December 15th, 1864. London, England.

"But Father, I'm not tired yet!" the boy complained as he was scooped up in his father's arms and paraded from the family room to the staircase, much to his mother's amusement. He could see her standing beside Miss Mary Chapman, his nanny, her long gown the same soft emerald green colour as her eyes, her dark brown hair flowing around her shoulders, laughing softly to herself as he whined. Miss Mary was young, around 20 or so years of age, with wavy blond hair and big blue eyes. The boy himself was no more than seven years old, with tousled black hair like his father, and soft green eyes to match his mother, which his mother always said became brighter when he was focused; or, as he was now, agitated. "Put me down!" he cried as he struggled against his father's arms as they ascended the stairs, his mother and nanny following suit. After a minute or two, he ceased, realising it was futile.

"Settle down, Edmund," his father soothed as bent to set his son down in his bed. He stood and straightened his dark grey suit and white undershirt. He then adjusted his black top hat, which had been knocked slightly askew by his fretful son. "We will wake you up when we get back. Until then, Miss Mary will be here should you need her. Your mother and I should not be gone more than a few hours. We don't intend to stay for the full party. We'll be back before you know it." He ruffled his son's hair and gave his son a hug goodbye.

His mother hugged him also, gave him a kiss on his forehead, and pulled up the bed sheets. "Goodnight, my dear Edmund," she whispered. "We'll be back soon."

Miss Mary smiled her usual happy smile as Edmund's parents exited the bedroom. "I'll be downstairs if you need me, Edmund. Just give me a shout or come and get me." And with that, she followed them and closed the door behind her.

Edmund waited until he heard his parents and nanny reach the bottom of the stairs before softly getting out of bed. He turned the handle of his door ever so slowly, and quietly opened it. He then got himself into a crouching position and snuck down the hallway to the top of the stairs. From here, he could make out part of the conversation that Miss Mary was having with his father at the front door.

"This could be dangerous, Mister Jameson. He might not even be there!" Mary's voice came out a loud whisper.

"I tailed a couple of his henchmen three days ago and listened in on their conversation. They said he is to be present at the party," Edmund's father spoke with his usual calm demeanour. Somehow, Edmund knew that his father was giving Miss Mary a reassuring smile. "Do not worry about Theresa and me, Mary. We know what we are doing, for we have been doing it for quite some time."

"I'm aware," Mary sighed. "All right. But be careful, damn you. You have a son who needs you. Please come back."

"We will."

"Then good luck, Mister Jameson, to both of you."

And she shut the door.

When Edmund next awoke, it was to the sound of hurried footsteps downstairs and worried voices outside. He leaped out of bed and ran to look out his window. It was still pitch dark - probably midnight, he supposed - with only the moon and stars and street lamps illuminating the city of London, their light reflecting off of patches of snow. He couldn't see where his parents were, but he could make out parts of the conversation.

"Mister Jameson, what happened?" he heard Mary ask.

"...wrong target...knew we were coming...might have been followed...leave tonight...hurry." For once, Edmund thought to himself rather worriedly, his father did not sound calm.

Someone had opened the front door, and he could hear his mother more clearly now.

"Mary," his mother said, "I need you to get some things from the family room and get your things, as well. I will gather what we need from our room. Elliot, get Edmund and wait for us outside."

The next thing Edmund knew, his father had bounded up the stairs and had thrown his door open. He saw the look of panic on his father's face and knew that something was definitely wrong.

"Father, what is it? What's wrong? What's happening?" Edmund asked, hearing the panic starting to rise in his own voice.

"Edmund, come with me. We need to go. We need to go now," his father said as he took Edmund in his arms. "It's okay, my son. It's going to be o-"

Elliot was interrupted by the sound of a crash downstairs and a soft orange glow appearing at the end of the hallway.

