"Fagin will make something of you, though, or you'll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You'd better begin at once; for you'll come to the trade long before you think of it; and you're only losing time, Oliver." - Oliver Twist, Chapter 18, 'How Oliver Passed His Time in the Improving Society of his Reputable Friends.'
Sitting in his bed, ensconced by a thick goose down quilt, woollen blankets, and sheathed comfortably in a soft, stark-white nightgown, Oliver contemplated Dodger's parting words to him, as they bid one another goodnight. The phrase churned in his mind repeatedly as the fatigue of his journey finally began to set in.''Fagin will make something of you.'' He hadn't expected, upon his arrival at the Clever Dogs, to be groomed into prostitution. The exterior of the establishment was unassuming; like some other London tavern or public house, it was plainly painted, with translucent leaded windows, a few window boxes endeavouring to grow; and a smattering of patrons in its main salon. Even his meeting with Fagin, the mysterious man who ran the house, did not rouse any suspicions in the boy. The red-headed man, slightly older, a little frail, was not dressed as smartly as Oliver would have expected of an innkeeper or landlord, though Oliver supposed the miser may have been thriftier than was typical. Only the insalubrious cries tickling through cracks in the doors gave Oliver a notion of the house's true nature. After that, he protested. He did! He came to London for safety and fortune, not to be groped and grabbed at, touched and tasted and defiled. But what other choice did he have? The offer of a bed for the night, at the least, food in his aching belly was impossible to reject. He now had to use this time to consider Fagin's tender of employment.
He shook his head and sighed, turning onto his side, gazing into the dancing flames of the candle. Another thing he had to pay for. Fagin's induction process to the brothel was confusing and complex. He was free to explore the building (escorted, of course, by one of his chaperones), but was not allowed to receive clients until a contract had been drawn up; Oliver automatically owed the pimp a fee for bed and board; linen hire, until he purchased his own; laundry fee; finder's fee (to be paid to the Artful Dodger); and candle hire; a protection payment was also being arranged, because, in Fagin's words, ''you're far too pretty an acquisition to go undefended, Oliver, my dear.'' He had been coaxed into hiring the highest-quality linen of the house, the thickest quilt, and had been installed in a blank room on the second floor, just above that of Dodger's and Nancy's. Oliver had assumed their relationship was more than platonic from the outset. The pair were a little too convincing in their efforts to merely be seen as friends. Besides, he wasn't blind: he saw the love they shared, and envied it. His introduction in the brothel office left Oliver feeling cold. Fagin shook his hand with a sly wink and offered him a seat, plying his tale of circumstances with lemonade and biscuits. Thereafter, Oliver had been taken on a tour of the building, offered a glass of gin by one of the barmaids (which he politely discarded), and then returned to the bureau, whence he was appraised and categorised. Fagin had been present again, of course, but the boy's panel also included Dodger (his 'finder'), Nancy, and the truculent trader of flesh, Bill Sykes, whose sleazy companion, Bullseye, was also in attendance. All of them examined his body for pox marks, blemishes, assessed his development, his looks, and ultimately discussed how best to market him. His innocent face, with a sweet nose and soft features contrasted by gentle, melancholy green eyes inspired an innocuous seductiveness, according to the pimp. Bill and Bullseye were eager to capitalise on his size, suggesting Oliver may be marketed toward sodomites; a corruptible presence in a room, tempting any man who had never tried dipping his wick in a tight boy. The entire charade reminded Oliver of his hawking in by Mr Bumble. Every potential master had examined him for any imperfection, any flaw that might deter them from making a purchase.
On the opposite side of the room, Nancy and Dodger had both sat awkwardly, not wishing to put their observations to the forum. They eventually put forward that focusing on Oliver's diminutive size and his lugubrious features might make him appealing to clients. An unassuming youth, the rival of Ganymede or Apollo in countenance. He was as undiscerning as Hermaphrodite - appealing to all. The mere thought of it, of being pressed to purchase by men and women alike, nauseated him to depths previously unknown. Oliver reeled, moving quickly to locate a chamberpot 'neath the bed, and emptied his gut until all he could bring up was bile. He wiped his mouth with a cloth, and swilled the taste away with a little water. As he returned to bed, he sobbed. ''I don't want to be a whore.'', he mumbled simply, drawing the covers around himself and weeping into his arms. Oliver remained recusant. He would not be a molly-boy, a gigolo. Even returning to chimney sweeping would be preferable. A gentle knock at his door went unnoticed; two figures made their way into his room, creeping across the rugs on the floor toward his bed, and assumed position either side of him. They observed until he slipped into a deep sleep, soothed by the weight of his covers. His chamberpot was emptied and rinsed out, his covers tucked in a little tighter. The first visitor sighed.
''He's not ready. He won't be for a while. There's no way he'd be able to see clients like this. They'd break him from the start - especially if his first was a man. He's so frail, and defenceless, and-''
''It sounds like he needs some tutelage then, my sweet.''
Oliver's candle was extinguished and the figures remained, making plans by moonlight through the night, leaving only at the peal of St Bart's five o'clock bell.