Friday came and hope dwindled away to nothing for the elder Banks siblings. Oddly, the loss of hope left behind a strange peace. There was nothing more to search for. No more stress and failure after failure. There was regret, perhaps, but in the wake of all that anxiety and fear and sadness, regret was small and easy. And maybe they did have until midnight, but with all the packing they had done they had managed to search every single place in the entire house and were now absolutely certain that there were no papers to be found. Not there. Maybe the papers had been thrown away, years ago, by mistake. Maybe the wind had swept them off one windy afternoon when the window was open and they were long destroyed. Maybe they had never existed in the first place and Michael and Jane had only thought they had.

They were not in the house, and soon the house would be empty of all their memories and personal items and be left to the wolves to devour. It was freeing, in a way. It was time to let go.

By comparison, William Weatherall Wilkins was feeling such a jumble of mixed emotions that in many ways it came across as an illness. He wanted Michael Banks' house, and soon he would have it. Even better, he would come off as a kind and generous man, having given the man all the time he could give. There was a small fear, of course, that the shares might actually be found, but by this point it was clear that Mr. Banks had no idea where they had been mislaid. If they were going to turn up, they'd have turned up already. Wilkins was already feeling that heady sensation of winning, and not just winning, but winning and leaving the losers to shake your hand and comment on what a find person you were. He was rich enough, the bank doing well enough, that one foreclosed house wasn't really of any importance, even in these trying times. No, it was winning the game that he was after.

He made money, as a sort of way of keeping score, and he collected people in the same way others might collect stamps. People who felt in his debt, who he could use, even if the use was only to show off how benevolent and wonderful he was. It was his people collection, more than any riches, that led to him sitting behind his desk, acting as director of the bank. Technically, Richard Dawes, Jr. was still the director of the bank. He had never actually resigned and he had certainly never actually assigned the position to Wilkins in any capacity. But as he had come less and less to the bank, his old age combined with all the disappointments of life getting to him, Wilkins had seen an opportunity.

It did not take too many whispers into the right ears, or encouraged fawning among his people collection, for Wilkins to be accepted as a stand-in. At this point, people came to him for all business, not Richard Dawes, Jr., and as far as Wilkins could tell the man hadn't even noticed. Perhaps his rumors of senility were less unfounded than he had assumed when he spread them. The man he talked to at least once a week was depressed and tired, but able to carry a perfectly sensible conversation.

So Wilkins felt elated, and hopeful, that anxious sort of hope knowing that the trap is not fully sprung but that the rabbit had a paw in the snare, and any wrong movement now would send it bolting. And then there was the situation with his newly appointed guard, and the task he had set for him. And that made him feel anxious, and hopeful, and, though he himself hadn't known he was capable, guilty, at least a little bit. He felt a big ball of all those emotions that came inbetween placing the bet and showing his hand to collect the winnings…or lose big.

Wilkins had a secret, well, many secrets. But this one was inherited from his own father. Everyone knew the story, of course, of little Richard Dawes III going missing, of the whole country looking for him, a ridiculously high reward for his return. Wilkins the senior had complained and grumbled over how overpriced the little whelp was. Not to just anyone, of course, but in the safety of his own home. Wilkins was only about six years old himself, and already talented at listening in and gathering information.

"Bribes are chancy enough, without that kind of incentive to turn," Wilkins senior grumbled. "Why can't he be sensible; the brat isn't worth that, what with the breeding. And Dawes can't have thought we'd let his little mongrel into our Bank, riding his Daddy's coattails like a little prince. He did it on purpose; robbing his own nephew of the inheritance. Can't stand it all leaving the family name. Richard Dawes the third. As if he is anything special. So my William isn't a little lord, he's no call to turn his nose up. Well, we set it right, didn't we? He won't see his little prince again. And the brat can have the life a mongrel like him really deserves."

