Bull's-eyes and targets, say the bells of St. Marg'ret's;
Brick-bats and tiles, chime the bells of St. Giles's;
Halfpence and farthings, ring the bells of St. Martin's;
Oranges and lemons, toll the bells of St. Clement's;
Pancakes and fritters, say the bells of St Peter's;
Two sticks and an apple, say the bells of Whitechapel;
Old Father Baldpate, toll the slow bells of Aldgate;
You owe me ten shillings, say the bells of St. Helen's;
When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey;
When I grow rich, chime the bells of Shoreditch;
Pray when will that be? ask the bells of Stepney;
I'm sure I don't know, tolled the big bell at Bow.
Gay go up and gay go down
To ring the bells of London town.
one: bull's-eyes and targets
Levi ducks his head against the early-morning brawl of London on its way to work, closes his eyes for a moment of respite as the omnibus lurches its way through traffic. The man to his left smells powerfully of the onions in this morning's breakfast and the alcohol sting of last night's gin, and the lady who perches to his right is wearing a crinoline entirely too wide for a public conveyance, all rustling cotton and too-strong perfume. It's all a bit much for a chill Tuesday morning, the sound and scent alone overwhelming as usual.
Jenny had forced a cup of coffee on him before he left, and now it roils in his stomach, souring on the too-still morning air that smells like rotting fish and the Thames. He forces his eyes back open and consoles himself with the thought that she meant well enough; she couldn't force him to sit for a proper breakfast, but she could give him coffee and a sandwich done up in yesterday's newspaper before she sent him off.
The woman next to him rustles to her feet and minces past Levi to alight, her skirts swishing against his knees (and everyone else's). Her skirt blazes with color, deep red and white only slightly greyed by street dust, but her jacket is almost curiously plain, a deep green wool thing of a pattern that was most popular several years ago, its cuffs carefully mended in a thread that does not quite match.
He averts his gaze, somewhat self-conscious, and glances at his watch for the time. He's not due in for another fifteen minutes, and a sliver of unease appears at the back of his mind as the omnibus jerks back into motion: what if he's not on time, will he lose the job, what will he do...
"Plaice, alive, alive," a voice calls startlingly near his ear, and Levi is pulled from his reverie by the shout and the smell of good fresh fish, distinct, pungent, familiar. "Plaice, alive, alive, che-eap!"
Levi draws out his handkerchief and swipes his nose with it, childhood barterings with costermongers springing suddenly to mind, arguing down the price until someone gave in, fighting like cocks over a penny this way or that. He sees the same thing all around him every day, though he clawed his way to a clerkship and out of the costermongering life before it dragged him down too far.
Jenny does the same sort of arguing when she goes marketing, he knows full well - it is only not polite to mention it. Properly speaking he shouldn't speak to her at all as much as he does (interacting with her makes something in his mind itch, a moral sense imbued in him from earliest childhood that it is not quite proper to talk so freely with a woman servant), but Jenny has a charm to her that makes her an exception. At any rate, she is a married woman, in that way at least respectable for all her lack of social standing.
There's a patch at the corner of his jaw where he didn't quite shave clean this morning, and Levi scratches at it absently with his fingernails, the hair ticking against the blunt edges. When the knife-sharpener comes round he needs to have an edge put on his razor, though it feels like just yesterday the man with his grinding wheel was at the door, knowing there was work for him.
The omnibus-driver comes to a stop nearish Levi's usual stop, and he flees before the man can decide to keep going at a heightened pace. Alighting from an omnibus in motion is not a pleasant task, especially when the streets are clogged with people on their way to work.
A bell close by (to his left and behind him, hidden by a scrim of trees and new houses) rings quarter to the hour, and Levi adjusts the set of his hat as he essays forth. He makes a habit of being punctual, though he knows it would take a serious offense to put his job in actual risk; it is comforting to know he has arrived early or on time, to know that this at least is in his favor.
Something is wrong as he waits at the corner to cross the street, and he pauses a moment before he remembers: the boy William who usually sweeps this crossing is gone. Still gone, as a matter of fact, since now that Levi turns his mind the matter he hasn't seen the lad since last week.
Levi dashes across the street in the wake of a cart carrying heavy kegs of beer, filing the information away for later. In all likelihood nothing will ever come of the crossing-sweeper's disappearance. Boys get tired and move on. Perhaps he is ill, or has moved on to another quarter of London looking for work. It's really of no concern.
Safely across the street, Levi tugs open the door and goes inside.
The hall smells like wet wool and polished wood, with a faint undertone of eau de cologne (Jim Brown, two offices down, who has a new girl on the side that says she likes the scent).
