"Owen! Time to go!"

A surprised squeak carried from the back room, then small feet scurried to the front of the shop. His little brother darted from between the shelves a moment later to make Arthur stifle a laugh. The boy's bright eyes and escaping smile declared just how much he had enjoyed exploring a cartography shop for the last couple of hours.

"Learn anything?"

Owen nodded quickly. "Ink from flowers! 'N two kinds of paper!"

"The other one would be 'parchment,'" Arthur supplied, unable to hide his pleasure at even the partial sentences. Barely two days meant the novelty of a talking Silent had not yet worn off. "It's easier to make yourself, which means the cartographer doesn't have to purchase paper from the factories. Mr. Hensley makes most of his stuff. This is where I learned to make that red ink you saw on my map."

"Which flower?"

"Roses." He waved a farewell at the clerk and led Owen out the door. "One of the flower sellers let me have a wilted one. I had to dry the petals, grind them up, and pour a little bit of boiling water on them. Mrs. Hudson helped with that since we don't usually have a fire in the courtyard, but it only took a couple o' days."

"Cool. Work here?"

"Eventually, I hope." He ducked a lady's wide gesturing to reach their alley shortcut. "I have to wait until he has an opening, but he promised I'd have first chance. Mr. Hensley was almost as excited as I the first time I entered his shop. Mr. Thatcher paid me a high compliment when he described my map."

The hint of a frown announced Owen did not understand something. "Mr. Thatcher?"

"Paul Thatcher. He's a famous cartographer, but we met him when his son, Max, was nearly kidnapped on Montague Street. Three of us happened to be close enough to stop it. That's how we found the Haven."

"Oh." Owen failed to fully smother a flinch by ducking his head, and his bony shoulder again got in the way of Arthur's elbow. Owen still refused to talk about his time at the Haven—or much before it—but Arthur knew enough to wish he could smash Fernsby's nose into the floorboards again. Doctor Watson had let him up too quickly last time.

"Home now?" Owen asked before Arthur could find a reply.

"Yup. The others should have supper nearly ready, and then we need to work on your writing. Coming with me today means you missed the group lesson."

Owen did not seem to mind, though the mischievous comment never formed. A small hand in Arthur's indicated Owen's thoughts remained on the Haven. "You teach better."

That laugh escaped unhindered. "Well thank you, but you still need to join the group, menace." He elbowed his brother just hard enough to make his point. "We all take turns leading the lessons because everyone teaches a little differently. You might understand Tim's lesson more easily than mine, but you won't know if you don't try. You think you can join the others tomorrow?"

A tilt of his head considered that. "Maybe."

That would have to do. Arthur shook his head but made no reply, tugging Owen's hand to guide him around a corner. Aside from still refusing to speak in more than choppy, partial sentences, Owen barely knew his letters and could not yet read or write with anything approaching competence, nor did he know any number higher than about eight. He still had a long path before he reached the level of his agemates.

Arthur would help, though, as would everyone else in their crowded courtyard. Despite hiding in his corner for the first two weeks, private lessons meant Owen had quickly caught up with the others from that dreadful place, and he had already shown the motivation to improve. Arthur could continue their study sessions until Owen grew comfortable enough to learn on his own. They had years of stories to catch up on, anyway. Maybe today he could convince Owen to share something about his own life from the last several years. He had barely relayed pieces so far, and while Arthur knew that came more from slowly healing trauma than a true desire to conceal, he still wanted to know everything about his baby brother.

"Does job mean move?"

"What?" he asked reflexively, the question breaking him out of his thoughts. Horror bloomed the moment words clicked to meaning. "No! Of course not. Why would it? You know George works for Master Anderson and still lives in the courtyard, and he's not the only one."

Owen kept his eyes on his feet, walking inches away though his smaller hand no longer gripped Arthur's. This had been bothering him most of the day, if not longer.

"Empty room for apprentice. Not brother."

Not brother?! He thought—

"Owen." Shocked grief made the word sound more like a gasp, and Arthur quickly halted the younger boy's progress down the alley to pull him into a rough hug. "Just because Mr. Hensley has an empty room does not mean I will take it."

No answer. Owen did not fight the embrace, but he did not return it, either. The tension still lining his shoulders sparked another thought. "And no one's gonna kick me out of the courtyard, you hear? I meant it when promised I would not leave you. I'm not losing my little brother again."

Owen released something between a sob and a laugh, but small arms slowly wrapped around Arthur's middle. "Age out at fifteenish. Due."

"Not always. Jackson stayed until Doris and Jimmy were seventeen, which put him well into his twenties. No one cares how long we live here, just that we keep helping. If I can't help Run because I'm at work, then I contribute some of my wages for food and make a map if someone needs it. You've heard George promise to make stuff when he finishes his forge."

