Gravity seized them both as they plummeted toward the ground. Clara's shriek of terror was muffled, swallowed completely by the heavy fabric of Arthur's trench coat as the dark alley rushed up to meet them.
Arthur bent his knees, tightening his hold on her, and braced for the impact.
His boots slammed into the wet cobblestones with a bone-jarring thud. Pain flared sharply up his spine and calves, but once again, thanks to his high constitution, his body soaked up most of the brutal shock. If it had been any other normal man, their ankles would have immediately shattered under the combined weight upon impact.
But Arthur merely staggered for a few steps before stabilizing himself. While still keeping a firm hold on Clara, he broke out into a run, carrying her swiftly through the winding alleys and wooden docks for several blocks to put as much distance as possible between them and the warehouse.
He kept moving until the slick road beneath him finally betrayed him, and he slipped, falling down hard on his back. Thankfully, he was quick enough to save his head from hitting the ground by stabilizing himself at the last moment, so that the brunt of the damage was taken by his hips rather than his entire body.
Even so, it was quite painful.
Clara immediately became worried and scrambled to stand up. "Are you okay?" she gasped, her voice trembling as she reached out to him.
"Thanks," Arthur gritted out. Taking her hand, he stood up, and they began walking.
The icy downpour at that moment felt like a welcome blessing, especially after the suffocating, terror-soaked air of the warehouse and the brunt of the pain he was feeling. Arthur kept his grip firm but gentle on Clara's shoulder, guiding her through the labyrinth of slick cobblestone alleys using his map.
"Keep your head down and stay close," Arthur murmured, his heightened senses continually sweeping the dark brickwork and narrow passages for any straggling thugs he might spot.
Clara nodded sharply, her teeth chattering as she pulled the torn green coat tighter around her frame. She didn't speak, her mind clearly still reeling from the nightmare she had just been dragged out of, but she stuck to his side like a shadow, just as instructed.
Arthur kept his pace measured, using the quiet walk to observe her behavioral cues. Evaluating a victim's state should be second nature to a detective, but with his awakened senses, it became a game of exact science. He noted how she instinctively closed the physical distance between them, actively seeking the proximity of a taller male figure for protection rather than flinching away in revulsion. Her stride, though trembling from shock, was unbroken. There was no subconscious guarding of her hips or abdomen, and no pained hesitation in her steps that typically pointed to a recent violation.
Furthermore, his Auspex painted a clear olfactory picture: beneath the smell of the rain, she carried only the sharp, acrid scent of pure adrenaline and the damp rust of the cellar. The grim, distinct signatures of prolonged physical struggle, foreign sweat, or assault were entirely absent. It might have been a cold and clinical deduction, but it was one that brought a profound wave of relief to Arthur's chest. They had hit her, abducted her, and caged her, but the smugglers hadn't had the time to touch her in any inappropriate way.
Yet, in that quiet moment of observation, a deeply unsettling realization crept into his mind. I could have just waited. He could have let the police secure the building, collected her safely from Officer Thompson, or simply gone home to fetch her father and let the constables handle the escort. Instead, he had jumped out of a second-story window with the hostage in his arms.
Why had I made such a monumentally stupid decision? It was clear something was wrong with his judgment. Ever since he had transmigrated, he had been acting on sheer, reckless impulse. Yes, back in his old life, he had always believed that "going with the flow" was the best way to manage a crisis. He had been a bit reckless and impulsive, and had tricked people into believing that he could see fate and make predictions, while all it had been was just arbitrary mathematical calculations and instinct. But the behavior he showcased now bordered on suicidal. My legs could have broken. Why did I risk my life like that? He let the question settle in the quiet depths of his mind, but no answer came from his inner self. It was a psychological knot that he would have to untangle later.
Before returning to Minsk Street and handing Clara over to her father, Arthur still had one loose end to tie up.
He adjusted their route, cutting back toward the slightly more reputable edge of the district until they stood before the Silvertongue Tavern. The heavy rain had finally mellowed into a persistent drizzle.
At that moment, he spotted a public carriage rolling down the street. Arthur immediately flagged it down and ushered the shivering girl inside so that she could finally escape the cold.
