It wasn't even light outside when Maire woke up- it wouldn't be light out for another few hours, anyways- and there was no way she was going back to sleep.

Back home, she would've been up long ago, pulling on her sister's old boots and heading out to make sure the cows were milked before her brother took them out to pasture for the day. Of course her family didn't own the pasture they used- they were better off than most in the parish, true, but still not that well off, not with ten children to take care of- but land was land, and in her family's case, Maire knew it was better to take what you could get when you could get it, rather than complain.

Sam was still asleep, which wasn't unusual, especially once Maire found draft after draft of some article he'd been writing on the table in the small kitchen. She knew well enough what the articles were about- workers' rights and the plight of those who lived in the tenement housing of New York- and she knew the writing was good, not that any of the local papers would hire him, or even take him on as a freelance writer. Even back home, her brother's socialist tendencies got him in trouble- it was a miracle the two of them hadn't gotten into any trouble here, in America.

"Not everyone knows your auntie here," she remembered being told by the cook at the house where she worked as a maid- folks called them "bridgets" here, on account of there being so many Irishwomen in the profession. "So you haven't got to worry about them knowing if you don't want."

Maire was glad for this fact. She was glad that in America, you got a chance to start over, even if she didn't have anything really worth hiding. She was just here because her brother had offered to take her, and she wanted a chance at being something other than the middle child of ten, on a farm that her father barely inherited from his father, who barely survived an Gorta Mór. Sam was sure he could make it as a reporter over here, and Maire knew he could, if any of the papers would take someone who cared more for the workers than he did the men in suits and their heirs, and Maire…well, she wasn't sure how'd she make it, but boy, would she make it.

"Don't get ahead of yourself now," she muttered as she coaxed dark auburn curls into a neat bun. She recalled a friend of her mother's from a place called Woodfield, in Clonakilty (not far from where Maire had grown up), saying that Maire had her mother's hair, but not her eyes. Sam had their mother's eyes, the same grey-green as the roadside brush in high summer; Maire's eyes were her father's light brown, commonplace and unremarkable- just like Maire.

It was the job of maids and other domestics to be unnoticeable, to slip in and out of rooms with as much presence as air, but with enough consciousness to pay attention to what their employers asked of them. They weren't supposed to be remarkable, only efficient and quick on their toes, and quiet as a mouse.

This was Maire's life now, making beds and making tea and coffee for the wealthy middle class families of New York, the kind of people socialists like her brother despised. She did all this without complaining, because work was work, and when no paper worth its salt was going to hire a- what were the words she'd heard used to describe her brother?- "firebrand socialist" like Sam, she was the only one making any money. Someone had to take charge, and if Sam was going to spend day after day writing articles no paper would ever buy, Maire might as well go out and earn something that resembled a living.

"Dia duit, Maire," came the voice of one of her neighbors- a middle aged woman from Dublin by the name of Nora Byrne- as Maire made her way down the creaking steps of the tenement building. "You're up early."

"Good morning Mrs. Byrne," came Maire's quiet reply. Even with nine other siblings to contend with, she never was loud, and that suited her just fine in her line of work. "I'm off to work."

"Still workin' for that uptown family, are you?"

"Yes ma'am." Maire checked the buttons on her coat, making sure they were done up against the chill that had settled in the air as winter approached. "Have a nice day now."

"You take care of yourself."

"I will, don't worry Mrs. Byrne."

The older woman laughed. "I shouldn't be worrying after you, I suppose," she said, shaking her head. "That brother of yours, however-"

"Sam will manage just fine, I assure you, Mrs. Byrne." Maire couldn't help but laugh herself- quietly, almost like she didn't want the older woman to hear. "I really must be going. I can't be late."

"No, of course not- I wouldn't dream of making you late Maire. Have a good day now, and see you in the evening."

"Have a nice day."

Without another word to her neighbor, Maire hurried out the door, onto the chilly streets of New York.

The route to work was a familiar one now, one Maire traveled without ever really thinking. The sounds of the city had become familiar to her, a girl growing up in the quite countryside, and she no longer gave a start at the sounds of horses in the streets, well-shod hooves striking stone, the chatter of the other early risers like herself, or the young boys who jostled each other in the streets, arms laden with papers.

These boys, she learned, went by the job title of "newsies," and spent their mornings staking out territory to sell their wares for the rest of the days. Most of them were young, between twelve and her own seventeen, she would say if anyone asked how old she thought they were, and in all sorts of conditions. One thing was for certain though, and it was that folks cared for them less than they cared for the immigrants who inhabited the warrens of tenements of Lower Manhattan. They sold their papers and became invisible, less-than-people, maybe because of their age, or maybe it was because these were the boys no one cared for anymore.

In the mornings, the boys were quiet, though. They didn't call out headlines, not when the city was still asleep as it was when Maire made her way uptown, though sometimes they'd approach her and ask, "miss, wanna buy a pape?" Sometimes, she did, and she would keep it folded in her satchel until she arrived home, or a rare moment when she wasn't being called on to do some task that every other servant thought was beneath them.

This morning, of all mornings, however, was different. There was no young fellow with a stack of papers over his arms to seek her out, no voice calling out the headlines- today it would be about the race riots in Wilmington, North Carolina (a place as foreign to Maire as China or even England), which, she understood, were beginning to quiet down at last. The silence was strange, and for a moment she dismissed it, until she heard a noise from a side street, where no noise should be coming this time of morning.

Just keep walking, said the sensible part of her, the part that wanted to keep her job, the part that had to get to work and start cleaning every inch of a glittering uptown mansion.

Another part of her- the part that remembered the tale of the Good Samaritan as she'd learned it back home- told her to investigate, to make sure whoever (or whatever) made the noise was okay.

Just one look, said the kinder part of her, and then you can be on your way. It won't do any harm, now will it? Just a quick look, and then right back on your way.

Maire let herself take a detour down the side street, where she found a boy who couldn't be any older than herself, with dark hair that had once (perhaps as early as this morning?) been neatly combed and a black eye that looked like it was just starting to go down. She noticed too, a stack of papers lying every which way nearby.

"Are you alright?" she finally asked, running to put the papers back in order, the part of her that was ready to go to work in the mansion of her employer propelling her forward.

"Sure I am!" came the boy's response, and he rubbed his black eye- didn't even wince. "Better now that there's a fine thing such as yourself here."

"Oh shove it," Maire hissed, tossing him his papers. "Can a girl do a kind turn without being treated indecent? I have a job y'know, a respectable one."

"Pardon me, princess." The boy laughed, and made a sweeping bow. "They don't calls me Romeo for nuthin'. Ask any of the lassies on this street- they all knows my name."

"My name isn't "princess." It's Maire, and if you'd excuse me, Mr. Romeo, I'd best be getting on. Glad to see you're alright so."

"'Course I'se alright," Romeo said with a smirk. "I'se as tough as nails. They can't keep me down for long, you know. No one keeps Romeo down, you'll see."

She couldn't help but smile. There was no discouraging him, was there? "Suppose not," she said, shaping the smile into a smirk as she tossed the newsie a nickle, a gesture to which he responded by tossing her a paper. "Good day then."

Romeo wrinkled his nose and pocketed the coin. "Good day yourself, princess."

Maire didn't correct him. She was running late as it was, and it would only mean trouble for her if she was late.

A/N: So there's chapter two folks! Thank you so much for reading and I'd love some feedback from you guys. As you can see here, we've got Romeo in the picture now, with more of our favorite newsies to follow shortly.

Thank you~