Do You Hear the Children Weeping

Maude chuckles with them, feeling her shoulders starting to relax a little. It was always a little bright around Polly, jokes were easier and laughing was not a distant thing. How Polly did that, Maude couldn’t know and she suspected they didn’t even knew their ability of making the world seem a bit better, nonetheless, Maude was grateful. They were a reminder of the existence of good things that had to be protected, it was so easy to fall into dark holes and become cold and distant, law and oaths becoming nothing more than mere words written on a paper.

❝ Work can be stressful sometimes” she answers evasively, not wanting to admit her tiredness. ❝ I’m glad you helped that barmaid, I was afraid of her collapsing. ❞  she admits, wincing while thinking of the deep shadows under that barmaid’s eyes. It was also good that Polly had earned a bit of money while helping ❝ After waiting for the morning to come, I’ll have to go back to the police station and then hopefully I’ll have a few hours to rest.” she explains already dreading the reports, she once enjoyed writing them, however lately they were distracting things. They were more fun when she had actually interesting things to report. ❝ Polly, I have to ask, have you seen or heard anything strange lately? Stranger than usual? ❞ Maude asks, her playfulness suddenly substituted by seriousness.

.

Safety was not a feeling Polly knew well. They had spent their life looking over their shoulder, waiting for the eternal threat of something to make itself known, staying alert and aware so danger didn’t come too close. The danger was upon them, now, so close that they could almost feel it’s figurative breath on their neck. There were very few places where they actually felt safe. One was inside The Final Rest, tucked amongst the peaceful quiet of Rahat’s coffins. The second was in Lucian’s presence. In childhood, he had been their salvation, and that comfort had followed them into adulthood. 

The third was under Maude Lytton’s gaze. 

It was a funny thing, really. The Detective represented an organisation that was not Polly’s friend, that had more than once been an obstacle to overcome. But Maude had never treated them with anything less than kindness. She seemed to have a better grip of reality than most of the coppers Polly had met, and for that, they respected her deeply. 

They hummed under their breath, nodding their agreement. “Work is work, though. Whether its police detective or barmaid. Can’t be avoided.” Not for people without a vast fortune already to fall back upon. “Sometimes even a short nap can be a blessing, although I’m sure you’ll be grateful of an early night tomorrow.” they offered a kind smile, though it fell from their face at Maude’s next question. Despite their comfort in her presence, they were still wary of revealing too much. She was kind, but she was still able to use anything Polly said as she pleased, and that alone was worrisome. “I wish I could help you,” they were sincere in that, at least. “But I have nothing more than gossip and rumours to tell you. Stuff I’m sure you’ve heard already.” 

.

The secondary reading had been an interesting event and Lucian felt a little better for not calling upon the boy that lurked in his shadow. The words still resonated in the back of his mind, remember me, remember. But then didn’t they all want to be remembered by someone? It wasn’t a luxury of the world they lived in, but he’d speak to the spirit again next time.

It was clear the séance had proven to further unsettle Polly, they had already been ill at ease with recent events. How couldn’t they be? Considering the occupation and position they found themselves in these days, they were more at risk than anyone in this city. So, weren’t his quiet notions to capture the killer, see him swept away off the streets and into the walls of Bethlehem Hospital or even better put six feet under that more worthy of justification? Not only to keep Polly safe, but to keep all those in similar positions safe from one more person wishing harm and mutilation upon them?

He’d learned a great many years ago how to tail someone, Polly was good at slipping through the streets unnoticed but he was better. It didn’t take him long to find where they had come to rest; huddled in the shadow of crooked salt-washed buildings with the dissonant echo of creaking wood and wash of the tide in a quietly serene symphony of night. It would almost be peaceful, if not for the danger that lurked in the blackness of night. He gave them peace for a little while, content to simply observe and ready to intervene should any decide to try their luck but none seemed to choose an unwise path tonight.

Explaining why after a little while he approached deliberately ensuring his footfalls and click of his cane echoed to announce his presence. “As many times as I’m sure you’ve been asked that tonight, you know there’s no need to lie to me Pols,” he spoke softly as he drew nearer shifting to slip the long woollen coat off his shoulders lifting it up before gently draping it over their much smaller frame to keep off the chill of the night air ignoring any protest against the act before he sat down beside them. He was quiet for a moment, there was nothing to be said that would offer any true comfort in face of tonight’s revelations and he was loathe to give false pity “but you’re right, good thing he knows you’re here. Don’t know what he’d do if something happened to you.”  

