the lamplighter.

location: ravensmoor manor parlour 

Ruth stops keeping track of her drinks after the second one. 

The lamplighter has never been a particularly heavy drinker, in fact one might say that she makes a point to steer clear of the stuff. Holding down a job, providing for her family, and keeping track of six little ones leaves very little time for such things. She has always associated such consumption with luxury, with people who can afford to spend their evenings intoxicated, not a care in mind about what might be going on while they indulge. She has never had that privilege. 

But there is something about this night in particular that has lead her to doing things she never before thought of. It is almost as if she is inhabiting some sort of fantasy world. Of course, there is also the crushing anxiety she has felt since she first stepped foot in this manor, telling her that she does not belong here, an anxiety that is naturally quelled by alcohol. 

A sprightly tune floats from the ballroom through the parlour, and Ruth closes her eyes, her glass drawn close to her chest as she steps and spins to the melody. Those steps and spins lead her into the path of another just entering the parlour, and her eyes snap open, glass dropping from her hand to the ground as her shoulder makes contact with them. 

The blood draws from her face, and she drops to a squat, gathering the shards together in a pile. “Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry. Please don’t tell anyone,” she says weakly, finally making eye contact with her victim. 

.

The shadow-hollowed planes of Magdalena’s face were solemn and stoic as she listened to Ruth, yet her eyes were brimming with curbed emotion. It was for that reason that she kept her gaze trained upon the cigarette that still hung from her hand, her thoughts straying towards her own experiences that resonated with those the lamplighter described. For as long as she could remember, Magdalena had lived her life with hyperawareness of the perception and scrutiny of others; haunted by the weight of prowling eyes as keenly as the serenity in which she was constantly draped.

In her adolescence, she had drawn the same disgust and pity that now stalked after Ruth; pierced with a thousand phantom cuts from sharp stares, jagged scowls and serrated once-overs – whether they came barreling down from the bullies who condemned her long hair and feminine mannerisms, or the orphanage staff who judged her unorthodox inclinations and innocent eccentricity. At some point, prior to the salvation she had found after she was finally adopted, the wounds she bore had sunk so deep that she had genuinely believed she was meant for nothing else when it came to the treatment she expected from others. Though the conviction had nursed only sorrow and defeat in its wake for her, she could still empathize and understand why it had incited cynicism instead when it came to Ruth. Part of her was certain that she would have fostered it herself had she not found the love and acceptance that her adoptive mother had granted her.

She completely understood where Ruth was coming from, and the thought soothed the hurt from the lamplighter’s earlier words; as it almost stirred the hope that her disposition was general rather than specific towards Magdalena – almost. She didn’t dare latch onto that assumption too quickly. “I understand.” She said, meeting Ruth’s gaze. Her expression remained inscrutable, yet the softness of her stare impressed her sincerity. Ruth proceeded to ask why Magdalena approached her, and she looked down at her cigarette once more, her silence thoughtful rather than troubled this time. She took a puff, watching the smoke as it coasted upward; reaching for the light as it dissipated into nothingness.

“Stubbornness.” She finally answered, shoulder hiking with a halfhearted shrug as she looked at the lamplighter once again. She owed her the same blunt honesty in return. “What you said makes it seem like you treat me the same way you treat every other stranger, so perhaps I’m mistaken. But ever since the first time you rejected this very same blanket,” She briefly raised it. “I’ve had the impression that you don’t like me, even though we never met or spoke before that night and I’ve only ever treated you with kindness. So I suppose I’ve just… been pushing back against that dislike. Trying to prove to you – “ And myself, “– that I’m a good person.”

“Hmm,” the girl muses, her expression curling into something quite nasty. Oh, Magdalena. There was no way for the woman to know that that was damn near the absolute worst thing she could have said. ‘Trying to prove to you that I’m a good person.’ 

To Ruth, that sentence reeks of guilt. To Ruth, that is an admission. That is Magdalena showing that she is well aware of the ( supposed ) havoc she wrecked upon Ruth’s family and attempting to rectify the situation without actually owning up to the crime. 

“You aren’t mistaken,” Ruth responds, her tone eerily level. As she speaks, it feels as if her mind has been separated from her body; her mouth moves, but her mind, detached, watches from the outside. “I don’t like you.” 