"I'm sure you're right," William's mother had answered. It was only them; his father knew better than to talk where the servants could hear. Well, them and William, who was hiding under a table. "But it is dangerous…I want our William to advance as well as you but…"

"But you are a woman and soft," said Mr. Wilkins. He didn't say it cruelly, just matter-of-fact. "Don't worry over it, my dear, I have it handled. If they search among the two-year-olds, well, they won't find him there. He's just advanced enough, old Dawes was always gushing over how advanced he was, so we stuck him among the three-year-olds. Shaved his stupid little curls. Gave him a new name to answer to. Made sure he'd be sent somewhere far off. With any luck, he'll be one of those shipped off to India or Australia or one of our colonies, to work some mine. And if he is found after all, there's nothing to point it back to us. I was careful there; any who know my name know better than to speak it, and it would be easy enough to discredit. Haven't I lamented with the old man over his lost child, wrung my hands that it could have been my William? And now the mongrel brat is gone and the way is clear."

William listened and understood, because he was a smart child. It would be nice to say that he did not run off and share his knowledge to get the little Richie rescued out of fear. And that was even a little bit true. He feared losing the advantage his own father had bought for him. He feared losing his father's esteem, too. His father was his idol; he learned the art of manipulation at his knee and he loved him for it. William kept absolutely silent on the matter for his entire childhood, only saying the appropriate words when the subject came up, how sad it was, how awful.

Now William Weatherall Wilkins was poised to gain everything his father had ever wanted for him. And then, one day, a lowly slave had come up to his room with the tea, looking almost like a carbon copy of a certain painting depicting Richard Dawes, Jr. from back when the man was still young, as hard as such a time was to imagine. It was only chance that Wilkins had seen the slave at all; usually it got delivered to Penny and Penny brought it to him. Wilkins was jealous of his privacy, and kept the number allowed into his office down to a minimum. But he had had reason to step out at almost the exact moment the slave had arrived.

It was a shock, and a horrible one. He'd had to excuse himself for a bit, feeling rather as if he'd seen a ghost. The boy had been sent away, so how was he here? Was it a coincidence, a slave who just resembles the director of the bank superficially? Or perhaps the old man had dabbled with a slave woman? That could be it; everyone knew it happened. But even if that were the case, was it safe to let the slave roam free? If someone else even suspected…the old man was just sentimental enough to claim him with or without proof. No, the slave had to go, and fast.

But, and this was important, Wilkins had built up his empire by cultivating a persona of kindness and generosity, backed by steel. More than that, he had made himself important. If someone important started poking into the affairs of a single slave, it would draw attention. People would want to know why. The very secret he was trying to keep covered would come out. And even worse, people would then have to ask, 'and why was Mr. Wilkins looking into it; he must have known'. At best, he'd have to say 'yes, he looked so familiar, I wondered if it could not be my lost cousin'. He'd come off looking like a hero…but lose everything. And at worst? At worst, he can't save face. At worst someone catches him in the act of trying to cover it up.

So no, he cannot have anything to do with the slave. That does not stop him from discretely asking after him. Learning a few details. His new name is Jack. He has been a slave since he was three. He spent his earliest years at a slave farm in Wales, but was returned to London when he turned seven and was trained in basic City service, showed enough skill to take on complex tasks, and so ended up as a lamplighter and postman for a time, then loaned to the bank as the bank preferred at least some of its slaves to be literate, and that was rare enough. The slave had a few disciplinary marks on his record, several moments of damage severe enough to require documentation, the most recent being during a correction by a Mr. Jones, who had been redistributed after the incident seeing as Jack was considered valuable but no one wanted to lose face by admitting fault.

After his initial panic, Wilkins realized there were solutions. It felt urgent, but after all the slave had been at the bank for years and no one had made the connection. Why should they? Slaves were invisible; no one looked at them, and unless Jack just happened to be standing right by the portrait, likely no one would notice. No one had noticed. But Wilkins was so close; Dawes couldn't last for much longer; he couldn't risk everything on no one noticing.

