𝟏𝟕𝟏𝟎 - 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧, 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝
Anne knew better. She really did. But there was just something about being a slave to her own confidence that was so freeing. It made her feel like she could make it, like she could survive anything the world threw at her. Or maybe she just liked how impressed all the other children were by her skills. Maybe she had more ego than she did confidence. Maybe, more likely, the two sat in a prefect, dangerous balance. Dangerous for a seven-year-old street rat at any rate.
She paused at the fence line, only to look over her shoulder and give the others- Mary, Jimmy, Andrew, Ida and Sam- the widest, most self-assured of her grins. None of them could pull this off, only her and going by how Andrew rolled his eyes and motioned for her to keep going, they were probably getting a little sick of being reminded.
Anne slipped through the tall iron wrought fence, wondering if these wealthy and noble types would ever catch on and change the design so she couldn't...not that something so simple would stop her. She was too good for that.
The Dawson household was a home that had frequently been the victim of her skills in recent months. While other street urchin's pickpocketed middle-class merchants and nicked meat pies from poorly watched market stalls, Anne had always set her sights higher. Breaking into the home of a rich family was far too risky for most that wanted to avoid the hangman's noose, but breaking into an occupied home? With the staff and family currently inside and wide awake? That was more than a little suicidal. So, of course, Anne had no hesitation in doing so as she pleased.
When she'd made her first attempt at the Dawson household, the others had been so sure that she wouldn't be back. Sweet Ida had been in tears over it, certain Anne would be caught and punished severely. But in Anne's opinion, she'd already been somewhere worse than the hang man's noose and so long as she was here and not there, she didn't have too much to complain about.
It was a feat unmatched by anyone they knew. Not even brave Silas Mills- an older boy who had once peed on the fine shoes of an honest to goodness Earl just for sneering at him- could have done this. And seeing as Silas had died of the pox near a year ago and Anne had survived the same bout of it- as proven by the pockmarks hidden among her many freckles, one on her chin and another just above her left brow- that made her even more impressive than Silas still. But this wasn't about him. He had never returned to the others, pockets full of warm biscuits or sliced ham and cheese, even wrapped in a nicely embroidered handkerchief. Anne was sure her achievements would far outweigh any championed by others of Silas's calibre for years to come.
She crept through the large, flawlessly maintained garden, moonlight illuminating the stone pathway and the sleeping flowers that lined it. Anne had always thought flowers to be something of a waste of soil. They were pretty, of course, but if she had the choice between roses and her own source of food? One that would be rightfully hers and that no one could take? Well, weren't supposed to take, anyway. The choice was obvious. But seeing how there wasn't much that was rightfully hers, she was rather happily resigned to taking what was rightfully others.
It wasn't too late yet, there were still candles lit about the house, creating a warm glow in each window. Anne knew little of the Dawson family except that they were rich nobles and tended to be what the upper classes called 'eccentric' and what Andrew had called 'total nutters'.
They seemed to spend more time in some country manor house than they ever did in London. She was reluctant for the day that they left again to come. They'd take all the food with them and she'd have to find another foolish lot to pilfer. She'd have made it look easy, of course, but she would have rather avoided the trouble.
She slipped up to the side of the house, listening for the sounds of life inside. She could hear chatter somewhere within but nowhere close. There was a staff of at least four and they were much more likely to stumble upon Anne than either of the rich father and daughter.
Servants were more observant too, Anne thought. She'd never been one herself but Sam's mother- who had died giving birth to a brother a few years ago that had died himself two days later- had been a maid her whole life and according to him, servants knew and heard practically everything about the houses they served in and the families that owned them.
She peaked her head up, vivid green eyes peering into the kitchen and was immediately hit by the smell of fresh cooking bread and herbs. The warmth inside contrasted so starkly with the frigid night air that it was like looking into another world. Anne supposed that she was.
She leaned her head in further, looking over at the open door on the other side of the kitchen that led into the rest of the house. Kitchens were rarely left unattended for long, especially so early in the night and especially when there was an iron kettlebrewing on the stove.
She was still debating when to make her move when she heard the sound of footsteps and quickly ducked back down. She heard the door open next and what was presumably a servant entering and beginning to prepare tea.
Anne pressed her back against the stone wall and looked up into the shining moon, pale against the black of night, heart hammering away in her chest. Patience was a valuable skill for a thief to be sure but the overwhelmingly seven-year-old part of herself would not be ignored and she started counting all the stars that she could see...However, ten was as high as she could count so every time she reached nine she had to start over at one again and that quickly became a dull affair.