. 

There was both relief and discomfort at the familiarity of Lucian’s voice. Normally, Polly would be more than glad to see him, but after tonight, their feelings were a little more complex. They weren’t sure if he wanted to talk about the séance, or the murder, or  any of the other horrible things in between, and they just weren’t sure they were up to it. 

“Did you follow me here, or do you have stuff to do?” They asked. The conviction that was in their voice when they had called out before, replaced with a shaky, uncertain quiet. “I don’t want to keep you if you’ve got things to do.” They didn’t want to think about the fact that if Lucian had tailed them here, it meant others could have. They had always assumed they  had a way with the streets of London, an innate knowledge that left them able to disappear when needed, but even those abilities were called into question. The spirit’s warning was stark, and their ears were ringing with it, everything they relied on to keep them safe suddenly called into question. 

“Don’t think you’d believe me if I tried to lie, anyway,” they pointed out. Of everyone in their life, Lucian had known them the longest, probably knew them best. They trusted him in a way they had not trusted any other since. There had been a few before - the man in the nice clothes who had spoken of taking them in as their own, only to abandon them when they had another material for some book or another they would never read, or the woman who had beckoned them in with kind words and food, only to try and cut their hair and pull their teeth when they had gotten them alone. But Lucian had put a stop to that vulnerability, pulling them under his wing, showing them a way to press forward, to survive without depending on anybody. They had done that, so far, but for how much longer? Suddenly, the whole of their life felt as though it had been coated in gunpowder, and the flames that would send everything up in smoke was edging ever nearer. 

They pulled his coat a little closer around them. The gin had warmed their bones, but this was better, something real to keep them from shivering in the Autumn air rather than relying on numbing the sensation. They unstoppered the bottle once more, drinking deeply before offering it out to him. Despite the graveness of the situation, their lips curved into something like a smile, genuinely touched. “Thank you, Lucian,” they finally turned to look at him, sniffing a little to try and compose themselves. “It’s me who’d be lost without him, though. Taught me everything I know.” 

• • •

IT IS UNFORTUNATE that Rahat had not managed to regain what rest was lost from them the night before. 

For one, Mr Doyle’s words had proven to be quite the conundrum, the incessant repetitions of which inside their mind undoubtedly having been more than enough to keep sleep at bay. The entire morning since their return, they could not help but wonder about the supposed “spirits” that had cloistered themselves within their shop — about their number, or their disposition, or their true intentions, or if they were even real to begin with. Hard to sleep inside a home you have lived in by yourself, knowing now that you might not have been so alone this whole time after all.

Additionally, the sudden second murder had kept them busy for a good part of the day, moving from place to place and corresponding with their contacts. The body is to stay at the doctor’s tonight but shall be transferred to them the following morning, and there will be much work to do then, they are aware. They expect their shop to be swarmed, perhaps by Detective Lytton and her peelers, the doctor himself, the papers ( though they will have to wait ), and known friends or family of the victim, if there are any to be found — but they will keep everyone out if they have to, until the job is done.

Thus, when a knock comes on their door just as they are beginning to settle down after little more than half a day at the doctor’s, Rahat cannot be blamed for assuming it is business. Seeing Polly there instead surprises them, and they are unable to speak until after several seconds have passed. “Polly,” is what they manage to blurt out. “What are you doing out tonight of all — ” They stop themself and usher the youth inside straightaway, not wanting them to stay out any second longer. “Come in, please, we can’t have you wandering about, not after what’s happened. Inside, now.”

.

Polly allowed Rahat to bring them inside, slipping through the door as quickly as they were able without bursting into a sprint. Immediately, they felt a sense of relief. Here, there was safety. Here had been a respite for them before, and tonight, of all nights, they needed respite. “I’m sorry,” they apologised again. “I know you’re probably busy, with everything...” They broke off. It was all too much to even speak of, overwhelming and devastating all at the same time. The victim had been in their very company, only hours before. If only somebody had walked back with her, this all could have been avoided, and that weighed so heavily on Polly that they couldn’t stand it. 

