Last edited May 23rd 2016.
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Something Fishy
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Charley's condition had steadily improved. Annie's mood had not.
Wisely wasn't particularly concerned with either; his concerns lay elsewhere.
Red's mood had not improved; it had rather deteriorated. Whether or not it actually had much to do with the situation surrounding Annie and Charley was debatable; Annie's pimps were probably on Red's shit list, but that was by no means the only thing that had been clouding Red's mood as of late.
Moody and exhausted was not a great combination in the longer term, and when Red returned to the lodging house in the late afternoon, Charley and Annie were both wise enough to keep well away from him.
Arms folded across her chest, Mrs. Russell met Red's glare with one of her own, but by the time he had moved past, the stern look morphed into something akin to concerned disapproval. Then, by the time Red had disappeared into the room that was presently his and Wisely's, Mrs. Russel's concerned disapproval morphed back into a stern look which was then directed at Wisely. "Mr. Cunningham, a word."
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One piece. Two pieces.
"Say, Duke…"
Three pieces. Adding more pieces.
"I cannot help but notice that you've spent more time than usual sneaking about London as of late."
Sheril Kamelot was a quite busy man. Being not only a member of the Noah family but also a politician and more recently a family man, Sheril had more than enough on his plate already without involving himself in the business of others. His attempts at keeping track of Tyki Mikk were obviously exempt; Tyki was his younger brother, and Sheril would forever consider looking out for him a part of his duties, regardless of the fact that they were both adults and led decidedly different lives.
The business of the Duke ‒ the Millennium Earl ‒ was something Sheril usually didn't get involved in beyond the part that involved following orders and making himself useful. That having been said, it wasn't as though Sheril didn't pay attention. The Duke's recent interest in certain street urchins had by no means escaped Sheril's notice; he had merely opted to turn a blind eye to it, until just recently.
Six pieces. Seven pieces. "Is that so?"
It was faint, but there was a definite underlying hint of edge to the Duke's tone, telling Sheril to tread carefully. Despite inwardly debating the wisdom of it, Sheril still pressed onward. "Those children‒"
"You might call it a casual interest, Sheril," the Duke noted with a sense of wry amusement, stirring his extremely sweetened cup of tea. "I seem to have stumbled upon something quite peculiar."
"Peculiar?" Sheril repeated, picking up on a slight shift in the Duke's mood.
The slight but unmistakable smile playing on the Duke's human lips grew decidedly more pronounced. "A red herring, one might even say."
Frowning, Sheril pondered the possible interpretations of that. A red herring was after all not just a type of smoked, strong-smelling fish used to mislead hunting dogs. It was also a way to refer to something; a suggestion or a piece of information intended to draw attention away from the really important matters at hand. But which of these could possibly apply in this particular scenario?
Obviously, in Sheril's private opinion, street urchins and children in general ‒ barring his lovely daughter Road ‒ were dirty creatures that carried a stench with them, similar to yet at the same time different from the stench of other humans. In addition, if memory served him right, then word had it that at least two of the brats in question had hair that could possibly pass as red, provided it was given a thorough enough rinsing. But if so, then who and in what sense‒No, no, it was not relevant. What was relevant was‒ "What are your plans for them, Duke?"
The Duke sipped his tea, his gaze moving towards the garden. Some of the amusement fled, in turn making room for cool calculation.
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Having a word with Mrs. Russell wasn't something Wisely tended to enjoy. He had certain opinions about the woman that he usually kept to himself. Unlike the case with Annie and Charley though, he actually respected her, albeit very reluctantly. He did well to stay on civil terms with her after all, because if they didn't stay on good terms with her, then they would have to seek out alternate accommodations again, and that was always a pain.
Surprisingly, what Mrs. Russell had for him was not a stern reminder about rent or a notice that they should start packing; it was an envelope, sealed with wax and everything. Even by just holding it in his hand and looking at it from different angles, Wisely could very much tell that it was high-grade paper, and the wax seal definitely pointed to some affluent source. But who did Wisely know that was capable of such? No one. Not personally at any rate. Indirectly on the other hand‒
Wisely left with the envelope still unopened. Going by the look that crossed Mrs. Russell's face, she would very much have liked to read whatever was in it. However, going by her lack of protest, Wisely reasoned that she had probably been paid at least a shilling not to let her curiosity get the better of her.