By the time she finally heard the door again, she'd resorted to yanking one of the ratty ginger curls hanging down over her forehead, watching it straighten and then spring into a spiral again.Her hair was much brighter than it appeared, knotted and thick with grime, but in her manner of life, it was really one of her lesser most concerns.
Soon enough, she was listening to the footsteps as they faded and a grin spread across her face. She braced her hands on the window sill and hoisted herself up, feet pushing off the wall, lifting her higher. It took a few tries but she managed to get herself high enough to get on her stomach and wriggle herself over.
She carefully slid down off the sill, green eyes keeping a careful watch on the door as she went straight for the pantry. She'd decided what she would take the last time she'd been here. This trip would be bread and any cheese she could get her hands on.
As she stuffed her pockets full, she scanned the contents of the pantry, selecting what would be her next bounty when she returned. As much as she loved being impressive, she knew she couldn't just take whatever she pleased whenever she pleased. Too much or something too noticeable and they would start putting locks on things and searching for a culprit. Although the idea of someone knowing what she'd done and not having any power to stop her was rather tantalising, the idea of not being able to get more from this particular kitchen was far more pressing as made evident by the low growl her stomach emitted at the sheer sight of all this food ripe for the taking.
With her pockets stuffed, it was time. She headed for the window, giddy in her triumph- but then paused. She'd caught something in the corner of her eye and turned to face it. On a table in the centre of the room, a cloth was laid out covering something suspiciously pie shaped.
She loved pie. The others loved pie. And most importantly, pie was food and they all loved food. Especially the kind of food that took the shape of pie and better yet, also tasted like pie.
The more reasonable, cautious part of her brain told her to forget the pie and leave. She had what she came for and should just be grateful for an easy win. The more audacious, damn near arrogant part of her brain pointed out once again that pie was both pie-shaped and pie flavoured and it was a very convincing argument.
Her fingers twitched and her grin returned.
She scrambled over to the table, footsteps light and picked up one corner of the cloth, lifting it as if it was an infant delicately wrapped in muslin. Although it wasn't an infant and most definitely a pie and by the smell that reached her nose, an apple pie at that.
She glanced at the window over her shoulder. If she was careful she would be able to get out without dropping it, but an entire pie did not equate to a handful of bread and would not be so easily missed. This was irresistibly fresh, newly baked today and probably being saved for dessert. Which made Anne realize that she'd never actually had dessert before and thus all fears went out the window as she would hopefully be doing with this pie in mere moments.
Alright, so, maybe she couldn't come back for a while after this. They'd survive. They had this long, after all. Surely the others would see how an entire pie was worth it. Surely.
So, giggling to herself, she was taking the cloth to wrap the pie more snuggly when she heard those damning footsteps once more. Her heart skipped several beats and she dropped to her hands and knees, crawling under the table.As the door opened, she shifted closer to a large crate of potatoes.
A man entered. She could tell by the lack of skirt and the size of the feet. The shoes were black leather, with a shiny brass buckle on each and a small heel that clacked on the wooden flooring.
It had happened once before that Anne had found herself trapped in this particular kitchen. The cook had come in to attend a boiling soup and Anne had been stuck, curled up in the bottom shelf of the pantry for well over half an hour before she managed to escape.
She was rather good at those as well. Escapes. Which was why she was still confident she would be leaving this house tonight and returning to the others. Pie or no pie- though she would weep to lose it.
She watched as the shoes carried the man across the kitchen and over to the table, dangerously close to where Anne was. If she had wanted to, she'd have been able to reach out and tap his knee and probably give him the fright of a lifetime.
There was a moment of silence before the shoes kicked up and seemed to do some kind of happy little jig. The man appeared to be leaning over the table. Likely as interested in the pie as Anne was.
He then practically scurried across the floor and over to the other side of the kitchen. It was only for a moment as Anne heard a drawer open and close, accompanied by the metallic clink of cutlery. Then he was scurrying back over to the table. She realised with great frustration that the man was going to eat the pie- her pie!- with her trapped there right under the table.
She could hear him giggling to himself merrily as he cut himself a slice and as he was seemingly preparing to take his first bite, the kitchen door opened.
The man froze, fork falling from his hands and clattering to the floor, just inches from where Anne was hidden. She could see the sticky sweetness covering the prongs of the metal. This was not good.
The woman at the door, a maid of about forty years with dark hair and even darker eyes stared at her employer with an expression that quite clearly said, 'I'm not surprised, but I am disappointed'.
"My Lord." She sighed heavily, stepping into the kitchen. "I was just about to take that out to you."