“I didn’t want to go home,” they mumbled. Cora’s place was far from a home for Polly, but it was the closest they had at the moment. It had been invaded by sheer panic, though, wild gossip and accusation flitting between the residents who took refuge there. That wasn’t a refuge for Polly, wasn’t a place they particularly wanted to be, and so they found themself here, the one place in Whitechapel that seemed halfway peaceful. “I’m not sure I even thought about it much, to be honest. Just went where my feet took me, and they brought me here.” 

They took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm their rattled nerves, and ran a hand over their face to banish any of the dread that remained on their face. “Have you got some tea, or anything?” they asked. “I’ll make it. You don’t have to lift a finger for me.” 

❖ ──

Polly Sheedy, the name brings with it mournful tones. It’s not often Liu finds herself to be in the company of those younger than herself — a previously quiet and reserved life being the main perpetrator of that — but Polly had always been an exceptional case. As they intertwine their arms together there is a sense of companionship, a fluidity of motion that makes Liu wish she had not squandered her youth in a hardened heart. Of course the widow had troubles of her own, but the waif’s struggles remind her that perhaps the childhood which she had lamented once before was not nearly as treacherous as Liu had once believed it to be.  

Still, it is too late for her now. 

“Are you somewhere safe, Polly? At this time I do not trust the streets of London — more specifically, I do not trust those who claim to own them.”

Their pace is leisurely but calculated. There is no need to stand out amongst those who would gladly watch their demise.

“Were you able to gather information on Mrs. Taylor? Was she the one who spread that vicious rumor?”

.

Polly has known people from all walks of life. They live in a world where people come and go at will, and is well used to darting around London at the service of anybody with an extra coin to spare and a task to complete. There is scarcely a day where they do not meet somebody different, but Liu is so unlike anybody they have ever known before. There is a softness and a hardness to her all at once, a paradox of what she is, and what they expected her to be. There were rumours, of course, but Polly took people as they found them. In Liu, they did not find a person who wished them any ill, and so, they treated her as a friend - and as a friend, Polly would see them safely home. 

“I’m up on Commercial Street, these days. I’ve got a roof and a bed. S’better than anywhere I’ve been before.” That is the benefit of staying with Cora, despite the woman’s maddening rules, but Polly wouldn’t speak of such things in Liu’s company, though. She may be a potential murderess, however ridiculous a notion that was, but she was still far too respectable for such details. “I make no claim of ownership on the streets, but they are old friends to me by now. I think I shall be quite all right.” They sound confident enough, but there is no telling who they are trying to convince - Liu, or themself. 

They nod their head a little. “Yeah. Managed to ask around, even got her son to chat with me down at the docks. She told a few people. Heard it herself off Abigail Russel, though. Her cousin.” They turned to look at Liu more fully, gauging how she was taking the news. “Think it’s Mrs Russel who’s been doing most of the spreading, to be honest. Or at least, Percy Taylor seems to think so.” 

To say Polly had been affected by what had just happened was an understatement - they were downright terrified, utterly disturbed by what they had just witnessed. It wasn’t the spirits that were the issue. If anything, their dealings had seemed friendlier than most. At least their messages from the other side came in the form of warnings - but it was the knowledge that the warnings were needed at all, that others before them had heard and ignored them, and that their own choices were leading them down the same path. It made everything happening seem more real, every shadow that danced in the soft glow of the lanterns that lit up the tent that much more sinister. 

They couldn’t be alone tonight. It was stupid, at best, but even if they wanted to, Polly wasn’t certain they could manage it tonight. They knew they had a way about them, something that made others want to extend a helping hand in their direction. Usually, they could hold their head up proud, and say that they didn’t need it, they could get along just fine, thank you very much, but not tonight. They needed the comfort only the company of others could provide. 

The detective was a familiar figure to Polly by now. Where they were loathe to ask others for help, Maude made it a little easier - perhaps it was the fact that helping was her job description to begin with. Unlike most of the other coppers down on Commercial Street, there was something about Maude that Polly trusted, that had them stepping out of the gloomy and darkness and scurrying after her as she left Baba Yaga’s tent. 

“Miss Lytton?” they called out, soft enough so as not to startle, keeping a safe distance away until Maude invited them closer. “Are you heading back to Commercial Street?” They pressed. “Would you- would you mind if I came with you? Only I don’t want to go alone, you see.” They bit their lip, pondering what had happened inside the tent. “Don’t worry if you’re not heading to the station, though. I don’t even know where you live.” 