As stated before, she faces pity from London’s denizens on a daily basis, but she has long since gotten used to that. Ruth views most of the rich folk she passes by almost like children. They are ignorant of the reality of life in the city, and when they are forced to confront it when they see individuals such as herself, they are shocked, horrified, etc. Despite feeding into the system which keeps her and others like her in the position they are in, they seem to be somehow unaware of their own role in this grand game. They pity her, as she expects them to. But, according to Ruth, Magdalena is well aware of what she has done.

“I don’t think you are a good person.” Her heart thumps in her chest as she allows herself to finally unlock this anger which has swelled inside of her for so long. “I think you like to be seen as a good person, which is why you are now trying to help me, trying to help mend the wounds you inflicted.” 

“Tell me, Magda,” Ruth’s lips twist into a crooked smirk as she spits out her words, “When was the last time you saw my mother? Do you even remember her? Personally, I couldn’t tell you what she’s up to, couldn’t even tell you when I last had a real conversation with her. You wanna guess why that’s the case?” She feels her face flush with angry heat, and a small voice in the back of her head tells her that she is going too far with this, that Magdalena probably does not know the full story surrounding her mother, but she ignores it. “Are you really that fucking dense? Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

.

Despite her brimming confidence and unwavering self-assurance, Magdalena wrestled with doubt more often than she would like to admit. The noxious core of uncertainty was buried within her life-long question of whether she had been guided by her own will or the ever-hovering hand of the presence to which she was bound. However, like all things cancerous, that core had spawned roots, and they stretched into so many corners and crevices of Magdalena’s life that her doubt almost felt essential to her at this point – in a rather bitter, backwards sort of way.

Ruth’s inexplicable resentment towards her was one area that highlighted it quite sharply, and not in relation to Magdalena’s haunting, but rather something much more vulnerable and disarming – her perception of herself. Sometimes she doubted her impact as a spiritualist, and in turn doubted whether she was indeed as much of a good person as she believed herself to be.

After all, she touched so many lives and fates through her profession; shaped them in ways that were fleeting and irreversible alike yet equally tangible in both instances. As such, despite her unshakeable trust in her gift and intuition, she sometimes couldn’t help but wonder if she was truly offering guidance to others and not simply stringing them along her selfish fascinations and peculiarities. Was she even rightfully entitled to playing such a role in people’s lives? To fostering their dependency on her insight despite how it undoubtedly caused more harm than good at times?

Most of the time, the answer to those crucial queries came to her instinctively and with ease – that she wasn’t entitled to anything; that she merely possessed a gift that she believed shouldn’t go to waste and employed it with good intentions alongside her best attempt at good judgement. Yet there were times when that answer completely eluded her, leaving her at an utter loss as to her purpose and intent. It was for that reason that she often righteously, almost stringently, strove to do what was right, despite her belief in the grey area of things. She simply did all that she could to bring her writhing doubts to heel.

She supposed that must be the reason why she continued to offer Ruth mindless acts of kindness despite the woman’s ceaseless rejection of them. It must also be the reason why she always took that rejection to heart – just as she did now. Before Magdalena even realized it, her expression had fissured with hurt and confusion in the wake of Ruth’s words, and she could only stand silent for a long moment, wrestling with her emotions in the same fierce manner as the gnarling of her fingers into the blanket when she lowered her hand back to her side. “It’s not pity.” She firmly stated, realizing a little too late that her words had come off unintentionally sharp. Taking a deep breath and ensuring her tone was now lower and more even, she said, “I understand why you see it that way, and I don’t blame you for it. But I assure you, I don’t approach you out of pity. I would never disrespect you like that,” With a sigh and a hesitant shrug, she added, “At least not intentionally.”

.

Ruth wishes she got the chance to know her mother better. After her sister Violet came eight years ago, Roselie Leveen was almost gone, perhaps not in body but definitely in mind. Before that time came, the woman already had four children on her hands with little time to spare. The lamplighter knows almost nothing about her mother, about who she was before she became bound to her children and before she became lost to that which haunts her. Truly, she has no idea what sort of relationship her mother had with this woman, she just knows that nothing good resulted from it. 