Owen hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." Arthur caught himself squeezing rather too tightly and forced his grip to loosen. "I went too many years without my brother. I'm not giving you up now, and no one's gonna try to make me."

Fearful tension slowly drained from Owen's shoulders, but he maintained the embrace for another couple of seconds before renewing his death grip on Arthur's hand. "Hold you to that."

"Good." Worry kept Arthur's attention on his brother as they resumed walking. "What brought this on? Did I do something?"

Owen shook his head despite his continued hold on Arthur's hand. "Age. Map shop. Apprentice room."

Someone had mentioned the typical aging out range, that said, and Owen had assigned the information to Arthur, along with Arthur's interest in cartography. He would have a talk with Tim about giving new arrivals incomplete information.

"There's always more to a decision than a black and white line, Owen. Yes, Irregulars usually leave at around fifteen, but that's only because most jobs won't take us any younger. Nobody gave an age we have to move out, and I think I'll probably stay until you can find work. Then we can get lodgings together like the Jacksons did." A thought occurred to make him lightly squeeze Owen's hand. "I bet Tim and Jones rather like having a few older boys around, too. You know both of them are closer to your age."

Yes, Owen did know that, and a faint smile said he understood the point Arthur left unspoken. Since Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson had seen fit to let them live far more freely than most children did, all choices—and the accompanying consequences—were their own. Arthur would not be expected to leave any more than Owen had been expected to talk before he was ready.

And a slight but obvious change in Owen's posture said he did not want to discuss this in a strange alley. Arthur found a different topic. "Have you started thinking about what you want to study first?"

Owen's mouth turned down beneath heavy thought. "Plants," he answered after a moment. "And animals. Monkeys. Zoo?"

Arthur's concern vanished behind another wide smile, because of course Owen would want to start with their first conversation. "After I get a job," he promised. "The zoo needs money to get in, and I doubt Mr. Holmes will have another case there any time soon. We don't have to go to the zoo to study animals, though. The library—Woah!"

His shoe caught an unexpected obstacle, effectively destroying the balance already tenuous from watching his brother instead of his feet. Arthur weighed too much for Owen's hurried counter to make a difference, and they ended up in a heap on the ground, Arthur on top.

"Owen!" Shallow pain in Arthur's knee faded from awareness as he quickly pushed himself off his brother. "Did I hurt you?"

Owen gave a silent negative, though he needed a moment to find his voice. "Heavy. Why'd you trip?"

"I don't know." A quick shake confirmed nothing broken, and with Owen unhurt, Arthur shifted to look back along the wall. The alleys in this area usually stayed relatively free of debris. Could someone have thrown out something useful?

No. A leg lay across his path. Curiosity changed to a shot of urgency.

"Hey!"

He lunged forward as Owen jumped, but the small boy curled against the wall never moved even when Arthur roughly shook his shoulder. Sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones joined atrophied muscles to declare him well over a month without enough food. How this boy had escaped notice for so long, Arthur had no idea, but the fever reddening his cheeks said he needed help now. Hands under his shoulders quickly lifted the boy's upper body.

"Grab his feet."

Owen lurched into motion, snapped out of his stunned staring by Arthur's tone. A moment saw them hurrying down the alley toward the next street, and Arthur took the lead to let Owen run forwards. The handicap would even their speeds a bit.

Not by much, though. Owen's question emerged a breathless gasp. "Where?"

Even his brother's heavy breathing could not make Arthur slow his pace. "The elder Mr. Holmes lives less than a mile from here. Can you make it?"

He would have to throw the boy over his shoulder and run if not, but Owen immediately nodded. "He needs help. Just—fast."

Something more than exertion lay beneath that admission. A glance found Owen nearly sprinting to keep up with him. "Don't hurt yourself. I can carry him if I have to. You know I'll come back for you as soon as I get him to Mr. Holmes."

Owen merely glared, the stubbornness tightening his jaw more than enough to declare that he would not be staying behind. Not willingly. He would follow Arthur—and help their newest Irregular—until Arthur forced him to stop for fear of injury.

Arthur let a wide smile convey his pride. Despite his age and all he had endured—or perhaps because of it—Owen carried the sense of honor and integrity that was more important than any book learning. He would be perfectly fine with time.

The boy in their arms might not, however, and Arthur led them through the labyrinth of alleys until they reached a wide street. The guard on the next corner announced Mr. Holmes had—unusually—returned to his rooms early tonight. Arthur shifted his grip on the boy to knock as hard as he could.

Silence answered him. The heel of his hand protested another knock. "Mr. Holmes!"

Still nothing, but another guard let his shadow stretch around the alley wall. Could the adult be in trouble, too?

"Mr. Holmes, help!"

Uh oh. Looks like Leonard and Mycroft might both be in trouble. Why do you think Mycroft broke his routine?

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