Our story begins on a dreadfully cold winter's night in the middle of London, in a square lined with a series of dull, brick houses. It was one of those nights when rain kept threatening to fall, yet never quite seemed to get up the nerve. Instead, it satisfied itself by letting the wind chill all passersby to the bones.

Sara Crew had been out on such nights, back when she had been nothing more than a poor scullery drudge at Miss Minchin's Select Seminary for Young Ladies. Now, from the comfort of her own home with Mr. Tom Carrisford (whom she called Uncle Tom), Sara sat, warm and well-fed, staring out the window.

Behind Sara, within the comfy little drawing room, was Mr. Carmichael, the father of the Large Family, who had come over to discuss affairs with Uncle Tom. Usually, Mr. Carmichael was accompanied by other members of the Large Family — Nora, Janet, and Donald generally being the first to jump at the opportunity — but the night had been so dreadful that Mr. Carmichael had insisted that they stay at home.

At the moment, the square was empty, and Sara was staring at the abandoned street with a curious, thoughtful look on her face. It was a look that often graced the face of young Sara Crewe, for there had never been a time when Sara had not been thinking odd things about the world and the people who shared it with her. Sara Crewe was rather an odd little girl in many ways, and this was certainly one of them. Sara sometimes sat for hours, staring out the window, wondering about the people who passed by. She called it "supposing", and it had always been one of her favorite pastimes. She tried to imagine what it would be like to step into other people's shoes, to live their lives and dream their dreams. And whenever she saw a particularly forlorn or miserable figure, she nearly always rushed outside and tried to offer them some comfort — a warm place to rest a while, or something to eat, or even just the distraction of a well-told story.

Sara was thinking, on that night, as she stared out of the window, about how odd it was that the world always felt so calm and peaceful just before something dreadful happened. She wondered if this were one of those moments, and if so, what dreadful event it portended.

She did not have to wait long.

From one end of the alley, a figure suddenly appeared, darting through the streets as if he were a stampeding horse. He was clothed very oddly, in a tight-fitting suit covered in pinstripes, and wearing garish red-colored shoes that were made of cloth instead of leather. Sara peered through the darkness, and she thought she could see something sticking out of his back — no, several somethings. They looked like the darts that her Papa had shown her back in India, the ones he warned her never to touch, because they would make her fall asleep. Sara wondered why the man in the street had not yet fallen asleep.

Pursuing the man was a small group of properly attired people — two men and a woman — who were carrying guns larger than any Sara had ever seen. Her Papa had been a hunter and a soldier, and he had shown her his rifles and firearms. She had always thought that no weapons could be more deadly than her papa's. And yet, for some reason, this group was armed with even more terrible weapons, and were pointing them — at the man!

Sara wondered why the man was being pursued. There was something very odd about the man, Sara thought, something besides his clothes or his behavior. There was something within him that reminded Sara of Emily — a fact which, alone, would have made her take notice of him, even if he had been strolling down the street at his own leisure.

At that moment, the man's pursuers began yelling at him, which prompted the oddly dressed man to shout a reply as he kept running. Both of these responses were lost to Sara, who could hear nothing but the quiet hum of the two gentlemen's voices behind her, and the soft crackle of the fire. Then the oddly dressed man slowed, quite suddenly, as if only just realizing that he was in a square and had nowhere else to run. He turned around to face the pursuing group. By some surprising coincidence — or had it really been coincidence? — the man had stopped right outside of Sara's house.

The man was backing up, very slowly, his hands raised in a sign of surrender. His pursuers moved forwards, menacingly, thrusting their guns in his direction. Sara noticed that, although the man now appeared completely helpless, his pursuers were still approaching him with extreme caution, as if the man were a tiger, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Perhaps their trepidation was caused by the fact that the oddly dressed man did not appear at all frightened of them.

Sara had seen this reaction to fearlessness before. She had faced it herself, on many occasions, back when she was at Miss Minchin's.

"When people are insulting you," Sara remembered telling Emily, on one of those dark winter's nights when she had slept up in the attic of Miss Minchin's Seminary, "there is nothing so good for them as not to say a word — just to look at them and think. Miss Minchin turns pale with rage when I do it, Miss Amelia looks frightened, and so do the girls."

In the days that followed Sara's first encounter with the oddly dressed man, Sara would never know why she did what she did next. Was it the Magic calling to her, that Magic that never quite let those worst things happen? Or was it because Sara had felt something the moment she saw the man, as if he were a kindred spirit? Perhaps it was simply because Sara was Sara, and she could not stop herself from helping those who were in distress. But whatever was the reason, Sara was on her feet and running even before she heard the crack of gunfire.

Sara ran, as fast as her little legs could carry her, out the front door. Then, seeing the fallen and crumpled form of the oddly dressed man lying still against the cobblestones, Sara threw herself across him, forcing tears into her eyes.

"Oh, Uncle George!" she cried. "My dear, sweet Uncle George! What has happened to you?"

