the street is that the Crown has entrusted special responsibility for a red diamond to the Duke of Danbury."
"It is the only one of that size—the only one of that value, in fact. I'm surprised the Night Owl hasn't swooped in on it yet."
I finish my tea and pocket my earnings, heading back to The Ragged Sparrow. I'll stop downstairs at the smelly old kitchen and tell the cook to send up something nice.
Maybe some roast chicken and bread. There's enough for tonight. I can worry about the rent tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I can also plan my next heist.
The Red Diamond could be my one road to getting enough to pay for Kate to settle into an assisted living facility.
I make up my mind to be careful this time around. I will let two months pass before I try to find someone who can give me something in return for the jewel.
Will that someone share sympathies with the numero uno enemy of England? I shiver at the thought. How have I become this person?
When did patriotism and all that jazz about living for the nation cease to matter?
My stomach rumbles inadvertently, reminding me of a stark and harsher truth. Bleary Eyes isn't wrong.
The Crown is eons behind when it comes to helping the poor, and this could continue for the unforeseeable future. How long am I supposed to sit and wait and watch my house fall to ruin?
I climb up the squeaking stairs. Inside, my brothers and sisters are gathered around a scanty flame, but they've left the warmest spot for Kate.
My heart breaks at how fragile she looks, lying there. Marie sits beside her, running a damp cloth over her forehead.
This, I think to myself. This is my only nation, my country and my blood. I owe nothing to anyone else.
I must have the diamond. I must. . . It could mean that I won't need to climb another drainpipe or break open another window for the next year and can focus on giving the best care to Kate and the little 'uns.
Of course, I can't give up on what I do. It will always find its way back to me.
But I can take a well-deserved holiday.
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