Despite the largely pleasant front she projects on a day to day basis ( and no, it does not always come naturally to her, often it’s more like a customer service persona ), behind the surface is an insecure, jaded individual. So much of Ruth’s life is clouded with darkness and hardship, so she tries to remedy that with how she presents herself. 

As the lamplighter watches the other woman’s expression collapse into hurt, sadness, confusion, a fleeting thought passes by. A thought which encourages her to not be so hard on Magdalena. A thought which proposes the idea that she and the spiritualist may be more alike than Ruth previously dared to imagine. With that thought, an apology climbs up her throat, coating her closed mouth. It almost manages to make its way past her lips, her mouth opens, ready to spill, but that horrible grudge stops it in its tracks. That grudge seethes in her mind, reminding her of her mother’s horrible deterioration after Ruth found her at the spiritualist’s home. Her jaw snaps shut once again. 

When she speaks again, her tone is firm, but not unkind. “When people look at me, usually one of two feelings come to mind: disgust or pity. Disgust at the sight of some unseemly girl walking their manicured streets, or pity at the sight of some poor, little soul slated to a job which makes them shudder to think.” If she is honest with herself, Ruth would love nothing more than to pick Magdalena’s mind, to find out just why her mother sought this woman’s company and to find out exactly what transpired on that fateful night. But a part of her is afraid of the truth. So instead of being direct, instead of asking her, she resorts to playing games. 

“I have no patience for petty pleasantries. If you do not approach me out of pity, then why do you approach me at all?”

“Oh, no need to sir me. Arthur Taylor-Wright,” he introduces himself and gives his most charming smile. Having to act, God forbid, formal has always dampened Arthur’s spirits so he can never befriend all the people he meets fast enough just so he can act as freely as he desires. Propriety was never his virtue. “You’re absolutely right. I think it’s their first season here anyway so they aren’t—as polished yet. But they’ll get there and we’ll be here to see it, won’t we?”

Every now and again, Arthur’s eyes drift towards the door—he’s not trying to be rude (not on purpose, at least) but he’s trying to keep track of the people leaving the theater in case any of his friends were inside and he’d missed them. He quits his surveillance when he’s asked a question so he can give his new friend the deserved attention. “Oh, I have my own box. Lovely view,” he replies nonchalantly, like it’s something common for everyone. “You should join me. Next week, same time? We could see if our star has put in any practice into their performance.”

.

“Oh, well it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Taylor-Wright.” Ruth does not understand rich people, good lord. They put all this effort into trussing themselves up in the finest clothes, yet put up a fuss when people treat them as what they are−rich. Not that it really bothers her all that much, but it does give her something to chuckle about in her head.

 Sometimes she views her interactions with folks such as him not unlike how a ethnographic researcher might view a community from a far away land, there’s always new, interesting quirks and mannerisms to observe. “Ruth. Ruth Leveen,” she introduces herself with a slight curtsey. 

She watches as the man’s eyes stray to the doors every so often, mind plainly preoccupied with other matters. This is not the first time a pretty, wealthy face has made such offers to her. To a certain extent, Ruth can accept that she is a somewhat attractive girl. That coupled with her obvious low-class status, has lead some men in the past to make such offers. As if she would just fall at their feet at the first offer of their company, psshh. Not to say that she assumes the man harbors ulterior motives, but she is a bit jaded. 

“Oh, I’m sure that would be lovely, sir,” she responds, tagging on that title a bit cheekily, “Unfortunately, my schedule can get a bit busy at unexpected times. Besides, I’m sure a man as charming as yourself has no scarcity of friends to accompany him to the theater.”

He recognizes the young woman from his nocturnal trips around London, either when sleep has not come, or when he’s woken up from his slumber at an ungodly hour. Whichever the case, the lamplighter has always been a hazy figure to him, and more often than not he’s come to think of her an illusion, a by-product of his unquiet, insomniac mind. 

Clearly not. She stands in front of him, palpable, tangible, and most worrying of all—a clear witness to his actions. “I do know a good bookbinder…” Gilly trails off, lost in his thoughts. Decades of working with old books and documents have led to many minor quibbles, but this is the first he’s done so in another’s presence, and returning the book seems highly improbable given Mr. Ashton’s penchant for mystery. “…but I figure we could just put it back, forget it ever happened, yeah? It seems the most, er, logical thing to do. Given his mystery and all.” 