It must be mentioned, at this point in the narrative, that Sara never cried. True grief, Sara felt, was too deep for tears, and too important to be made light of with yelling and noise. Sara had felt true grief before. She had lost her entire family, been forced into poverty with nothing to look forward to but slavery and servitude. This small scuffle was certainly not an event that would normally have warranted her tears. However, Sara was quite a clever child for her age. She knew that grown-ups often took pity on little girls who were in tears. Considering her audience was armed with very dangerous looking guns, she used this knowledge to her full advantage.

Sara looked down into the soft, brown eyes of the man she was holding, and tried to send him comfort and good wishes with her own eyes. But she didn't know whether or not she had succeeded, for at that moment, the man gave a soft groan, and fell into unconsciousness.

Mr. Carmichael and Uncle Tom, who had both heard the shot and noticed Sara's sudden dash from the room, began to pursue her, quickly. Uncle Tom, who was still infirm despite his steady recovery, relied upon the assistance of Ram Dass to make it to the door. Mr. Carmichael, however, was outside in an instant.

"Oh, you beastly, beastly people," Sara was shouting through her fake tears. "We have been expecting poor Uncle George all evening, and you hunted him down as if he were no more than an animal!"

"What's all this about?" demanded Mr. Carmichael, speaking as much to Sara as to the three well-dressed people behind her. Mr. Carmichael was perplexed by Sara's behavior. He had certainly seen her leap out of the house to defend strangers before, but she had never before put herself directly in the path of loaded firearms. Did she know this man she was defending? Surely, she must. Why else would she risk her own life to try and save him?

Mr. Carmichael looked back at the small group, and a spark of memory ignited in his mind. Torchwood. As always, Sara had been correct to defend him. Mr. Carmichael had had a number of clients who had gotten into scrapes with this particular covert task force before. Torchwood were always heavy-handed, and always insisted that they were above both the law and the police. Mr. Carmichael had quickly learned to stand up for anyone pursued by Torchwood.

"As Mr. George Crewe's solicitor," said Mr. Carmichael, automatically adopting the name that Sara had given to the unconscious man, "I should very much like to know the charges against him. I believe" — a little coldly — "it is customary to be tried by a jury of one's peers in this country."

This seemed to upset the Torchwood Agents quite a lot.

"He's not a man, so he has no rights," said the woman. "He's an alien."

"I should say so," boomed Uncle Tom's voice — in a way that should have been impossible for a man of his poor health. "He is from India, after all. And so am I. And so is little Sara here. Would you shoot us down as well simply because we were born overseas?"

"As I recall," said Mr. Carmichael, "there has been quite a controversy recently about whether or not the King should cut off your funding. After all, King Edward never agreed with his mother's superstitions, and funding a ghost-hunting organization is hardly a worthwhile investment. My clients have much influence in particular circles, and their testimony would be more than enough to shut you down for good."

The Torchwood Team was beginning to retreat, but the woman was still having none of it. "That alien is our property," she insisted. "His devious criminal activities led Queen Victoria to banish him from the Empire forty years ago, and he returned knowing full-well what the consequences would be. We, therefore, reserve the right to do whatever we please with him."

Mr. Carmichael gave them a wry smile. "Forty years ago?" he asked. "My dear lady, the man can't be a day over thirty-five! He could hardly have committed these heinous crimes prenatally. This is clearly a case of mistaken identity. Now, let Mr. Crewe go free, and hope that we do not press charges for the damage you have inflicted upon an innocent British subject."

The Torchwood Team mumbled something that none of the others could quite make out, but eventually the team did turn around and begin to leave. The woman looked back, and gave Mr. Carmichael a glare that meant that she was not planning to let the matter drop. Mr. Carmichael returned it with a confident smile, knowing that she didn't have a leg to stand on. He went towards Sara.

"Careful, Sara," he said, quietly. He could detect the smell of scorched flesh in the air, although the man's clothes did not appear to be burnt, and he wondered precisely what kind of gun the Torchwood Team had fired. Mr. Carmichael had heard from clients that Torchwood liked to use technology that seemed almost magical in its sophistication, although they generally used it for harmful purposes. He checked the man's pulse, and found it was racing. Whatever the weapon had done to him had clearly made the man very ill. "We must get him inside. This cold will do him no favors. Ram Dass!"

Ram Dass and Mr. Carmichael maneuvered the unconscious man inside the house, and laid him on the couch. Once the door was closed and all was secured, the adults discovered Sara crouched by the couch, the unconscious man's hand in her own. She was studying him, very intently, her curious green eyes examining his face as if he were a puzzle she was trying to piece together.

"Do you know him, Sara?" asked Uncle Tom.

Sara did not reply. She just frowned, and continued studying the face intently.

"I trust that I am safe in saying that this is not, in fact, your 'Dear Uncle George'," said Mr. Carmichael.

"No," said Sara. She stared at him harder, her brow creasing. "I've never met him before. I've never even seen him. And yet…" she pushed a strand of hair out of his face. "There's something about him, something I recognize. I feel that I should know him. I feel it's my job to keep him safe."

"Sara," said Uncle Tom, as he sat down by the fire, the weariness of his malady finally catching up with him. "Who is he?"

"He is the beginning and the end," whispered Sara.

"What does that mean?" asked Mr. Carmichael.

"I don't know," said Sara, very seriously, looking up at them. "But you must never tell him. It's a secret."