Life on the streets of London was hard.
Peter Banning knew that full well. Orphaned at the age of seven, he had been eking out an existence for five years by selling papers and the occasional pickpocketing job when things were really bad. Peter didn't like to steal. His mother had taught him wrong from right before she died and whenever he did, it felt like he was disappointing her somehow. But survival was his focus now; living from day to day, shilling to shilling. Playtime seemed almost like a fairytale, an ever-present dream buried in his wildest fantasy.
One particularly cold day in the middle of November, Peter was walking his daily route. Almost numb from the frosty air, he huddled down in a doorway to try and warm himself up before continuing down the street. Through the oak door, he could feel the warmth from the fire inside. It was the warmest he had been in days. So great was his level of comfort that, before he knew it, he was sound asleep. Hours later, he was woken up by a large hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake.
"Here now lad, you can't just fall asleep in a person's doorway. You're blocking the entrance and making it very hard to get inside." Said a smiling, red-haired gentleman dressed in a fashionable gray three-piece suit.
"Oh, I'm verra' sorry sir! I dinna' mean to fall asleep! I just wanted t' get out o' the cold for a wee bit…. It was so cold today, you see. I dinna' mean no 'arm! I promise!" Peter stammered, shrinking into the corner of the doorway.
The young gentleman frowned. "I didn't mean to scare you lad; just trying to get inside my house. Now come on then, I'll help you up." He reached down, hauled Peter up, and brushed the snow off of his worn brown coat. "Now, run along home before you catch your death sleeping in a doorway in the snow."
Honest green eyes looked up at him. "It's no different from normal sir. Your doorway or someone else's….they is all shelters from a bit o' wind. Now, thank ye kindly for not bein' mad about me stoppin' here for a bit. I'd best move on now." Peter turned up his collar, folded his arms and headed out into the cold.
If he had looked back, he would have seen a very interesting sight. The tall gentleman seemed to be arguing in hushed tones with a floating ball of light. After many animated gestures, the light flounced away to a nearby lamppost where it seemed to camouflage in with the gaslight. Smiling triumphantly, the man called after Peter, "Boy! BOY! Why don't you come inside and warm up for a bit? You look like a nice warm fire would do you some good."
Eyes wide, Peter turned around and said wonderingly, "Me, sir?" He looked down at his ragged coat, mud-stained pants and scraps of shoes. "You want me to come…inside… that grand house?" Backing away slightly, he stammered, "Oh n-no sir! I couldna'! What if I were to get dirt on the carpets or knock over a fine vase? No- I'd best be on my way."
"Nonsense!" the man said, beckoning him closer. "I don't put much stock in fineries that are easily broken and hard to replace. And as for the carpets, well, one without any dust on it doesn't have that home-y feel, now does it? Now, come on- I'm quite chilled from standing out here and wish for the comfort of a warm fire myself." He opened the door and motioned the child inside.