He picks up the sheets of pages and the book bindings before sitting up, smiling sheepishly as he does. “You know, it really isn’t bad as it looks…” Gilly says as he puts the pages in the bindings, tucking it back into the bookshelf before it has a chance to fall apart. He takes another look at the bookcase, surveying the book crammed between all the others, grateful that it appears as if there is nothing amiss. 

“In any case, I doubt he’d mind one ruined book from his collection, no?” The professor certainly would, though that’s beside the point—and for Gilly’s sake, he can only hope that Mr. Ashton’s impressive collection stems from an indulgence for fine things rather than a genuine thirst for knowledge. 

Finding a book in her hands, and far too eager to steer the conversation away from his blunder, he remarks, “So, what are you reading?”

.

Ruth quirks an eyebrow as she assesses the man before her. In her profession, she has met many an interesting folk. Of course, being out and about once the sun has departed lends oneself to such interesting encounters. She has never met this man, no, but she certainly does recognize his face. Even before the antics of the Ripper, the lamplighter always made a point to remember the faces of the individuals she passed by on her rounds. As a young girl on the streets of London, she learned very quickly how paramount it was to know the people you may come across late at night. 

This one seems to be.....harmless enough. A bit fumbling, a bit awkward. He’s got that head-in-the-clouds, scholarly look to him. Should make for interesting conversation. She watches, an amused smile on her face as he gingerly tucks the misplaced pages back into the book’s spine, before concealing it back into the vast row of books from whence it came. 

“Oh, I’m sure our mysterious host won’t notice a thing. But if he does, you never saw me here, yeah?” Ruth quips back with a cheeky wink. She would never rat out anyone for something as unintentional as this, but she certainly would do her best to divert attention from herself as best she can. 

“Aristophanes’ Lysistrata,” she replies, similarly grateful for the shift in conversation. “One of my favorites. An inspiration for my dress tonight, as well.”

location: ravensmoor rose garden

time: late evening

What she expect, honestly? Who knows. This night has been just as glamorous and luxurious as one would expect it to be. However, there is one thing that Ruth did not account for in her preparations for the night: the loneliness. Somehow she managed to convince herself that just because she was invited to this absurd party, she would feel as though she belonged. That is not the case. 

That little slip of paper which arrived at her doorstep seemed to, momentarily, endow the girl with a sense of confidence. But, upon arrival, that feeling did not last long. From her perspective, the guest list is random and aimless, and Ruth cannot help but feel as though she is at the butt of some rather grand joke. She has spent the night waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the host himself to pop out and declare that she and others like her were only brought for the sake of laughter. 

The iron bench she now sits on is not comfortable, no, but the pleasant silence that the rose garden provides is more than enough to make up for it. As she stands, intent on walking the garden’s meandering path, her dress catches itself on a sharp point of the bench’s iron floral motif, ripping a tear in the delicate cloth. Already on an emotional razor’s edge, that is enough to tip the scale towards a full break. Her jaw clenches, and she sinks back down onto the bench, her eyes growing hot with unshed tears. 

Ruth rests her face in her hands, hoping to quell her heated cheeks, and begins humming a familiar tune. 

.

Polly has never been to anything like this before. They’ve been moving up in the world, that much is true, but this assent is far loftier than they had ever anticipated. Surrounded by people they don’t know, they walk a delicate line between exhilarated and intimidated. Two spots of colour sit high in their cheeks, a symptom of her excitement. It helped that there were others lingering from Polly’s walk of life. Perhaps where they come from wouldn’t matter tonight. 

Still, though the allure of the ball is strong, Polly has never has any particular skill when it comes to staying in one place for too long. All those who know them best know this to be true - Polly grows restless, and Polly wonders. And so, when the ballroom became dull, they had set off wondering. A few months ago, they would have peeked in the library just to say they’d seen it, and that it is as grand as they say, but now that Zoya had taught them the basics of reading, they had learned to love it. And so they intend browse the shelves, plucking books at random and returning them as soon as they come across a word they don’t know - which they are sure will be much too often, given the novice skills they possess.

