Chapter Text
Tommy pushed past dirty beggars, clean and polished upper class folks, muttering his insincere ‘sorry’s and ‘excuse me’s under his breath. Grey clouds rolled across the sky, casting shadows over the filthy city of Lmanberg. It was going to rain soon, and Tommy didn’t want to get caught in this storm.
The fifteen year old boy wrinkled his nose as he was shoved by a particularly rough gentleman, all decked out in his suit with a loosely cut jacket and wide, tubular trousers. Usually he would shove the man back, spitting at him in his typical ill-natured fashion and make a run of it. Skinny, blonde haired orphans dressed in rags like him were too common in their city. However, the man was carrying a rather stern looking steel cane and Tommy wasn’t going to take the risk of getting hit by that thing.
Without wasting a bit of time, he briskly made his way to his usual corner of the overcrowded hovel he stayed in. Sandwiched between two buildings and far away from the city’s police station, this bit of the slums was peppered with illegal gambing rackets, brothels and the occasional criminal safehouse. This particular district was under the control of Quackity, the slum lord who ran most of the popular gambling houses as well. Tommy used to live in a common lodging house, which were typically legally registered with the police, but also tended to be thieves’ kitchens.
Fresh out of the orphanage when he was twelve, he had been inducted into one of them. He had been shown into a dingy dormitory, with scratchy, thin beds that were infested with bed bugs and other pests that the landlord claimed not to exist. Pickpockets, shoplifters and plain old thieves filled the lodging house he lived in. He soon became one of them as well.
Eventually, he left when his friends went missing. Freddie and Eryn, two other thieves that he had made friends with, disappeared a summer ago. He suspected that they had gotten caught up in something bigger, something more dangerous -- something to do with the hushed angry whispers he caught during the middle of the nights, or the poorly concealed lies over their whereabouts. Whether they were dead or not, he couldn’t afford to care. No amount of crying would bring them back.
He had been living in a tiny, narrow corner of an alley, further away from the other beggars and slum dwellers. He slept on the ground, with a thin blanket and his old satchel as a pillow. It wasn’t the best, but at least he didn’t have to wake up with strange bites on his legs from insects that could have carried awful diseases. Getting sick was a death sentence for the poor. Keeping his head down, Tommy avoided the sharp, desperate eyes of the other slum dwellers and headed straight for his home. Any sign that he was weak would result in him getting jumped, or followed by a desperate beggar clawing at his legs for him to spare them some change.
The rain began with a whisper -- a huffing wind rose up, causing the lanterns looming over the front doors of the buildings to sway, while the first few droplets trickled down from the sky. Tommy clutched his satchel to his chest, afraid that it would get wet. Getting a decent bag like his was incredibly hard without much money. As the drizzle continued, soaking his hair to its very roots and ruining his shirt, he jumped lightly over puddles and eventually found his way to his shelter.
His small alley was overshadowed by a larger building which had a roof that extended just slightly over the space he slept in. Tommy had dragged rotting chunks of wood from the nearby river to make a little stand, covered with a long sheet of fabric that he had found at the back of a tailor’s shop for extra shelter. Vaguely, he could hear the distant chattering of people on the street mixing with the pitter patter of rain hitting the pavements, along with the laughter of children playing in the rain, uncaring of dirtying their clothes. It must’ve been nice to be carelessly childish, when they had parents to draw them a warm bath in their clean homes.
Swallowing down his bitterness, he focused on unpacking his pickings of the day. An embroidered lace handkerchief that he had snatched from a lady’s hand while moving through a crowd. Two shillings he got from the baker for delivering ingredients for him. A wallet that he swiftly slipped out from a man’s pocket when he had been examining a glass in a shop. Fingers trembling in anticipation, he was delighted to find two pounds in it. That would cover his meals for the next two weeks. Finally, the last thing that he had slipped out of a gentleman’s pocket at a bookshop -- an intricate hunter-case watch that revealed its crystal face when opened. Eyes wide, he turned it over in his hands, running his grimy fingers over the metal chain and silver cover.