"Ah..." The man giggled again, this time nervously.
"Really, sir..." The maid tutted and marched up to the table, bending down to pick up the fork and-
Made direct eye contact with Anne under the table.
The maid screamed and the man yelped at said scream.
Anne decided that it was time to go and rolled out from under the table. She then sprung to her feet and bolted towards the open window. It was so close. So, so, close. She had both hands and one leg on the sill when she felt fingers curl into the back of her threadbare jacket.
She was yanked away from the window, feet several inches from the ground. Immediately she began to struggle against the hold, twisting this way and that, clawing at the single hand restraining her. But the thing about being a seven-year-old street rat, was that, while a spectacular thief, she wasn't very strong and probably weighed very little more than the pie she had been so intent on eating tonight.
"Let me go! Let me go!" She hissed at her captor like a feral cat, kicking her legs wildly, the struggling causing a chunk of bread to fall from her trouser pockets.
"This must be the little crook who's been stealing from the kitchen!" The maid exclaimed.
"Oh, really?" The man blinked owlishly. He then held up the still struggling Anne a little higher off the ground. "You listen here now, child. I'd usually advise that if you want something, you should use your manners and ask for it...But since you're so put off by being caught and having all your effort wasted...How about a slice of pie?"
Anne froze, staring at the man whom she could now see was almost beyond middle-aged, grey-bearded and wrinkled but not at all ancient.
The maid stared at the man as well, looking as though she very much disagreed and wanted to smack the both of them.
This was weird. Extremely weird even. Why was he offering her some of the pie she was going to steal and not locking her up to be hung by the neck until dead? And then, because Anne had always had slightly more gall than brains, she asked with a sneer;
"You crazy or somethin', old man?"
The man just smiled at her, blue eyes twinkling kindly.
"Well, that would depend on who you ask."
"I'm askin' you."
"Sanity is relative, dear child."
"I don't know what that means."
"It's no matter." The man carefully lowered her onto the floor but kept his grip on her jacket. "Now, what do you say to that pie?"
"Begging your pardon, My Lord." The maid sighed again- Anne got the sense she did so often. "But we should really have a firmer hand here. This 'dear child' has been breaking in and putting their grubby little thieving hands all over the kitchen for months now."
"Gotta' eat, don't I?" Anne grumbled under her breath.
"Now, now, Ruth." The man pouted at the maid. "I don't think there's a need to be quite so harsh when the child's just doing what they can to survive."
Anne gapped at the man as though he'd grown a second head. The maid didn't seem half as surprised by his lax attitude.
"Well, forgive my harshness, sir, but what should be done with her?"
"Pie, of course!" The man exclaimed warmly. "Bring two slices into the sitting room, would you Ruth?"
"Huh?" Anne blinked twice, struggling to make sense of what was happening.
Andrew was right. He was a total nutter.
The man's hand shifted from Anne's jacket to her shoulder and he steered her through the kitchen door with a giddy little hop in his step. She was sure this must have been some sick joke. Certain that he was just luring her into a false sense of security long enough to have Ruth run for help. What else could this possibly be?
She ducked her head low, crossing her arms over her chest with a grunt. She wasn't going to be played like this. Not her. She was better than that. She wasn't going to get caught up with how ridiculously soft the lush carpeting felt under her bare feet or how inviting that armchair near the warm fire looked as they entered the sitting room. Nope. Not her.
"Do sit, dear child." The man gestured for her to do so as he knelt in front of the fireplace to throw on another log.
For a moment, Anne just stared at his hunched back. This was her opportunity, wasn't it? His back was turned. She could have shoved him and run. The room had two windows, the one nearest was even already open an inch or two. This was it. This was her chance. So, why did she sit instead? Why did she sink into the plush upholstery instead of taking it?
Maybe she was a total nutter as well.
The man stood and immediately launched into the softest spoken scolding Anne had ever received in all her seven years. He told her that what she was doing was dangerous, that many thieves lost their freedom before long, not to mention their hands, that if she didn't have any family she should have been in the care of an orphanage. It was the most bizarrely gentle action of displeasure she had ever witnessed. He didn't once raise his voice or even threaten her with punishment. She wondered how this old loon ever got anyone to listen to him.
The maid bought in the pie halfway through the lecture and he was only mildly restrained as he ate. At that point, Anne forget he was even speaking, lost in the flavour of the pastry and spiced apple and God, would the others be riddled with envy when she told them of this; The Strangest Occurrence in Her Life.