But all thoughts are driven from their mind when they enter the library and see who occupies it. Sitting there, book open upon her lap, is Ruth. Polly blinks in surprise, a slow smile spreading across their face. They are less shocked that Ruth has been invited (the guest list seems random at best), but moreson that she came, given the circumstances at home. 

“Ruth!” They bound over, sitting themself on the arm of her chair and peering at the book she is reading. “I didn’t know you were invited. Wasn’t that carriage ride boring? You look lovely by the way. Different.”

. 

Ruth lets the open book settle in her lap as her dear friend approaches. She hadn’t a chance to peruse the guests in attendance before running off to find some peace and quiet, and so is incredibly surprised to see Polly’s face at this ridiculous party. Though, she is most definitely more surprised to find herself here. 

“Oh, I found the ride delightful! I’ve never been in such a thing before. Could you imagine−me?! In something like that?! The wrought iron carriage was so beautiful...I’m sure it caused quite a stir with my neighbors to see it pull up like that,” she replies, chuckling nervously. 

Truth be told, she did not tell her family where she was going tonight. She tended to the necessary things, made sure there was dinner, made sure the little ones who needed bathing got bathed, lit the lamps far earlier than she would on a normal night, etc. She did not even mention that she was going anywhere at all until the older, more intuitive ones caught onto the fact that something was off. Ruth never leaves them alone, and she cannot help but worry. 

“I don’t even know why I was invited...I thought it was some sort of awful joke at first to be honest. But I’m so happy to see you here. You look amazing! What are you dressed as?”

.

Bill chuckles. “No sir, please. I’m no different to anybody else.” Is it a habit his colleagues in Westminster tease him for. Some of his opponents have dubbed him Call Me Bill, but he doesn’t care. He is the one winning votes, and so he accepts their scorn with a placid smile. It’s all part of the game.  

“It is my pleasure to meet you, Miss Leveen,” he inclines his head, almost as if he is bowing to her. If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s make others feel special - especially those who have gone most of their lives feeling unimportant. “A lamplighter? My, but you’re awfully young.” He taps his fingers to his lips, almost as though he is in thought. “The city owes you a great debt, Miss Leveen. I hope you know that.” 

“It’s truly no trouble. Dark times in London at the minute.” Bill lets out a sigh. Even though he is not as sympathetic as he tries to portray himself, the issue of The Ripper still weighs on him far too heavily. “It’s the safest way.” And they can’t afford another body on their hands. 

“You seem to know a lot about the theatre. More than me,” a self-deprecating chuckle follows the words. “Tell you what. Why don’t you put a little plan together for me, and I’ll pull some strings and see if I can make it happen.”

.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing,” she replies, unable to stop the blush from rising to her cheeks yet again as the man gives a quasi bow. What a charming bastard, huh? a cheeky voice adds. “My father was a lamplighter, and I was more than happy to take up his post when he−when he was no longer able to. Helping the city this way makes me quite happy.” That isn’t a lie, but also isn’t quite the truth. 

Ruth does not need a reminder on the state of London’s problems. Nary a night goes by when she does not think about that dreadful man, the Ripper. However, she is not afraid of him tonight nor will she be tomorrow or the nights that follow. If this man wants her to accompany him to ease his conscience, she will acquiesce, but it is not because she is afraid of walking these streets alone. 

“Then I thank you, Mr. Barker. I’d be happy to make your acquaintance this evening.” And perhaps to see if his public persona is one that will wear off easily under the cover of night. 

But of course, every time a skeptical thought passes through her mind, he follows up with a comment that further ingratiates himself to her. Ruth would like to think that she is a levelheaded girl with a good ability at reading people, but dear Lord, the theatre really is her weakness. “Oh....that would be amazing! But how shall I get in contact with you about this?”

location: ravensmoor manor library

Dumbfounded. That is the only word fitting for what Ruth feels at this moment. 

When that fateful invitation arrived at her doorstep, she quickly snuck it away, hoarding it, so that her family would not see it. She has absolutely no idea why she received one, but she certainly did not want any input from the peanut gallery. She was convinced it was a mistake or a cruel joke, but the elaborate carriage that pulled up at her front doorstep proved that it was legitimate. Thank God she planned out an outfit anyways. The entire ride to the manor, the mysterious man’s introduction, it all felt like some strange fever dream. The crowds, the mingling, it was all too much. 