However, he didn't only leave with the unopened letter; he also left with a small and somewhat stale loaf of bread as well as a small half-empty bottle of gin, because Mrs. Russell had insisted.
Oftentimes, it was actually healthier to drink diluted alcohol than it was to drink only water. Water was oftentimes contaminated; people who had grown habituated to it usually didn't get sick from it, but for others, it was usually a lot more sensible to either boil the water or to stick to alcoholic options such as ale or gin. Wisely himself truthfully wasn't too fond of either, but considering the alternative‒
Wisely pushed the door closed with his foot. He didn't chance trying to lock it while carrying all three items, instead crossing the room with a few steps to dump them onto the side of the bed that wasn't occupied.
Silver-grey eyes regarded him momentarily before apparently deeming Wisely uninteresting or trustworthy enough not to warrant any further scrutiny. Wisely was inevitably reminded of a cat; they were vile creatures, but dogs were worse. Wisely, he kept it to himself, even though the thought proved decidedly amusing.
Having accomplished his task, Wisely retreated back to the bed, claiming a seat.
Red's eyebrows furrowed slightly at the noise, but the expected glare remained suspiciously absent.
"How's your hand?" Wisely asked, having positioned himself so that he would easily be able to gauge the other's reaction.
"Good enough to wring your neck," Red deadpanned, heaving himself up into a seated position.
Had Wisely not been moderately well acquainted with Red's strength, then he would have argued that one required two hands in order to properly wring someone's neck. Being quite well acquainted with it however, he opted not to argue and instead indicated his latest catch. "From Mrs. Russell. The food, not the letter."
Red gave the bread and gin bottle a cursory glance before narrowing his eyes at the sealed envelope and at Wisely when he plucked it and began to working the wax seal trying not to tear the paper; it was fairly high-grade after all, and even if it couldn't be sold or traded, it could still be useful.
Red let him struggle with it for several moments before pulling out his throwing knife.
Wisely handed over the envelope without prompting and watched as Red opened the thing with surprising skill, leaving both the paper and the seal relatively intact, pausing only briefly to admire his own handiwork before handing the letter back.
"Should I read it aloud or quietly?" Wisely asked, mostly out of courtesy.
Red scoffed at that, sliding the knife back into its hiding place. "Your letter, your choice."
Wisely mentally tacked on Your problem, because though it remained unspoken, it was definitely there. "Hungry?"
"Not really."
"Liar."
He got a mildly irritated look for that, but beyond that, Red did not rise to the bait. "So you're sleepy then? How about a lullaby?"
Snorting, Red snatched up the loaf of bread, divided it and handed over Wisely's share; Red's share was technically bigger, but Red was also the breadwinner, so it was only fair.
As they had on previous occasions, they soaked their share in the available beverage, using it to soften the bread. Still, said beverage was usually ale, so they both grimaced a bit when they first got a taste of the gin.
"Ugh," Wisely said and Red made a sound of agreement. "Next time, let's get wine."
"Fresh bread," Red sighed, already having consumed the last of his share. "Meat."
"Potatoes!" Wisely filled in. "Fish and chips!"
Wisely could have listed a large number of other groceries or courses, but opted to remain relatively realistic about it.
"Roast beef," Red muttered under his breath, curling back up onto his side.
"Jellied eels," Wisely responded, scooting over to lean his back against the headboard and the wall behind it, his legs outstretched before him.
Red rolled over onto his other side, back now facing him. "Shepherd's pie."
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Having contemplated the folded piece of paper in his hands for quite some time, Wisely unfolded it at last. Despite the sound, Red didn't even stir, chest rising and falling visibly; he appeared to be sleeping and quite soundly at that.
Torn between staring and decoding the squiggly script, Wisely finally opted for the latter, squinting slightly in an attempt to make out the general content.
It was a politely worded invitation from, as Wisely had suspected, the barmy old duke.