The creaky floorboard at the door of his office still has yet to be fixed, squalling under Levi's tread as he enters his office, already moving to hang up his hat and coat when he is rudely interrupted.
Someone is in his chair.
"Mister Holland, I presume?"
Even as Levi steps forward to shake hands, he is observing this strange personage; just taller than average, soft dove-grey gloves on his hands - a member of the gentry perhaps, certainly not someone who works with his hands in any capacity. "Yes, sir," he affirms, returning the other man's handshake (under the gloves his hands are uncallused and delicate, rather limp in Levi's grip).
"I imagine you're wondering why I'm here," says his visitor, who has not introduced himself, as he settles himself into Levi's chair. He crosses one leg over the other, trousers sliding up to reveal his black socks, unflecked by any hint of road dust or splatter of mud. (How did you get here, then? Levi wonders. He certainly did not walk within the city, where it has been dry of late, nor has he come from outside the city, where rain clouds have darkened the hills for the past week. A cab, from somewhere within the city? Or perhaps a private carriage.)
"Perhaps," Levi allows. "I do not receive many visitors when I arrive at the office for the day."
"Nor at home," the visitor says, with a thin smile that mirrors the impeccable curve of his very starched collar. "You are unmarried, Mister Holland?"
It is not precisely a difficult observation for his caller to have made, given he wears no wedding band (and this is only the most obvious sign of his bachelor state). Yet nevertheless it sends an odd chill up Levi's spine. Who is this person that has infiltrated his place of work? Who is this that sits in his chair as if the ladder-backed, splinter-ridden construction is the most comfortable of armchairs?
"I am, sir." Levi clears his throat. "Might I inquire as to the reason for the inquiry?"
"I have a proposal to offer to you, Mister Holland, and I would hate to deprive you of the pleasures of the domestic environment for so long as you are in my employ." His voice is innocuous, his eyes mild as milk behind incongruous reading glasses.
"Sir, I am afraid that - as you are no doubt aware, given the location of our current discussion - I am already employed, in an excellent position," Levi points out, as tactfully as he can. "That being the case, I fear it is improper to speak as if you have already hired me on for whatever purpose you intend."
"Mister Holland, I do hope I do not seem rude to you, but I am sure that you will be quite amicable to the terms of the contract I seek to make with you." The thin smile returns for just a second. His teeth are very white.
"If you are sure that is the case, then I must at least ask your name before we enter into any sort of... contract." Levi feels the urge to scratch nervously at the patch of unshaven stubble on his cheek, but ignores it. It would not do for this gentleman - for gentleman he certainly is - to see Levi scratching himself like some drunken, flea-bitten mechanic in a gin hall.
"Forgive my error," his visitor says softly. "My name is Sebastian Gold."
The Golds are not precisely a famous family, but Levi recognizes the name all the same. Some years ago there had been a minor scandal, something to do with a lad of that name and a woman of not quite respectable reputation.
"Thank you," Levi says, still trying to recall the particulars. The woman's name is unimportant, but the boy - the boy's name - what was his name? "Now that we are properly introduced, might I hear what contract you intend for me?"
"Of course," says Gold. "But even if you refuse the contract, what I am about to tell you must not leave this room, Mister Holland. It is of the utmost importance. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I understand." Levi is still running through name possibilities, trying to unwind the tangles of his memory. Stephen? Samuel? Seymour?
"Good." He smiles, and folds his hands (the gloves so neat, uncreased, unmended, very new) on his knee. "My daughter has gone missing."
Sebastian, Levi remembers - the name of the boy was Sebastian Gold. (And the woman was Lucy Harrison. Not that it matters, now - she's either dead, or has disappeared into that quiet void which swallows up those unlucky enough to be in the periphery of young, unwise members of polite society.)
And barring some unlikely coincidence, this is that boy before him.
He makes his face a deliberate blank, quietly listening to what his curious visitor has to say.
"She is a foolish, flighty child," Gold continues in the same poised, mild voice. "I had thought at first that she had eloped with a boy who has been courting her of late, though he claimed to know nothing of her vanishing. I had him investigated, and to my surprise, he was telling the truth." His fingers flex gently, and his watch chain, laden with charms that proclaim his membership to a thousand different societies, chimes against itself as he shifts in Levi's chair. "Of course, she had other suitors. For all her empty-headedness, she is a handsome enough girl, and I had hoped to see her married into some family or another before too long."
"What of her other suitors, then?" Levi says, when it is clear that Gold is prompting him for a response.