The séance had brought with it uncomfortable revelations, ones Polly wasn’t sure they truly understood the magnitude of. The old crone spoke of a danger, of wrong choices, and that had put the frighteners up the young vagabond. There was too much to be on the lookout for, and they only had one set of eyes. And so, the feeling of unease that had been planted in the pit of their stomach bloomed, filling their every waking thought. 

Before, they had been weary of Ish. There was something about him that seemed wild and dangerous, and Polly had made it their mission to be on their guard around him. However, they weren’t the only ones confronted with spirits last night. In contrast to the warnings that spilled from Baba Yaga’s mouth, Ish’s own spectre seemed designed to torment, and with the knowledge of the blackouts spilling from the man’s lips, Polly began to feel something new for the governor - sympathy. 

They made their way to The Britannia not long after they had awoken, though the church bells told them it was gone midday. They’d had a fitful night sleep the previous night, horrible visions weaving their way through their dreams, and when they awoke, they had a gut feeling they weren’t the only person struggling. Going to see Ish was perhaps unexpected - he was as guarded around them as they were around him, but there was no doubt in Polly’s mind that it was the right thing to do. 

“Afternoon,” the chirped, slipping through the front door and catching his eye behind the bar. It was early enough that it was still quiet, a few lonely punters propping up the bar on the other end of the pub. They could speak freely without fear of being overheard, unlike the other night. Polly moved in a little closer, brows knotting in their head in concern. “I know you probably didn’t expect to see me today. After last night,” they acknowledged, a small bow of their head. “I just wanted to check you were all right, though? Seems like there was a lot to be said last night.” 

It was plain to anybody who was in the tent with Polly how badly the words from the other side had effected them. Whatever spirit that had come to speak to them, it hadn’t dug as deep as the others, hadn’t raked them over the coals in quite the same way, but that didn’t make their words any more disturbing. The danger that it had spoken of was a very real terror, one Polly had been wilfully pretending didn’t effect them. After tonight, there was no denying it. 

They were restless, too wound up to return to Commercial Street, and too distracted to try and work in any other way. Neither did they want to stay close to Whitechapel’s centre, where danger seemed to lurk almost everywhere these days. They had let their feet lead them, and ended up here, perched on the banks of the Thames with their feet dangling over the inky black river. It made a certain sense, they supposed. There was rarely a moment where it was truly quiet here, and even at night, ships came and went, gliding over the water. There was a peace to it, and a comfort in knowing that it was busy enough here that they were relatively safe. 

They clutched a bottle of gin to their chest, given to them by a kindly older sailor with a thick accent and a whiskered face. They supposed the sight of a crying slip of a thing hanging over the river edge was startling, and they couldn’t blame any of the late-night dockers for approaching, for trying to talk to them and enquire upon their mental state. Especially not when they came with gin. Polly unscrewed the lid, raising the bottle to their lips and drinking deeply, allowing the burn to warm them from the inside out. 

A shadow fell over them, blocking the light of the lamps they kept the docks alight. Polly wiped their mouth on their sleeve, and shook their head a little. “If you’re here to ask if I am all right, I can assure you that I am,” they spoke before the latest concerned party could, thought their hand jumped quickly to the neck of their gin bottle, ready to use as a weapon if required. “I am perfectly safe, and my father knows I’m here.” A lie. Even if they did have a father, nobody knew where Polly had come tonight. 

Polly clapped a hand over their mouth, eyes crinkling in her mirth. They had hardly noticed that they were singing until Rahat pointed it out. It was a sign of how comfortable they had become in Rahat’s company. That was never something they could have anticipated the first time they had stepped through their door, but something they were now endlessly grateful for. It was strange that such a feeling should come from the undertaker, whose living was so entwined with death, but perhaps that was precisely why. With so much uncertainty and terror in the air, it was a comfort to see this side of dying, in a way, to reframe it as something peaceful, restful, almost. 

It was not the first time they had intended to be quiet, but it seemed they were simply incapable. They had been chattering away all morning, regaling Rahat with stories they did not ask for, relaying the mindless Whitechapel gossip they had picked up on their travels through the streets. They doubted that they even knew who Polly was speaking of, but the quiet of the shop left plenty of opportunity to continue, and so they had talked and talked until they had completely run out of stories. Then, instead of letting a comfortable silence fall between them, they had filled the room with their merry tunes, songs better suited to a night in The Britannia than a funeral home. 