He got Jones reinstated, discreetly of course. Had a talk with the man, letting him know that if he wanted to act on his grudge against a certain slave, he'd be protected from repercussions. Rewarded, even. Wilkins told himself he only wanted the slave removed from the bank. That was all he needed. Even if Jack still worked in London, without his being in the bank no one would make the connection.

Of course, everything would be safer if he wasn't in London at all. If he was nowhere to be seen or noticed or found out. Or, if he must be found out, if it were too late to correct things. Mr. Richard Dawes, Jr. could finally find his son in time to bury him. With any luck, it would be the final nail on the old man's own coffin and Wilkins would be the legitimate director at last.

But Wilkins was fine with simply removing Jack, whether through injury or repeated reprimands. Only, Jones failed. He got into his own legal troubles and ran off without completing the job. So, Wilkins looked up who else had given a correction to that particular slave recently. Oddly, Michael Banks was one such person, which threw him. The very man he was trying to rob had had an incident with the very slave he was trying to get rid of?

Well, from what he knew of Michael Banks' character, he'd be of no help even if he did not like the slave in question. But there was another, Officer Johnson. And by great fortune, some goody-goody pro-slaves group with a ridiculous name had gone after Officer Johnson. By the time Wilkins reached out to him, the man had been suspended without pay for a week, putting him in prime position to be poached. And he had shown a violent temperament that suited Wilkins. With Jones, he'd have been slightly disappointed, but satisfied, if he had gotten Jack sent away rather than dead. But the problem had persisted, and now Wilkins was annoyed. With Johnson, he all but asked that he kill him.

So this Friday, Wilkins was feeling a mixture of different emotions. Hope that the trap would be sprung. Hope that an obstacle to his plans would be removed. Elation that he was winning. Nervous that something would go wrong at the last minute. Anxious at how delicately balanced everything in that moment felt. Anger, that Jones had failed him. Guilt, yes, even he could feel guilt, because there was a difference between winning people's money and killing his own cousin. Some deeply buried part, the inner child William, who adored his father and all he did for him…but knew it was wrong. The hope, the taste of victory, far outweighed the guilt.

Jack's day was going much simpler and he did not have nearly as many worries. Just as Michael and Jane found calm in accepting their loss, Jack, being at the bottom of society's ladder, not even on the first rung for there was nowhere to climb, could let go of everything he could not control and enjoy the little that he could. He had his friends, and he loved them, and they loved him. Yes, he was currently still in rather a lot of pain, but for once the City had acknowledged the injury so his friends weren't having to scramble to cover for him. And being on light duty felt a bit like a vacation.

He couldn't actually sleep in, and in fact woke up about an hour before he had to because whatever Mary Poppins had given him was wearing off, and he wasn't nearly tired enough to sleep through the growing aches all over his body. This was just as well, because he was able to get up first and mostly hide his natural reactions to how uncomfortable he was. If he woke up any of his friends and they saw anyway, well, they pretended not to notice so he was able to, very slowly and carefully, get himself dressed for the day.

The bottle Mary Poppins had sent had three spoons: two small ones labelled 'morning' and 'noon' and one larger one labelled 'bedtime'. The funny thing was that each dose had a different flavor, but the flavors were otherwise consistent. Morning's dose was brown and tasted rich and creamy, somehow bitter and sweet at the same time, and left him feeling still a bit achy but energized while muting the sharpest pains. Noon's dose was yellow, and tasted icy and lemony, and left him feeling refreshed while dulling the growing pains. Bedtime's dose was red and sweet and he felt no pain at all for hours after but felt a bit loopy and silly, and a bit sleepy. He took his morning dose, and appreciated the way the pain slowly melted away until he was no longer grimacing at every movement.