"They were only boys themselves," Gold notes coolly, though some expression (a smile? a grimace?) teases at the corners of his mouth. "None of them had any clue of her whereabouts. I was prepared to give her up as lost to me." He coughs, a muffled plosive swallowed in his chest. "And then, a week ago, I received a letter."
Footsteps are beginning to sound in the hall, and Levi shifts from foot to foot. He has work to do yet today, even if this Gold person believes himself in control of Levi's morning.
Gold continues on as if they are perfectly alone.
"The letter was most unusual." He refolds his hands on his knee. They are not quite unmended, Levi sees with the movement; the thread on the fingertips of the left hand is not quite the same. "It did not come by post. My butler found it nailed to the front door."
"What did it say?"
Gold blinks once, slowly. It reminds Levi of the great snake he saw, when he was very small, at the Zoo. How it always seemed to be thinking one or two steps ahead of the people it saw outside its cage, though to what end he could not tell. "That some person - the writer did not give his name - had my daughter hostage, and had no plans to release her, no matter the amount of money I paid." His hand trembles slightly. "They merely wished me to know what had befallen her."
"Forgive me, but why have you come to me for your - trouble?" Levi has been patiently holding his tongue on this for most of their conversation.
"Mister Holland, do not denigrate yourself," Gold says, the mask of mildness sliding back over his momentary weakness. "I am fully aware of your abilities. I believe you may be able to find my daughter. Or if you cannot find her, to find the person who has abducted her, and ensure he is delivered to justice."
Levi is somewhat taken aback.
Gold raises one slim gloved hand to forestall his objection. "I know. It will be an arduous task. I suspect my daughter's kidnappers have enormous resources at their command. However, I am a man of not insignificant means, Mister Holland, and I would be betraying you if I did not contribute some of them to the cause of finding my daughter."
Who do you think I am? Levi wonders. And what are these abilities of mine you have heard so much about?
Gold clears his throat and rises to his feet. "I will not keep you any longer, Mister Holland. I expect you require some time to consider my offer. However, I will leave you with a 'consulting fee' in compensation for your time." He draws a small leather purse from an inside pocket of his overcoat and deposits it on Levi's desk. "If you should decide to enter into a contract of employment with me, I have taken rooms at the Traveller's Club in Pall Mall. We may speak more there, if you will call on me. Perhaps for lunch today? Or tea, if that is preferable."
"I will require some time to weigh the matter," Levi says. "You may expect me for tea this afternoon."
"Thank you," says Gold, with the ghost of a polite smile on his lips. He sweeps past Levi into the hall, already donning his hat (of the latest fashion, just as the rest of his costume).
When Gold's footsteps have faded, Levi sits down in his chair, so recently occupied by this near-stranger. Quite an offer has been set before him, and he does not know quite what to think of the matter.
It is certain that Gold has mistaken him for someone he is not, and Levi is quite sure of who it is. "Holland" is not a common surname, but he is aware of the existence of another man with that name at Scotland Yard, an investigator. They even share the same first initial, though the other fellow's Christian name is Lamont rather than Levi.
The puzzling thing is how that misperception could continue to exist. It is clear that Levi's office is a clerk's, not a police officer's. Gold simply assumed he was dealing with the right man; a most unwise tactic when he is dealing with something as important as the kidnaping of a child.
It is not within Levi's bourn to criticize Gold's actions, though. Not when he persisted through their conversation to offer a further meeting - and left behind a purse to sweeten the deal. Levi is not so uncouth to count out the money immediately, but he suspects it is a good sum, in all likelihood more than he makes in half a year (if what he has heard about the Gold family is true).
Nevertheless, he permits himself to weigh the little purse in his hand for a moment before he slips it into the pocket of his overcoat and turns to the morning's work.
Levi slips away earlier than usual for his lunch; the walk to Pall Mall is not a lengthy one, but he requires time to collect himself before another interaction with Gold.
The walk along Whitehall settles his nerves, though the company does not. He does not belong among the people who bustle around him. Though Levi strives to keep himself in good repair, the second-best hat and much-repaired shirt he wears feel like the rags of a rookery beggar next to the well-brushed hats and fresh-shined shoes that surround him. He keeps his eyes firmly on the sidewalk, trying as hard as he can to make out that he belongs here, and though he knows that most of them are not really seeing him, he still feels the illusory weight of their gazes on him.
With relief he turns by Trafalgar Square, and it seems that the hubbub of London rises to welcome him (though in truth it has been with him since he left Scotland Yard), the roar of carriage wheels and voices enfolding him like a cloak. A pigeon streaks by his shoulder and smacks into the side of a hansom going by; a cat materializes from an alley to chase after it, and is itself chased after by a little terrier-sized dog, barking furiously.