Anne had all but inhaled her slice, having not eaten so much in one sitting in a very long time. She was licking her fingers when a figure just a few inches taller than herself bounded into the room.
"Papa, are you talking to yourself agai-" The older girl, dressed in a heavily frilled white nightgown, immediately struck Anne as appearing absurdly angel-like.
Her big blue eyes looked Anne over curiously, shining golden waves of hair flowing free down her back. She couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve but Anne was certain she must have possessed ancient knowledge of times long passed, handed down to her by the fairy royalty she must have descended from.
"Ah, dearest, come and say hello." The man waved her over eagerly
The girl did as she was told, having seemingly no reservations as she gave a graceful curtsy.
"This is my daughter Rosie-Roe." He said. "And, darling, this is my new frien- oh, forgive my rudeness! I haven't asked for your name at all, have I?"
"Papa, that should be one of the first things you ask a person you've only just met." His daughter shook her head at him disparagingly and stepped closer towards Anne with a smile. "My name is Rosamunde Dawson, though papa rarely ever uses it. It's German. Like my mother was. And may I ask who you are?"
Anne glanced from the angelic girl to her father, beginning to wonder if there had been more than apple in that pie.
"...Anne."
"And where are you from Anne?"
"Oh, ya know. Around." Anna gestured about vaguely.
If the girl found the reply odd she didn't show as such.
"And your parents? It's getting rather late, won't they be worried about you?"
"Don't got any parents to worry."
"I see. Have you any family at all? Who's taking care of you?"
Anne frowned.
"I can take care of meself."
"Ah." Rosamunde inched nearer and as she reached out a perfectly pink hand, Anne froze.
The older girl placed her palm to the side of Anne's face, not appearing bothered by the filth and soot caked there. Her sweet smile only broadened. Anne was utterly mystified. The older girl's hand was so soft against her skin that she thought she mustn't have so much as once needed to lift her own fork in all her life.
And then, proving that despite her otherworldly appearance and politeness, she was just as absurd as the man who had raised her, Rosamunde turned to her father and said in prefect confidence;
"Can we keep her, papa?"
"Huh?" Anne slapped the girl's hand away in alarm.
"She's not a pet, dearest." The man chuckled.
"But can't she stay with us?" Rosamunde's pretty blue eyes sparkled hopefully. "We could look after her, couldn't we? She could be my dear little sister and we could share a room and playthings and I would care for her always. I promise I can do it, papa, please let me."
"I've no doubt that you could, my sweet," Her father eyed her sympathetically. "but this is not a question for me to answer. Such a thing must only be decided by Anne, should it not?"
"Oh, please say you will?" Rosamund turned back to Anne pleadingly. "Even if you don't wish to be sisters, we could be the best of friends. Wouldn't you like that? We could even give you a pretty name like mine instead of plain old Anne. How about Delilah? Or Seraphina? Or perhaps Genevieve?"
"Darling, really." The man, for the first time since all this had begun, seemed truly serious. "Anne is a perfectly fine name. Did I not just tell you that she is not a pet? You cannot simply issue her a new name as you'd like."
"Name or not." Rosamunde's gaze didn't stray from Anne's, unhindered by her father's admonishment. "Please, say yes."
"I..." Anne's fingers twisted into the sleeves of her jacket.
She couldn't be serious, could she? Was she really offering her such a thing? Such a thing that Anne didn't even dare conjure in her dreams? Her green eyes darted over to the fireplace, burning so brightly. When was the last time she'd been so warm? And to be fed at the same time? And treated with kind words? Had she ever known such a thing? She couldn't recall as much.
"If Anne says no, we must accept that." The man told his daughter gently. "You cannot make this decision for her."
"But papa-"
"What..." Anne suddenly spoke up, eyes still cast into the flames. "What was that last name ye said? Gen-somethin' or other?"
"Genevieve?"Rosamunde's expression instantly brightened. "Isn't it just lovely? I've a cousin who lives in France and she has a friend namedGenevieve. Do you like it?"
"It's...pretty."
"Oh, isn't it just? And I happen it think it suits splendidly well with Dawson, wouldn't you say?"
Anne's eyes drifted back up to the girl's angelic stare.
"You're serious about this, ain't ya?" She asked, voice coming out at barely a whisper.
"Of course, I am!" Rosamund exclaimed. "Please, say you'll stay. I'd owe you forever."
Anne glanced at the man watching with quiet interest. She'd had a father once before and it hadn't gone particularly well for her. But this man...this girl...the Dawson's...the way her life had been thus far...She found herself wondering what exactly she had to lose?