Then he woke up Angus, who had slept fitfully, at least in part because he was giving Jack space to heal, afraid if they had their beds pushed together as they often did because it was warmer, and cozier, then he might accidentally hurt Jack in his sleep. Jack woke him up and he was groggy and a bit grumpy, but with it enough to remember the day before.

"Morning, Teak. How're you feeling?" he asked, rubbing his eyes and looking Jack over at the same time, as if he could hide his worry with the action.

"A bit sore, but then I had my medicine," Jack answered, truthfully for once though 'a bit sore' was an understatement for how he'd felt when he first got up. Then, "How are you?"

There were a lot of ways Angus could have answered that. By pointing out that he was not the one who was beaten so bad the miser doctor had actually given him a day off. By admitting that he was tired from a restless night. Neither answer would help Jack, though.

"Ask me again when I'm awake," he said with an exaggerated yawn, half an admission but also how he usually was in the morning; Angus was not a morning person.

"I suppose we better wake the rest before we all miss breakfast," said Jack. Angus was not the only person running slow that morning. Jack's ordeal was getting to all of them.

Jack and Angus and their friends got their breakfast in time. After, Jack checked in with the rest, then waved his friends off as they set about turning down lamps while he had an almost unheard of leisurely time of heading for the bank.

"Report to the nurse at the Bank at your usual check-in time," instructed the overseer as he pinned a new tag to Jack's collar. The tag had two purposes; it declared Jack to be on light duties, so he could not be assigned any jobs that required a lot of physical labor, and it acted like having ten beads; any correction due could not take the form of a physical punishment. "She'll confirm the light duty and give you whatever instructions are needed."

"Yes, sir," answered Jack, and started off, slowly as he was not allowed his bicycle, towards the bank. Even so, getting to the bank was only a ten-minute walk even at Jack's slower than usual gait, and he had over an hour of no expectations before the nurse would even be at her post. He even briefly thought about swinging by SPRUCE first to talk to Jane, but firstly realized that it was a bit far for him to walk when he was supposed to be taking things easy, and secondly he remembered something about her brother and the children moving in with her this day, so she might well not even be there.

He walked to the bank instead, taking his time, spending some of his extra time just sitting by a fountain in one of the prettier spots in the city and watching people go by. Almost no one seemed to notice him. Citizens were generally either too focused on where they were going, or too uninterested in noticing a slave to notice him. One or two well-dressed individuals made displeased faces as they passed, as if Jack were a bit of trash left in an otherwise pretty locale, and one or two took in his wrapped arm and gave him a more sympathetic look, like one might give a hurt dog, but no one stopped or ordered him to move on. The slaves that passed were inclined to see him, and even to give a greeting, but they could not afford to be seen stopping for conversation and so did little more than grin or wave. Jack did not mind what the people did, just enjoyed the variety of their passing, and whistled at the birds near the fountain who were very happy to associate with him, especially after he proved to have some crumbs about his person.

Even with his long stop, he was still early when he went into the bank and the nurse was not yet in, nor even the overseer or clerks. So he went to the slave's storage room and hummed a little tune to himself while he waited for his friends to trickle in.

They did, at last, those that weren't leeries, since all the lamplighters were given leave to take much longer than usual on account of one of their number being out. And the leeries were not such fools as to not make sure they went slow, to better highlight how important it was to have all of them working.

"Morning, Frank," said Jack, from where he was perched carefully on the couch, because his pain was only dulled not gone and leaning backwards was uncomfortable for a multitude of reasons. Frank tipped his hat in turn, and went to see about getting himself some weak tea.

"I see you managed to get yourself a little vacation," Frank remarked, his tone light and teasing, and Jack responded to the tone by grinning in return.

"That I did," he agreed, "Though I don't think I'll try it too often. I'm not sure if it agrees with me."

After another half hour wherein both kept things light, even if Jack's smiles were slightly strained and he had trouble managing his own mug with one good hand and back muscles that protested even something as simple as holding a cup of tea for too long. Frank admirably pretended to not notice, and if he fussed at all, it was the same way he generally fussed over everyone, so Jack didn't mind it.