Levi has never truly felt at home in places like Whitehall, though they ought to have been his birthright - for better or for worse, he grew up in the rough streets of London, not the polished ones. The West End will never truly be his place, no matter how well-respected he is by his colleagues or how many pounds he makes in a year. He does not belong there, and never will.
The Traveller's Club is faintly foreign, though Levi knows it in the way he does the rest of his city, an ever-present background, and at the same time it is familiar. It is every club he has passed by before; they are all the same.
Levi goes through the rituals of entry, and Gold is waiting for him, folded into an armchair as calmly and confidently as he sat in Levi's chair this morning. The Persian carpet (no doubt a gift from some illustrious member) is soft under his shoes, not at all like the plain wood flooring of his office.
Gold gestures with one hand - still gloved - for Levi to sit opposite him in an almost-identical armchair (one leg has been repaired with wood that is not quite the same color). "Please, Mister Holland. Do sit down. I have asked Thomas to bring tea, and in the interim we may have our discussion."
"Thank you, Mister Gold," Levi says, rather stiffly, and lowers himself into the indicated armchair. It is quite soft, and the fire crackling in the grate is a boon to the soul as much as it warms his body.
"I trust, by your appearance here, that you are interested in the offer I made you," Gold says, "I thank you for your consideration in joining me this afternoon."
"The pleasure is mine, sir." Levi crosses his legs in conscious mimicry of Gold, and is silently grateful that he polished his shoes over the week-end. It wouldn't do at all to show off the scuffed, worn toes in this quietly genteel environment (and he is suddenly self-conscious of the socks that are more darning in the ball of the foot than actual sock, though it is preposterous to think Gold can see any part of them).
Gold folds his hands together and looks past Levi into the fire, his eyes placid behind the reading glasses.
"I suppose you are under the impression that I have mistaken you for someone else, Mister Holland," he says. "I am aware of the existence of Lamont Holland, and that he is not you. I did not ask for your assistance under the mistaken idea that you were him."
"Then why did you ask for my assistance - sir?"
"I don't need a police inspector to look for my daughter, Mister Holland. I have several already." He clears his throat, leans forward slightly in his chair. "What I need is someone to look for the person responsible for her kidnaping."
Levi finds his mouth has suddenly dried up; it's as if he's a boy caught filching fruit again, knowing that no amount of protestations that it was for his sisters would stave off the inevitable whipping. "What caused you to think I would be able to do that?"
Gold smiles, showing a thin line of white, white teeth (and no humor in his eyes at all). "I have friends in Scotland Yard, Mister Holland - don't trouble yourself on their identities - who have told me about you. I am sure that your abilities will be quite adequate to my needs."
Levi's stomach drops - what abilities, and who in Scotland Yard does this man know - but he draws his outer composure tight. It wouldn't be the first conversation he's bluffed his way through, not by a long shot.
"Thank you," he replies, feeling strung as tight as the catgut on a violin. "Sir, pardon my directness, but what exactly are your needs?"
Thomas appears silently to set down a tea-tray at Gold's left elbow, and Gold seems on the verge of an actual smile for a moment. "Not at all, Mister Holland," he says. "I had thought to broach the subject with you just now, in fact. How do you take your tea?"
The fire snaps, and Levi shakes away the fit of nerves. "Two sugar, please," he tells Thomas, and the silent servant obliges.
Note: Before I proceed to other topics, I need to lay out two important things.
One, yeah, seriously, it's Hunger Games. This will become more apparent as the story continues.
Two, this is a serialized novel. I have a very, very slow work rate thanks to a heavy load of college and Real Life and crying under my desk moaning about being a hack, but I will not let this languish and die.
That said, there are some people I need to thank for their help in the long process of planning this.
GlimmerIcewood, Cobalt Crayon, Lightfall, Wildpathwarriors, and A Ghost Who Walks all contributed to character construction.
My dear friend Maddie has been with this project from the beginning, and was indispensable for all ten long months it took to bring it here. She put up with dozens of hours of me nattering about it on Skype, and if my memory is served she is the one who convinced me to take this from "idea" to "story". I can't thank her enough.
Historical notes and background:
- England has been at peace with its primary Western enemy, Russia, since the conclusion of the Crimean War ten years earlier. The second Opium War was concluded three years ago; the second war with the Ashanti Empire begins this year, but it is thought of as more of a "skirmish". As far as the British public is concerned, they live in an age of which they are the masters.
- The bell Levi hears is that of St.-Martin's-in-the-Field, on Trafalgar Square.
- The Traveller's Club still exists, and though it's not exactly the same as it was back then, it still caters to the same clientele.