“Sorry, Rahat,” they let out a laugh as they held up one finger, pressing it to their lips to indicate their intent to be silent from this point forward. 

Cora was always paying attention. To her surroundings. To people. To little things that others might not think important. It never ceased to amaze her how much people would say when they thought no one was listening. And if there was one game Cora was good at, it was playing pretend. It was her profession, after all. Pretending. Playing a part. Being who you needed to be in the moment. Those skills need not only apply behind closed doors. So she was quite aware of Polly and the way they bristled ever so slightly. 

Good. 

There were no actions without consequences in this world, and while Cora might not be a petty woman - usually - she was a woman that believed those consequences were necessary. That they were the worlds way of teaching a lesson. Of hopefully making the person smarter, stronger, and less likely to make the same mistake twice. Less likely to end up dead in a ditch. Cora didn’t feel like she asked for much from Polly. Or anyone really. She fully supported being your own person and living by your own rules, and she preached it to those that lived under her protection and her roof. But there was a line that had to be drawn somewhere. All she had truly asked outright was for Polly to stop running about at all hours with God knows who, and for God knows what reasons. Perhaps the knowledge of a child killer on the loose would temper their desire to wander the streets after dark. If not- 

A sharp twist in her gut cut that thought short. A familiar flare of burning anger followed, though it too was swallowed back. Enough devils had been called up tonight. It wouldn’t do to add to the lot.

“I never implied she wasn’t.” Cora turned her full attention to Polly, giving them an appraising look, but chose not to comment on their defensiveness. It would do no good. Polly had their reasons, and Cora couldn’t fault them for that. Even if she wished they would trust her just a little bit more than they did. “But I’m glad to hear that regardless.” And she was. Though Cora knew a visit with the Detective would come in the near future now. 

At Polly’s declaration of not wanting to cause trouble, Cora laughed - the sound low and warm and full of a wry, almost affectionate, humor. “Let her ask them. It wouldn’t be the first time.” Cora raised an eyebrow. “I’ve nothing to hide.” Nothing that warranted the detectives attention at least. “And while you may not trust me, which is fair,” she said sotto voice, with a small nod of acknowledgement, “if nothing else, trust my reputation. I always keep my word.  No matter what.” Cora turned her gaze back to the mingling crowd. “But I do appreciate you trying to head off any potentially awkward situations.” She took a breath, held it for a moment as she had a small thought, and then let it out. “Hypothetically though… what sort of questions might our dear detective come asking?”

.

Cora and Polly didn’t understand each other - or at the very least, Polly didn’t feel understood by Cora. The pair of them seemed to have very different ideas about what was best, and as much as Polly understood the concern, knew where she was coming from, it didn’t do much to detract from reality. Needing to traipse around London wasn’t solely from a craving for freedom from Cora’s rules. There was always somewhere else they needed to be, a place where more money could be made than sitting and waiting for it to come to them. The brothel was a place of safety, a necessity they couldn't be without, but there were limits that came with that. 

They couldn’t explain that to Cora, though. They were already pushing their protection as far as they cared to, straining just enough against the limits that they’re sure it’ll be revoked any day. There are times where Polly wants to lay down their arms and cease the endless push and pull they have with Cora, and ask for the help they need. An ear to talk to and a shoulder to cry on. This is almost one of them, but there’s a certain pride that Polly just can’t shift, born from the independence instilled in them as a child, reinforced by Lucian, and the only thing they could really rely on. They couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let that slip, be the pathetic, pitiable creature they were certain everyone expected them to be. 

“Seemed like it,” they mumbled, under their breath, so quietly that Cora could have been forgiven for not hearing it. The action of a petulant child, but Polly couldn’t help themselves. After all, they have never had anybody to push back against before. Cora was dauntless, and though there was a begrudging admiration for her, Polly would be lying if they said she didn’t intimidate them. Their rebellion was in actions rather than outright cheek, for a part of them feared the chastisement such words would provoke. 

“No?” Their brow raised in a silent question. It wasn’t as though the police didn’t know about Cora’s place. Polly had some of them there, though in a far different capacity to official questioning. This was different, though. This all had an extra layer of sinister over it, and Polly wasn’t sure what to make of her laughter. “If you’re sure. Makes things easier for me, I suppose.” Polly was a skilled liar when they needed to be, but by and large, they far preferred the truth. They didn’t react to Cora’s assertion that they didn’t trust her. They didn’t need to, not when they both knew it to be true. “I dunno. If I knew that, I’d be up Commercial Street with a baton and silly hat, not working for you.” 