As soon as she is able to, Ruth flees to a more secluded location. The first sight of the library has her heart stopped in her chest for what feels like a lifetime. While her writing skills are certainly lacking, the lamplighter adores reading whenever she has the chance ( hence her costume of choice. ) She takes her time soaking in the atmosphere. The library is drowning in beautiful gold foil and rich oak, the crackling of a lit fireplace always nearby. The girl allows herself to sink deep into a plush armchair, in her hand a copy of the very play her costume was based on that she pilfered from the many stacks of books. 

Ten, twenty minutes pass, but Ruth pays no mind, far too enthralled with the wily schemes of Lysistrata and her companions as they attempt to foil the plans of men set on pissing away money for the Peloponnesian War. The creaking of the library doors snaps her out of her reverie. However, the face she sees when she looks up is not that of a stranger, but that of a friend. 

“Oh goodness, Polly. Thank God you are here.”

.

Bill takes a long drag of his cigar, regarding her thoughtfully. He decides not to call further attention to the fact that she was, clearly, not in attendance. There is no value in embarrassing her to him. And so, he puffs out another cloud of smoke, nodding thoughtfully as he does. “Well, you sound like you know more about it than me. Truth be told, I’m not too into all this opera malarkey,” he waves his hand with a flourish. “But it’s still… nice, yeah? A bit of a distraction from the norm.” Of course, in Bill’s world, there is no downtime, no moment when the wheels are not turning in his mind. 

“I should introduce myself. Bill Barker. MP for Stepney and Whitechapel,” he places his cigar between his teeth, and holds out a hand for her to shake. “Is that an East End accent I hear?” Head cants to one side, regarding her once again as though appraising her appearance. “I’m heading back that way shortly. You can jump in the carriage if you’d like. It’s a long way to walk, and it looks like you came here by yourself.” An altruistic action from a calculated man is never true kindness, but there are few who know Bill well enough to see below that facade. 

“It is a shame so few get to hear the opera, isn’t it? Elitist.” The word is said with a hint of contempt, effortlessly natural in its delivery, but the reality is that such a demeanour is carefully practiced. “Perhaps we could organise a night for the working class to come and experience the theatre. I’m sure many would enjoy it.” 

.

Ruth continues to stare, wide eyed, as the man begins his spiel. Be polite, he is an MP after all, but for God’s sake don’t grovel. He might seem like an alright guy, but you don’t really know him. “Oh, of course, I knew I recognized you from somewhere. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she responds, grasping his palm in a shake. 

She knew her rouse couldn’t hold out very long, but the company of this kind of individual cuts it even shorter, and her cheeks color slightly. “Yes...um.” Might as well own up to who you are, yeah? “Ruth Leveen. I’m a lamplighter for the city, Whitechapel born and raised.” 

Even from a distinguished individual the idea of accompanying a man, solo, in his carriage has her eyebrows raising slightly. Yes, the walk home from the theatre is long and dark, but she has made that journey many a time before. She hums and haws, thinking about the places on her body she decided to stash her knives this evening. 

“Well...if it isn’t too much trouble.” Ruth would like to know more about this man...this supposed ‘man of the people’. His next sentence certainly does win him some favors. “I agree! There are many who would like to attend the theatre and maybe....maybe learn from it as well! Who might−not have the means to do so.”

.

In all the years they have known one another, Polly doesn’t recall ever seeing Ruth like this. She has always been so strong, so brave, in ways that Polly can never truly understand. They have never had family of their own, and on the outside, they have always envied what Ruth had with their siblings, but this new-found honesty between them has opened their eyes to just how much she has been silently carrying. If anything, though, it only increases their opinion of her. It takes a rare, special person to do what she has done for those she cares about. It is clear her sobs are not a spur of the moment action, but the result of years of repressed feeling. Polly only wishes they had seen sooner what Ruth has clearly needed. 

“I want you for you, too,” they point out, quietly. “And whatever or whoever it is you want to be, I will do everything I can to help you.” Polly’s own dreams are slowly starting to come to reality, and they want that for Ruth, too. They rub her arm, in what they hope is an encouraging gesture. “Money, babysitting. Whatever you need from me to achieve what it is you want to do. It’s yours. But Ruth… I don’t think you should listen to this thing. Not until you know more about what it is.” They know only what they’ve seen at the seance, but there’s something about the spirit plaguing Ruth that Polly doesn’t trust. “Will you let me be your older sister, even for a little bit?” 