The nurse, when she did see Jack, had her usual annoyed look over being forced to do her job instead of read her magazines.

"You're on light duty. I don't know what they want me to confirm. The clinic hasn't even sent the paperwork yet, lazy lot. I'm not touching their work until I know what I'm looking at. Come back this evening, I guess, and we'll see what bandages need changing and when your duties can be increased."

In some ways, her laziness was useful. She hated the bother of signing off on illness or injury, so it took being really sick or injured for her to agree to do the paperwork that took them off duty; but she equally hated the bother of putting a slave back on duty. In some ways, it was not. Jack had actually somewhat been looking forward to her undoing the bandages. It would be painful and unpleasant, but the way they were wrapped so tightly only seemed to add to the ache in his back as well as in his chest and made it hard to breathe deeply. But he was not really surprised to be ushered out again so quickly. After standing in the hall a moment, staring at the closed door, Jack finally went to the overseer instead. After all, he was not on 'no duty'.

"Yes, I heard about your correction, nasty business, that," said Entwistle when he reported to him. "Light duty, huh? You have your pick; the other lamplighters are all running late so most duties are still open. Oh, don't look so worried; they sent word they'd have an extra hour to turn up in before they are marked as late. How about the mail room, that's just reading, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," said Jack, carefully not making a face at the prospect, "Except for delivering the mail."

"Oh…right," Entwistle muttered, tapping his book. "I guess not janitor, and greeter is a lot of standing which I suppose you would rather avoid…they also want a sweep today but that is right out…you could do the tearoom. Lots of time doing nothing but waiting around, and when you are needed it's just pushing a cart and getting to use the lift; that would still be light enough, I suppose?" Then, before Jack could say anything to agree or disagree, he kept on, "You lot are always fighting to get tearoom duty, too, so I guess it must be light work. Yes, tearoom it will be." And he marked Jack down for tearoom duty. "You will probably have a partner before long, but for now you're on your own."

"Thank you, sir," Jack said, glad that Entwistle hadn't realized that, as there were usually more than one assigned to the mailroom, Jack wouldn't have had to run around there either. He much preferred the tearoom.

Sitting in the tearoom alone was rather less comfortable. If he were honest, he somewhat wished he could lie down again. Then again, when he was lying down, he found himself wishing to be upright. What he really wanted was a way to rest without putting a strain on anything, but that was near impossible. He supposed he just had to resign himself to being uncomfortable until he healed.

The day felt strange, being on light duty and everyone else being on prolonged hours, as if he and his friends had gotten out of sync. Freddie joined him, as the morning progressed, after Jack had delivered morning tea to three different offices on his own, and was somewhat beginning to question if pushing a laden cart was really as light a duty as Entwistle had assumed, particularly one handed.

"I need to do the next three, then, to catch up," Freddie had insisted, and Jack accepted readily and without having to admit that he was worn out just from what little work he had already done. He wasn't fooling Freddie, of course, but he could pretend. For a while he was in sync with his friend again, but then lunch break came, and Jack didn't have a leerie's longer break, so he got much less time than he was accustomed to before he had to continue on. And of course Freddie was out, so it was just Jack, again.

Luckily, not many asked for refreshments when they could instead have their own lunch, so everything was quiet. Jack wondered if the bank were always this quiet during this hour, when he was usually away. The slave break room was empty, and those who were not leeries had been assigned to the more critical posts, like greeter, that could not wait for the rest of the slaves to return. Even Entwistle and the two clerks were gone; the overseer had yet to return from his own meal and the clerk who signed Jack in left shortly after, since no one else should be signing in for another hour.

No one rang for refreshment. No low murmur of voices or activity came from next door. Everything was so still and quiet, Jack began to feel like he might be the only living soul on his entire floor. Maybe he was. The nurse liked long breaks, too.