“SAFETY IN NUMBERS,” Rahat adds not long after Polly’s assertion that in here must be the better option tonight. Uncertain as they are with regard to how safe it is, locked inside a public establishment with all breed of folk, the people inside The Britannia can take comfort in knowing that there are few nearby, ready to come to their aid in case anything particularly untoward were to happen. Difficult as it is to find saints and good souls in a place like this, Rahat and Polly can be assured that both have got at least one person to count on tonight.

Rahat does find themself smiling a little at their companion. Happy as they are to remain in solitude, it can be quite the feeling to hear somebody reaffirm a friendship. The undertaker finds it difficult to understand exactly what it is that Polly Sheedy sees in them to keep them coming back, but they suppose they are thankful for it. “Don’t trouble yourself over it. Plenty of time to visit.” They pause for a moment and consider whether or not to add one last comment — but not a lot of time passes before they decide that they will. 

“The cat will not mind the wait.”

.

Polly hummed, a nod of their head following Rahat’s assertion. Whether there was truth in it, they weren’t sure. It was just as easy to get lost in a crowd as it was to be protected by it, but for now, it was the only protection they had. They were almost certain that Rahat, also, drew their strength from solitude. Regardless, they were glad that the undertaker was here tonight - it was good to know that those that Polly cared for were accounted for, at the very least. 

They were right - there was plenty of time for a visit, but lately, Polly couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out for everyone. The dangers of tonight served as a stark reminder that one could never truly know when their time may be coming to an end. “Well, we have the whole night to make up for it, in any case.” They point out, shaking away the dire thought and plastering a smile upon their face as best they could. They made a silent promise to themselves to make more of an effort with Rahat, when they could. They had done little to repay his kindness, and checking in from time to time was the least they could do. 

Polly laughed at the mention of the cat, hand moving to cover their mouth. As soon as they had set eyes upon the wretched thing, they knew it was made for Rahat, though why, they couldn’t explain. “You really should give him a name, you know. It’s not far on the poor thing. 

🌑

Chaos. To describe what’s happened as chaos was quite an understatement - horror fell as a close second to the description of miss Chapman’s… ghastly ordeal, but the medium was still mulling over the last night’s ( or, more accurately said this morning’s ) events - and for a few, maddeningly long minutes, she feared the body belonged to young Polly. She feared in vain, her senses would have given her a prior warning - though, perhaps the odd feeling she felt the entire night was not tied to her being locked up in Britannia ; but, rather miss Annie’s murder.

When Polly knocked on the door, Xinyue wondered if she was ever as relieved to see a living person in her life as she was when her dark gaze landed on the waif. The medium stepped to the side, quietly inviting them in, fingers curling around the string tying the package together. “I’m pleased to see you are unharmed.” She spoke, motioning for them to follow her. “Would you care for some tea? Or something a bit stronger?” Xinxin asked - it was still early in the day, but she’d been eyeing that bottle of gin for the seventh time in twelve minutes. “Did you know her well?”

.

Polly stepped quietly through the door, fingers lacing together in front of them. It was routine by now. They’d arrive, step through the door, and Xinyue would find them more to do. Scrubbing tables that were already clean, dusting mantlepieces Polly had seen spotless only days before. They rather suspected it was a bit of a ploy to keep them there, though times like this, they didn’t mind. Earning a few coins from Xinyue meant they didn’t have to look for it elsewhere tonight, and with the events of the morning, that was only a comfort. 

“Stronger if you’ve got it,” they shot the other a grateful look. They weren’t one for lingering any longer than they had to, but this was different. There was a certain safety that Xinyue offered, and more than anything, Polly craved it now. “Don’t care what, to be honest. I’m not fussy.” Were they being rude? Polly wasn’t sure what the rules of etiquette were when it came to murder. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.” 

Did you know her well? The answer was no. Polly knew of Annie Chapman, had shared a table and a laugh and a meal with her, but they were hardly close compatriots. “As well as anybody else, I suppose,” they answered. “I wouldn’t have walked past her without saying hello, but I didn’t know much about her, apart from the fact she lived up Dorset Street in a dosshouse and was fond of rum. Still hits hard, though. Always does when it’s someone you know.” 