It is one thing revealing what has happened to them to people like Zoya and Rahat, who have over time become something like caretakers to Polly. It is one thing revealing it to new friends, like Feriha and Link, people who have not known them for most of their life. It is another to tell Ruth, someone who has known them for as long as Polly can remember. Their own history is no picnic, and Ruth has been there through all of it. Revealing this to her now feels like showing her the innermost parts of their soul - but Polly doesn’t mind. Not when it’s Ruth. 

“Proud,” Polly repeats with a chuckle, but they are pleased, cheeks flushing red in response. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew how stupid I’ve been. He was right there, and I couldn’t stop him. But…” They pause for a moment, fierce determination burning in their eyes. “Next time he won’t be so lucky. Because I am still here.” They shift in Ruth’s embrace, and rest their head comfortably on her shoulder. “Thank you so much, Ruth. For being there. I hope you know how much you mean to me.” 

.

Of course, her instinctive response is to bristle at any mention of charity; but, when she thinks about it, it isn’t charity. It is simply Polly, doing the exact same that Ruth would do for them if they were in the same situation. “You know I cannot accept money from you Polly,” she responds, grimacing apologetically, “but I can promise you that I will let you know if I need help.” With the words, will you let me be your older sister, even for a little bit?, she lets a stray tear or two slip down her cheeks, and can only answer with an emphatic nod of the head. She trusts them with her life, so it is only fair that she trusts them to help if she should need it. 

“I...I’m trying not to listen. But it’s hard. It’s in my head, Polly. It knows me, it knows everything. Sometimes...sometimes I don’t only hear it, but I see it. I’m....afraid. I’m afraid I’m not strong enough to ignore it. It knows everything that I want, but it also knows everything I am terrified of.” 

It hates her family, her friends, anyone who might lead her to be cautious of it. Ruth’s ghost views them as annoying roadblocks standing in the way of what it wants. It wants her to speak about it, for every time she acknowledges it, it grows stronger. But it despises those that tell her not to trust it. 

“One cannot be courageous without being a little stupid first.” As Polly shifts and rests their head on her shoulder, she wraps an arm around her friend, gently stroking her hair. 

“You are right, next time he won’t be so lucky. Not only are you still here, but so am I. You mean the world to me, and together...we’ll give ‘em hell.”

❖

“Did you like what you heard?” Zoya asks, smiling. Something about Ruth’s lack of guile is endearing, the ease with which she expresses her emotions—whether she realizes it or not—refreshing. Zoya can’t remember the last time she ever conducted herself in such a manner, and as Ruth goes from awkward, evasive rambling to being stunned into dumbfounded silence to, finally, a wide smile, Zoya hopes that whatever path Ruth does decide to take, it does not kill this sincerity. 

Then Ruth’s smile dims, her gaze snapping to herself before casting over Zoya. Hesitance colors her voice, and Zoya knows exactly why. She’d been there before, wishing desperately to be something more but not looking the part, clad in a worn dress and ragged gloves. Then August whisked her away, had her scrubbed and polished and preened. In soft silk and pastel ribbons, she could pretend she was more than an East End girl. Should she not give Ruth the same opportunity?

Zoya hums in thought, her mind already going over the calculations. Offer too much, and she’ll scare Ruth away. “You should think about it,” she replies, her tone casual. “Surely you can take one night off—you work so hard, I think you deserve it. And your siblings, maybe there’s a neighbor who can watch them for the night?” She doesn’t suggest Ruth’s father—if he was taking care of them, Ruth wouldn’t have to in the first place. ( So it goes for girls like them, forced to grow up too fast. ) “I’m sure they would want their sister to enjoy herself, and you can tell them all about it afterwards. As for your dress…” She states this matter-of-factly, for it must be said. “I know a girl about your size, I can borrow something of hers for you. She owes me, anyway. Now, don’t think you’ll owe me for this, either,” she adds firmly, wanting to emphasize this isn’t a debt to be paid. “Think of it this way. If you want to be on that stage, you should at least see what it’s really like, no?”