So when the phone actually rang, Jack almost dropped the cup of tea that he was carefully sipping over the sink, then winced. He'd taken his noon medicine, of course, so he was not as sore as he could have been, but it wasn't enough to stop the sharp pain that movement had inspired. Holding his bad arm to his ribs, and setting his teacup down in the water, he quickly answered.

"Teaboy, we're wanting a plate of sandwiches, a pot of tea, four cups and saucers, and some biscuits to the guard room. There two of you today?"

"Er…no. No, sir," Jack stammered, already mentally preparing for what he'd need to gather and slightly thrown by the unusual question. People rarely asked how many were serving in the tearoom unless no one answered their first call or they felt otherwise slighted. No one liked having to wait. Then, in case the first no could be misconstrued, "Just me today, sir, but I will bring it as quick as I am able."

"What's your name, teaboy?" the gruff voice over the phone asked, one of the guards Jack supposed. Those were all free Citizens, seeing as no one trusted slaves with something so important. Kind of stupid, if you asked Jack. Big Sean was just as big and intimidating as any guard on staff, and slaves cannot be bribed seeing as they had no use for money. Still, people got funny ideas over what a slave might get up to if put in any position of authority. The guard being a Citizen made his questions all the stranger, because a Citizen asking for a slave's name was almost never to the benefit of the slave.

"My name is Jack, sir," said Jack, carefully respectful, because someone asking questions might be someone looking for trouble, and Jack had had all the trouble he wanted for a lifetime.

"City Slave 556021?"

"Er…yes. That's right, sir," Jack agreed, feeling creeped out and suddenly wishing he was not the only slave on duty. He waited to see if there was to be a threat or reprimand or something, but none came.

"Alright," said the voice. "You make sure that tea is hot, mind."

"Of course, sir," said Jack. "I will be right up."

The guard hung up and Jack followed, then deftly, or as deftly as he could with one good arm, started setting out the requested items. He allowed himself to fall into the rhythm of it, to let go of the unease that had filled him over the creepy questions. It was just tea to the guard's room. That was normal. Likely they hadn't been allowed on break and were hungry. The kettle was set to boil, which didn't take long as it was always kept hot, and the cups arranged and the biscuits laid out.

The kettle was only just starting to sing when the door to the tearoom opened. Jack, who was busily sorting out sandwiches, barely noticed. If he thought anything, it was that Freddie had finally returned. Except…it was far too early for that…

By the time he looked up and saw who had actually come in, it was already too late. He had just enough time to see the man dressed as a bank security guard, just enough time to recognize him as the officer who had beaten him, before the tray he'd been about to lay the sandwiches on was snatched right out of Jack's hands and used to smack him across the head, catching him across his temple to the left of his eye.

Jack never fully understood what was coming before it hit, and then there was a long moment when he understood almost nothing. He wasn't unconscious, but he had no real memory between seeing it coming for him and being on the floor, a cold feeling throughout his entire body, not pain but the moment before pain hits, and then literal stars as he felt too much all at once. In fact, it was so overwhelming he didn't fully process it as pain. There was a sharp feeling at his temple, and in his ribs, and across his back, and the world did not make sense but was reeling around him.

Hands grabbed him, dragged him up, and if he struggled it was without any input from his own brain because his brain felt too rattled and shocked to react. So he put up almost no fight, and had no full understanding of what was happening, before his head was plunged into the sink. As always, that side of the sink was kept full of water, so if anyone came in and caught a slave holding a teacup, they could claim to be washing it.

Now Jack definitely struggled, unprepared, not having even gotten a good breath before his nose and mouth were underwater, but it was too little, too late. The hands held him down, and it felt like fighting against granite, so unmoving were they against his struggles. Jack couldn't even scream, positioned as he was, or call for help. And if he could make enough noise, if he could call out, who would even come? They were alone there, completely alone, and Jack was going to die.