The gentleman that he had stolen it from had been so engrossed in the book he was reading, hunched in a corner and unaware of his surroundings. It had been so easy for Tommy to pickpocket him that Tommy felt a little bad about it. But the more he inspected the pocket watch, the less guilty he felt. Pocket watches were a clear status symbol, owning one meant that you had to be incredibly wealthy. Of course, the navy lounge jacket and matching waistcoat which the gentleman had been wearing were both indicators of his wealth too.
The sound of boots stepping into puddles interrupted his train of thought.
Quick as lightning, Tommy shoved all his valuables back into his bag and chucked the bag underneath his blanket. He huddled into the corner and tugged the sheet lower to hide his presence in the alley. The footsteps came closer, seemingly unfooled by his tactics, or simply curious so as to why there had been muddy footprints leading to his shelter. Cursing at his carelessness, he made a note to himself to scrape the mud off his shoes next time.
Whoever it was, kept coming closer and when Tommy peered underneath his sheet, he could see the tip of a cane held just a hair’s breadth the ground. A man, then. Ominously, the rain increased in intensity, accompanied by a flash of lightning followed by the rumble of thunder. Tommy forced down a flinch. He never liked the rain with all its loud and sudden noises, but this wasn’t the time to be scared. Hopefully the heavy downpour would cover up the sound of his breathing.
“I know you’re here,” a refined voice called out. Distinctively male, low and melodic. Didn’t drop the ‘h’ like most of the lower classes did, so most definitely one of the richer folks.
Tommy didn’t reply. Perhaps it was a bluff.
A sigh.
The man stepped closer, his footsteps getting louder and louder until there was a pair of wet leather boots in front of Tommy. The only thing separating them was the flimsy sheet.
“Child, I won’t force you to come out,” he paused, as if waiting for a response. Tommy’s hand inched towards his bag, ready to grab it and make a run for it. “I’m looking for an assistant.”
“What?” Tommy blurted out, before slapping his hands over his mouth. Oh God, he really was a fool.
The man laughed at his incredulity, not making any moves to yank the sheet away to reveal the boy.
“It’s true. What was it? 'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife’?” he mused.
“Pride and Prejudice,” Tommy muttered back, before groaning inwardly again. He needed to keep his damned mouth shut.
However, the man seemed more amused at his interjection.
“Clever, aren’t you? Though in my case, I’m a single man in possession of a good fortune, and in want of an assistant. I’m not here to harm you, child.” Tommy heard the clatter of the cane being set down. Then, he could vaguely make out the silhouette of the man crouching from behind the sheet. “I presume you’re able to read and write?”
“Yes,” Tommy replied hesitantly. He wasn’t really sure where this was going, but if a rich man was offering him a job, he’d still take it, regardless of the danger. He heard tales from the nice prostitutes at the whorehouses about men with huge fortunes, visiting the brothels, only to leave with a young servant boy in hand. They never touched any of the women, and never returned. However, Tommy knew he was quick. He was swift on his feet, slippery, able to sneak out of any place quietly and had a fiery temper that would give him the courage to kick and scream to get away from any nasty man.
“I am granted an annual sum of a hundred and fifty pounds, as part of my inheritance,” the man started, only for Tommy to interrupt again.
“I am not interested in warming your bed,” he stated sharply. Better to make it clear here, and if the man got violent, then Tommy would get violent back.
“Dear Lord, that’s not what I meant! I assure you that I have not the slightest intention of luring you into my bed,” the man hurriedly attempted to dispel Tommy’s fears. “I am looking for a young assistant to aid me in my work, someone clever and quick, able to read and write.”
“You should be able to find someone like that from any of the academies in the upper districts,” Tommy retorted. “How did you find me? Why me?”
Sighing in relief, the man answered his rude enquiries. “Dear child, I’m the owner of the pocket watch that you stole, earlier in the bookshop.”
Tommy swallowed the rising fear up his throat. Was this a trick? An act of revenge for his pickpocketing? “You can have it back,” he rushed to say. “I’m sorry, I won’t steal again.” Well, he would most certainly be stealing again, but he needed to tell the man what Tommy was sure he wanted to hear.