"Theresa! Mary! They're here! Get out now!" Elliot bellowed. He then ran from the bedroom and down the stairs with Edmund in his arms, just in time to miss another firebomb that had just sailed through Edmund's bedroom window. Downstairs, Edmund managed to catch a glimpse of the kitchen, now an inferno, before his father took him outside and across the street. The December air was crisp and cool, the ground lightly dusted with snow as it fell lightly and slowly from the air, contrasting the dark night sky.

"There he is! Get him! KILL HIM!" Edmund heard a man yell. He looked back toward his house to see two men coming from around the sides. There was another crash, another blaze, and a third men appeared from behind the house. The two who had come from the sides of the house were now wielding knives and advancing on his father. Edmund thought he saw two small flashes of light coming from his father's hands. He focused his eyes on his father's forearms and was shocked to see two metal blades protruding from the sleeves of his father's coat.

The first man slashed down with his knife. Elliot raised his right blade to block the attack, using his right hand to grab the man's wrist and twist his arm before stabbing his left blade into the back of the man's neck. As he did this, the second man swung his blade. Elliot ducked, his left blade still in the neck of the first man, and cut the second man's thigh with his right blade before standing back up and stabbing the man in the back of his neck. He then pulled his forearms back and let the two men fall forward onto the snow-dusted road, blood pooling beside them. Edmund saw the third man reach for the pistol at his waist and was about to cry out, but his father was quicker, turning around while he drew a small knife from a belt at his waist and let it fly. It sailed through the air and hit its mark, right in the center of the third man's chest, causing him to be knocked back off his feet.

Elliot turned to his son, seeing the look on his face in the orange glow of their now ablaze house, a mixture of shock and awe and fear. "I'm going back in to find your mother and Mary. Stay where you are." He turned and ran back into the house, leaving Edmund to stare after him. That's all he could do. Just stare.

What felt like hours, but were only minutes, later, Elliot emerged from the fire, carrying an unconscious Miss Mary, who was wrapped in Elliot's suit jacket and coat. Elliot's face was distraught in the orange light. Edmund could have sworn he saw tears streaming down his father's face as he approached. "I'm sorry, Edmund. I'm so sorry. I couldn't save her. I couldn't reach her. Your dear mother. I'm sor-"

His father's words were cut short by a loud crack that echoed through the air. Elliot took a step back, his eyes wide with fear, his mouth trying to form words, as he looked down at his white undershirt. A red stain had appeared on the left side of his chest and was now expanding across his father's torso. Elliot looked up, not at Edmund, but behind him. He was looking at something. At someone. There was a faint, barely audible click, then another crack. A second red spot appeared on his father's shirt, and he fell back into the street.

Edmund ran towards Elliot, feeling the tears welling in his eyes. His father was alive - barely, but still alive. Edmund took one of his father's hands in his. "No, no, no! Father, don't go! Don't leave me!"

"Edmund, my boy," his father strained, "everything's going to be okay. I'm sorry, son. This is all my fault. Promise me... you'll be a good lad for Miss Mary.."

There was no stopping the tears now. They fell in the snow beside his father. "I promise, father. I love you."

"I love you too, Edmund," Elliot spoke softly, his skin paling, his eyes dimming. His hand, shaking, reached into the pocket of his vest. It emerged with something small and round, silver with a silver chain. His father's pocket watch. "I meant to give this to you on your next birthday. It belonged to your grandfather, William Jameson, and now it belongs to you." His father gave a few short coughs, and turned back to his son. "I'll be with you always, Edmund. Even when I'm not around. I will always be in your heart. I love you, my son. Goodbye..." His father turned his head, looked up at the sky, and closed his eyes for the last time.

Elliot gave a loud cry as the tears continued to fall. He turned to his house, now completely engulfed in flames. He turned back to his father, now lying dead in the snow-covered street. He turned back up the road where his father had looked when he heard the gunshots. Standing there, watching him, revolver still in hand, was the shadow of a man. The man looked right at Edmund and, much to Edmund's surprise or possibly his imagination, bowed his head as if to show remorse, before turning around and heading up the street.