Red definitely wouldn't like it; it was risky. But as things were, doing odd jobs for an eccentric but wealthy noble seemed like a safer bet compared to going around picking pockets now that there was a gang keen on removing them from the equation. Red could probably be persuaded to see this as well, considering his paranoia. Then again‒
Wisely let the issue rest, and he wasn't surprised to find himself to be the room's only occupant when he woke up in the night. "If I disappear, don't look for me, huh?" Wisely muttered under his breath, reaching underneath the pillow to touch the folded letter, making sure that it was still there; potential insurance.
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Red didn't return in the morning. He didn't return in the afternoon either or even in the evening or in the morning that followed. "If I disappear, don't look for me, huh?"
Annie too had left to seek out customers and hadn't returned in the morning. By the time the sun had begun to set, they had come to learn why.
Charley was inconsolable at first. Even Mrs. Russell looked decidedly pale as the gist of what had occurred was relayed to them, in part from the word on the street and in part from the words of the two police constables who had turned up the lodging house's doorstep, no doubt led there by the word on the street.
Dealing with the Scotland Yard was hardly ever a pleasurable experience. After all, though the men had a quite nasty homicide on their hands, Wisely hardly failed to notice the dirty looks sent his and Charley's way, even though Charley was mostly just hiding behind Mrs. Russell now that his primary source of human comfort was no longer in this world.
It really wasn't a question of who had done it, not to Wisely at any rate. Annie had had a mission; having failed to accomplish said mission's objective, she had paid with her life. Going by the clues, Wisely could hardly arrive at any other conclusion. And, if such a conclusion was indeed accurate, then perhaps they too ‒ himself in particular, Charley more as an afterthought ‒ ought to make themselves scarce.
After all, the pimp's gang weren't looking for them; they already knew where they were. Knowing that, Wisely could only hope that they didn't already know that Red still hadn't returned.
Again, the letter and its contents came to mind. Wisely felt sorely tempted to follow its instructions. After all, what awaited him there could hardly be any worse than what possibly awaited them if they remained at the lodging house or in this part of town. But‒
He collected himself and considered his options, lying on his back at night, staring blankly up at the darkened ceiling. "What would Oliver Twist do in this kind of situation?"
Obviously, Wisely wasn't naïve enough to believe that a real-life Mr. Brownlow would take an interest in them; people always had motives, some of them more nefarious than others. Red seemed to have an uncanny ability ‒ perhaps some animalistic instinct ‒ to read the people around them, marking them as neutrals, potential victims and hostiles of differing degrees. And, going by Red's words and behaviour, that barmy old duke of his should definitely be treated with caution. Still, at this rate, what choices did they really have?
Annoyed, Wisely sat himself up. "Don't look for me, my arse."
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As things were, Wisely was only just getting his shoes on when there was a soft rap on the front door, completely unfamiliar. It startled him, obviously, and filled him with an ice-cold sense of foreboding. Retaining his silence, he sat there in the dark, making no move to announce his presence to whomever or whatever was beyond the door. He was hardly calm however, possibilities racing through his mind at dizzying speeds. The pimp's gang? No, they would hardly knock softly. And it definitely wasn't Red either, because Wisely would've recognised that anywhere. But then‒
Despite his self-preservative instincts screaming at him, he found himself reaching for the doorknob.
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Red was back in the morning, his clothes still dripping and quite smelly at that.
Wisely, newly awoken from a restless sleep, critically took in the sight of him. "Honestly," he finally snapped. "Next time you decide to go swimming, at least have the decency to bring back some fish."
Despite being both weary and wet, Red huffed and reached into his pocket. "Hand."
Mildly surprised, Wisely held his hand out, palm facing upwards. Moments thereafter, Red had deposited a fish ‒ a small perch, if Wisely wasn't mistaken ‒ into it. The fish's cold sliminess aside, Wisely managed to steel himself and not drop it. Instead he looked up at Red, willing his face to adopt a look of disapproval. "Just one?"
Moments thereafter, the situation dissolved into laughter, because Red, positively grinning, reached inside his shirt and pulled out a damn pike.
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