“No, no, I’m not here for that,” he urged, only to add on quietly, “although I would be pleased if you would return my watch to me. However, I’d like to offer you a position in my… office, I suppose. I work alone, in my house by the outskirts of the city, with a tenant who owns the book shop which we met in.”
Tommy snorted at that. ‘Met’ was a nicer way of putting it, he supposed.
“I’m willing to offer you a salary of thirty pounds per annum,” he asserted. Thirty pounds? The number made his head swim -- what was that? Thirty pounds was way more than what a coachman would earn. If a loaf of bread was a shilling or two, and one pound was twenty shillings, then-- The math made him dizzy, but the mathematics lessons that the older thieves in the lodging house engraved in his memory helped him through it. Thirty pounds was six hundred loaves of bread. If he ate one per day, that would be food for a little under two years.
“Food and lodging will be covered, of course. It would only be convenient for you to stay with us,” the man added.
“Oh Lord,” Tommy whispered, stunned.
“Is that a yes?” the man prompted. Finally, Tommy lifted the sheet of fabric that had obscured their faces. He was sure that he looked like a wet rat, with his drenched clothes and grimy blonde hair. Blue eyes met warm brown ones. The man crouching in front of him had curly brown hair, trimmed neatly above his ears at the front and neatly combed back. Stray curls peeked out from behind his ears. He was still in his navy jacket and waistcoat, the very edges of his long jacket brushing against the dirty floor.
“But why me? You haven’t answered that,” Tommy implored. This felt too unreal. He never had any sort of luck ever, and here this man was offering to completely turn his life upside down.
“I admit -- you’re clever, but a young child with nifty hands and a sharp mind could be found from the academy easily. Yet, I think it was when you looked back the moment you robbed me. Your eyes met mine and then you were off.”
Tommy furrowed his brow in confusion. What was so great about that? The rain had lightened into a gentle drizzle, the pattering of raindrops no longer as overwhelming.
“And I think, after all that searching for someone to assist me in my work, I haven’t quite found anyone fascinating enough for me. I don’t know what it is about you, but perhaps what I need to inspire me better, would be a child who can oddly read and write despite belonging to the streets, who looks back after pickpocketing a person,” the man’s lips curved into a smile. “I think you’re brilliant, and you could be wickedly so, with some polishing. So what say you?”
“I say, yes,” Tommy breathed, staring at the man like he had hung the moon.
“Lovely,” the man reached a hand, palm facing up, towards Tommy. “I am Wilbur Soot, the only son of the late William Soot. I work as a private investigator -- information gathering, exposing cheating spouses, cracking gambling rackets, I’ve done it all.”
Taking his hand and pulling himself up, Tommy pushed his soaked hair out of his eyes.
“Tommy, no last name. Pleased to be of your acquaintance, sir,” he shook Wilbur Soot’s hand firmly.
“Please,” the man chuckled. “Wilbur is fine. I’ve no care for manners when it comes to my friends.”
Tommy turned back to haul up his satchel, digging through it to find the pocket watch. Once his hand eventually wrapped around the cool metal of the object, he pulled it out and swiftly pushed it into Wilbur’s hands.
“Shall we leave? My carriage has been waiting by the street for far too long,” the man tucked the watch back into his pocket with a grin.
“I’ve never been in a carriage before,” Tommy found himself imitating Wilbur’s grin, his heart pounding in excitement. The rain had stopped completely by now, and the sun peeked underneath the retreating clouds.
“First time for everything, Tommy,” Wilbur replied, leading him out of the alley. This was it. This was the end of rationing his food every week, the end of shivering in the cold every winter, the end of staring at the slums in bitterness, yearning for something more, something bigger. No more little Tommy fighting for dropped pennies on the streets with other beggars, or wishing for clean water and warm food.
“How did you find me? Surely it wasn’t that easy?”
“Oh that’s a funny story, child. You see, my friend who owned that book shop had been paying attention to you, so when you ran out……”
Tommy didn’t look back this time.