🌑

Indeed, people always took things they were accustomed to for granted. Not only the comforts of home, but also the connections with others - people took everything for granted, until the day they die, and then regret consumes them ; and then all kinds of other problems surface when one least expects it - though, the dead hardly expect anything from the living ( at least those she’s encountered so far had no demanded anything aside from the usual help ). “You are right, but I fear that’s just the nature of being human. We, all of us, take things for granted until one day they are no longer accessible to us.” The memory of her beloved, but deceased, family laced her words with bitterness - and a hint of regret which always lingers after a loss.

It was a relief to hear that Polly was keeping safe - as safe as anyone in London could currently be ( though, perhaps the men were safe. they always seemed to be spared for a lunatic’s rampage. but… even that might change, in time. ) - but, while she understood why the waif behaved the way they did, she was… a little disappointed by their refusal. “It is good that you’re being safe. But, the offer still stands - and it will continue to stand.” She reminded her, but didn’t press the topic further. “I live alone in a house fit to accommodate six people without having them claw for space, or privacy. Rest assured, I would be giving up nothing to accommodate you.” Xinyue spoke with a soft chuckle ringing through her voice. Lips pursed in thought, she nodded. “I can understand that. The change of settings and habits can be rather frightening.” But, at least she would out of the streets.

.

There was an undercurrent to the medium’s words that Polly does not miss, something that hinted at a deeper meaning. Polly wondered if they should enquire more, if they should probe into what was on their mind, but something holds them back. It is no mean feat to probe into someone’s past when uninvited, and perhaps that was a boundary that shouldn’t be cross. “I suppose that is one benefit of having very little,” they retorted, slowly. “You do not overlook the things you do have so easily.” They still would have traded it for comfort and stability, but one must take small victories where they could. 

Dark eyes roamed over Xinyue’s face, looking for any sign of trickery or deception. There was none that was plain to see, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Polly had learned the hard way that trusting everybody who seemed to be honest was simply a way of setting yourself up to fall. “Thank you,” they repeated, and they meant it, but as well as self-preservation, there was a fierce sense of pride. Every accepted offer of help was an admission that they needed it, and for the waif, that was no easy feat. “I’ve nothing to give you back. Can’t pay a regular rent or anything like that.” It was shameful to admit, but even more shameful to lie. “Don’t think I could accept and hold my head high. Not while I ‘ve got a place to get my head down comfortably, at least.” 

Polly couldn’t remain shut up inside forever. What had happened only a few nights before had shaken them to their core, but staying hidden away where it was safe was simply not an option. It wasn’t an ideal solution, but moving closer to the heart of the city, spending the night in the West End rather than the more familiar East, seemed sensible. Polly didn’t know it well, but the streets she had spent their life on no longer felt familiar. There was no safety anywhere, but this felt far less dangerous. 

“Sorry,” they mumbled, head turning as their shoulder jostled another. They blinked a little, recognition dawning on their face. It was Zoya, who they had conversed with only a few nights before. It seemed a strange coincidence - and Polly had to remind themself there was no guarantee Zoya would remember them at all. “Oh, hello,” a tentative, questioning smile spread along their face. “We, uh, met at The Britannia the other night,” they added, hastily, trying to jog their memory before the admission that she had no clue who Polly was. “How’ve you been since? It was... quite the shock, what happened when we left. For all of us.” 

❖

“ If you say so. The offer still stands, if you want it. ” Zoya gestures to the shawl now draped around her shoulders. Still, she doubts Polly will acquiesce—there’s a certain pride to the waif she recognizes in her eighteen-year-old self. No, I’ll be quite fine on my own, thank you very much.

Laughter sputters into her gloved hand at their frank remark, and it’s far more refreshing than what she’s heard in London’s polite company. “ Many people isn’t all, ” she says, eyes bright with amusement. “ I think a few of us have found ourselves rather far from home tonight. ” She tips her glass towards a young man with a fine coat, his cheeks red with drink. “ Son of a barrister, there. Rather unlucky with cards, but awfully generous. As for the rest, well, you’ll know it better than me. ” 

Asking about old friends is on the tip of her tongue—how’s the seamstress on Petticoat lane? Lydia, that’s the one—, but she knows better than that. Zoya Matirosyan is gone, and she’d be a fool to ask about anyone who knew the girl. So she smiles instead, her voice full of easy levity. “ Do you think so? Kind of you, chérie. It’s a shame, you know, that none of them are the right one. ”

.

