At those moments before dawn when no respectable Londoner would be roaming, the most activity came from two people on a dingy street off Hyde Park. A thin, bitter-looking woman set up a display of flowers outside her small shop. Not far away, a meaty man in a worn greatcoat drunkenly sat on a bench and tried to read yesterday's paper under the light of the streetlamp.
Had any casual observer seen the two, they would seem completely unrelated. A more observant eye, however, would notice a subtle exchange. They would occasionally catch each other's eye, their gazes intense and fraught with tension. The flower lady's back would stiffen suddenly as if affronted. The old man's brow would wrinkle under his paper from an unheard scolding. The silent conversation continued unabated as dawn broke.
The first true ray of sunlight cut through the fog and illuminated the street. The uneven cobblestones and the sewer grate gleamed with the previous night's dew. Presently, a peculiarly wet, grating sound issued from the grate. Black, oily bubbles seethed from the bars and formed a slick puddle near the sidewalk. The puddle began to rise and morph until it took the shape of a man. The man shook off any remaining slime from his gangly form and produced a wooden box from his satchel.
Before he could sneak into the shadows with it, the old man stepped out in front of him, all drunkenness disappearing.
"Brackisham Smythe," he said in a strong, commanding voice. The sewer man looked up with a jerk. "The Fae Liaison Office has a warrant for your arrest for burglary, unlawful enchantment of goods, and abuse of shape shifting."
Smythe yelped and ran towards the alley beside the flower shop. The old lady stood in the center, blocking his way. Her wrinkled hands timidly fidgeted with her apron as the criminal grinned at her.
"Just step aside, marm," he said, his Cockney thick. "I've no reason to be harming you yet."
The woman's head lowered. "But I have every reason to harm you," she said, but her voice was much deeper, smoother than he expected to hear from the mouth of the wiry crone. From her apron she pulled a knife.
The man visibly trembled in terror. He turned to run but the old man blocked him, with the terrible woman advancing from behind. Smythe cursed and drew his own blade from his pocket. It glowed with electric green light.
He made a lunge at the old man, but the woman was quicker. She tripped him and grabbed him by the collar as he fell. She put her own knife to his throat. The early morning sun betrayed the faintest violet sheen in the blade. The thief regarded it with mortal fear, whimpering and dropping both his box and knife to the ground. The man removed his right glove and touched two fat fingers to Smythe's forehead.
"By the authority of the Offices appointed in Liaison between the British Empire and the Sovereign government of Faerie, you are under arrest. Be still." The air around them shuddered, and Smythe slumped to the ground. Both his attackers visibly relaxed.
The old man removed his hat, and instantly his face transformed from red-faced and wrinkled to that of a much younger man with dark brown hair, square jaw, and an easy smile. He waved his hand at the unconscious thief. "You, up." Smythe rose like a sleepwalker and stood beside him. "I'll handle this idiot," he told the woman. The young man knelt and picked up both the wooden box and the greenish knife. The knife he carefully pocketed; the box he handed to his compatriot. "You can take care of this. You've earned it today."
The woman smiled as she accepted her prize walked down the alleyway. The man waved his hand again and walked into the flower shop, the sleepwalking thief trailing behind. No trace of the strange altercation remained. A fresh fog rolled in, London began to wake in earnest, and the secrets of the Fae were kept once again.