.

“Oh, it was amazing! I−” she stops, already knowing that she will go off in a tangent if she allows herself. “From what I heard, you did very well. You ought to be proud,” she responds, inwardly cheering at her ability to reel herself in. 

Zoya’s oh so casual approach to the situation calms her nerves somewhat, even if deep down she knows that the woman is probably treating the situation not unlike how one would approach a feral cat, tweaking their words and expression to have just the right balance of nonchalance and kindness. Too excited at the prospect of actually attending a show at the theatre, Ruth wills herself to not snap at the slightest hint of pity. 

She does appreciate the woman’s almost analytical approach to the situation. Yes, her clothing must be dealt with, and she is grateful for Zoya’s up front address of it. She much prefers that to any humming and hawing, oh I’m sure you have something that would be just perfect for the theatre, oh don’t be embarrassed, whatever you have will do just fine. No, she doesn’t. And she would be embarrassed to show up in any dress that she owns. 

“Oh...well, I think maybe Oscar, my brother, would be alright looking after the kids for a night...” He is sixteen after all, much younger than you when you began looking after them, a voice reminds her. Still her face twists into a grimace at the thought of leaving them for the night without her. Will you allow yourself to be dictated by them, forever? another voice whispers, more forceful this time. “Okay...okay. I−I think that would work. Only if it isn’t too much trouble...I don’t want to take someone’s dress from them if they aren’t willing.” But Ruth can already envision it....trussed up in silks and other cloth she could never before dream of...sitting in those seats. 

“Thank you, Zoya, truly.”

.

Bill is no fan of the theatre. In fact, he finds the whole thing irritatingly pretentious, full of smug idiots who think far too much of themselves. He can think of better things to do with his time than sit in a darkened room, listening to the wailing of singers who will declare themselves to be the greatest talent to tread the boards. And yet, here he was, not for a love of music, or a desire to be entertained, but because the theatre was a decent place to observe, and to plan. From his box, high up and to the left of the stage, he watches the crowd, picking out the people he knew he needed to keep an eye on, noting how they behaved when their guard was down. 

He’s all too relieved when the music stops, and the performers take their final bow. He does not join in with the applause, and on his exit, he is accosted multiple times by people who know him by reputation, wishing to discuss business, and greets them with a pseudo-charming smile and warm words. Eventually, finally, he makes it out of the theatre doors. 

Bill descends the steps, lighting a cigar as he does, when another voice calls out, but it is different to the others who have tried to engage with him - younger and softer. His gaze lands on a young girl, dressed more like a denizen of Whitechapel than for the theatre. She has not been inside - he would have noted her if she had. Still, he blows out a cloud of smoke, and offers her a kind smile. 

“I suppose we can. I certainly will, given that I’m tone deaf,” he chuckles. “Sounds like you have an ear for it, though.” He pauses, lips pursing as he regards them. “And what of the dancers? Did you enjoy those?” he queries. 

.

A voice responds, and she is not surprised. Ruth is not the only person who lingers ‘round the back of the theatre, hoping to catch a tune floating through those doors. More often than not, she finds another soul not unlike her who is willing to engage in conversation, the both of them happy to continue the ruse that they were theatre patrons exiting the show, discussing what they saw up on stage. When the man responds to her prattling, at first she is sure that that is what is happening, two poor souls pretending to be someone that they are not. After all, it would be pretty obvious at a glance that she did not in fact have tickets to the show. And what is the likelihood that an individual with enough means to do so would entertain her conversation? Not very likely, she thinks. 

She blushes slightly at the man’s words, yet to actually face him; she would like to think she has a perceptive ear, thank you very much. “Oh, well I don’t know much about dancing, I’m much more keen on the vocal side of things, but−” Ruth’s voice catches in her throat as she turns, finally locking eyes with the man. She recognizes that face. He is a....politician of some sorts. She could not tell you any more, anything about what the hell this guy actually does, but she knows that he is important. What she does know is that out of all of those Big Men, he seems to actually care about people like her ( oh, bless her heart ). 

To continue the ruse, or to not, that is the question weighing on her mind. “But...I’m sure they did just fine. After all, they’re professionals for a reason, yeah?” She goes with a neutral option, hoping that she hasn’t embarrassed herself too much.