Polly shook their head, small smile creeping upon their face. It wasn’t a kindness they expected from somebody like Zoya, but they were still pleased to see it within her. They were far too used to people who took without question, without thinking. “S’all right. I reckon I’d be a little more used to the cold,” they offered by way of explanation. 

Her laughter is reassuring, and at the sound of it, Polly relaxes a little. “Not all, no. Enough to be a challenge,” they were relaxed enough to make jokes now, leaning forward on the table and cupping their chin in their hands. “Clearly,” they cast their gaze around the bar, some of its inhabitants familiar to her, and some not so much. “His pockets will be lighter in the morning, I’ll wager. If not the cards or the drink, somebody here is bound to relieve him of a few shillings.” They nodded their head in acknowledgement. “I’m good at finding things out. You can ask me if you want to know anything about anybody here.” It was perhaps a little too eager, but Polly liked the feeling of being useful to someone, helpful, even. Even if it was something as small as information. 

It might have been French, the word they called her, but it was a little lost on Polly. Their lips twitched a little at the sound, but they managed to keep their expression straight and respectful. “Depends what you want them for,” they shrug. “I don’t think you’ll find a husband in the arse end of Whitechapel, but most of them aren’t bad blokes.” 

-

Of course it didn’t take a master like Detective Lytton to see that they were far from comfortable around him. Ish somehow believed he deserved it yet was saddened by it at the same time. Though his days often missed chunks of time, hours lost to his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done something to upset them.

His demeanour around them was stiff and nervous. Perhaps they mistook that for some manner of threat of judgement. Instead, it was his own fear of himself that caused the reaction, his knowledge that young people like them had ended up with their blood emptied all over the payment, the worry that such blood belonged on Ish’s hands.

Such things were unthinkable to him, and yet his night-time visions were filled with unthinkable violence, filled with actions that were foreign to him. He was afraid of himself. It probably rubbed off on them. “Cora’s? Yeah, definitely better than staying with any old Tom, Dick and Harry.” He wasn’t intimately familiar with the woman, but he ran in similar circles and he’d always got the impression she took good care of those in her charge. In times like this, it was probably best that they look out for each other.

Ish lit a cigarette and offered them one. “That’s quite the attitude you have,” he said, impressed with their strength of character. “I admire it. I wish I could say the same.” He took a drag of the cigarette, releasing the smoke into the already thick air of the pub as many other patrons had done the same. “Surely instilling fear can’t be the only reason though. There’s got to be something deeper, why they target the folks they do. Some prejudice or…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking of such things with you. It’s too ghastly.”

-

.

There was a stiffness in the way Ish approached them, a reluctance to relax that, in turn, fuelled the same feeling in Polly. they couldn’t shake the feeling within them to watch their back around him, to analyse every action and reaction to their words for any hint of something - though what, they couldn’t quite put their finger on. In the back of their mind, an accusation hung, though it was too terrible to voice aloud, and so Polly kept their mouth firmly shut. 

“Yeah. She’s a bit of a tyrant, but it’s all right, I suppose. At least there’s someone to raise the alarm if I don’t come back.” The statement was innocent enough, but under it was a hidden layer. A warning, of sorts. Perhaps if it was known that Polly was not alone, that there was someone as formidable as Cora behind them, it would save their life. Perhaps it was a feeble hope, but it was there all the same, and perhaps their soul motivation for accepting the offer of help and hospitality from the woman. 

Polly shrugged. “You’d drive yourself mad if you thought otherwise,” they pointed out. They reached for the cigarette offered to them, raising it to their lips and lighting it. A small cough escaped them as they inhaled. Money was always tight, and though they enjoyed the sensation, cigarettes always felt like an unnecessary expense. It was different when offered by another, though. “You’ve just got to get on with things. All that’ll happen if I stay at home is I’ll lose out on a bit of extra cash. There’s not enough of that as it is.” 

They thought for a moment, lips pursing and brows furrowing in their musing. “Like a priest or something?” they suggested. “I supposed that could be the case. Never thought about it like that myself. I suppose I always thought that they were coming after us because we’re easy targets. Not many will miss us, you know?”