He pulled out his wallet, flicking it open with a little flourish, only to freeze dead in his tracks.
He blinked down into the leather fold.
There was only a one-pound and a five-pound note.
Just that. There was not a single copper penny in the small pouch inside, not even a single soli bill. It was empty aside from a single picture of his mother that his predecessor had kept in it, and a few business cards. He had given every speck of loose currency to the tavern owner and the small street urchin.
Brilliant. Fucking stupid. Why are you so dumb, Arthur? Can't you think clearly? Always spending money and doing stupid things—when will you grow up huh?
"Right," Arthur muttered as he cleared his throat. Looking up at the driver perched beneath the oilskin tarp, he said, "Hypothetical question for you, my good sir. It's purely rhetorical, but also strictly financial in a way: do you by any chance have change for a pound?"
Arthur looked at the man, smiling a little.
The cabbie stared down at him through the gloom. His jaw worked slowly, his weathered face twisting through several distinct stages of disbelief before settling into one of sheer exasperation.
"A whole bloody pound, guv'nor?" the driver barked, rain dripping off the brim of his cap. "Look around you! It ain't even half-past five! You're my first fare of the bloody morning, the streets are half-drowned, and you're waving a fortune in my face for a six-pence trot? I've got two brass halfpennies and a box of damp matches in my coat. Who pays a hackney cab with a banknote?!"
Inside the carriage, Clara shrank back into the damp leather seat. Seeing the tension outside, she leaned forward, her hand grasping the carriage door as she moved to step back down onto the road.
"I... I can walk, Mr. Sturridge," she said softly, her voice trembling with embarrassment. "You've already done far too much for me. Truly, I—"
"Ah, ah, ah!" Arthur snapped around, thrusting an index finger into the air to freeze her in place. "Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop right there. No another move. Retract the foot. Back inside the dry, reasonably civilized box, please."
Clara paused mid-stride startled, blinking wide, eyes at him.
"You are not walking through three miles of freezing cold because of a minor inconvenience," Arthur told her firmly, before pivoting back to the scowling driver. "And you, my surly equestrian friend, do not twitch the reins. Hold your horses steady. Quite literally, because you are a driver holding horses, heh. I'm joking, take a joke will ya."
"I ain't waiting for free, mister—" the cabbie began to grumble, clearly annoyed by his antics.
"Just two minutes," Arthur cut in, already backing toward the glowing entrance of the Silvertongue Tavern with a manic gesture. "Precisely one hundred and twenty seconds. I happen to have a very close associate inside who owes me change. Do not move an inch, either of you!"
He hurried to the tavern and gently pushed the door open. The main area was now empty save for the owner arranging everything in a very orderly fashion behind the bar. The young street urchin was sitting on a seat in a booth, wearing an oversized, coarse wool shirt that was blessedly dry. He was slowly stuffing his face with a bowl of thick chicken soup, with a hint of garlic and black pepper with bread on the side. He also seemed noticeably drowsy, as if he had just woken up from a very refreshing sleep, evidenced by the thin markings of the fabric on his hand and face.
Seeing Arthur's slightly intrigued and confused expression, the tavern owner smiled faintly and said, "The kid fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. I only woke him up an hour ago to get some hot food in him."
Now understanding the situation, Arthur nodded and earnestly said, "Thank you."
The middle-aged man waved it off, but then his expression turned serious. "No problem. But a bit of advice, young lad. You shouldn't go out of your way to help everyone down on their luck out here. It might some day end very badly for you." The man paused, then continued as if remembering something. "This was something my teacher used to say: 'Do as you wish, but do no harm.' " Seeing Arthur's stunned silence, the man clarified, "What he meant at that time, I didn't understand, but I have inferred many things since, and one of those includes doing no harm to yourself to help others."
Arthur couldn't help but offer the man a dumb nod. He didn't know where this came from, he hadn't asked for his backstory, but now that he thought about it a little, it seemed like a good philosophy and maxim to live one's life by. The man, seeing Arthur's nod, just sighed, shook his head lightly, and returned to arranging his things.
Arthur then turned, walked over to the booth, and looked down at the kid before sitting beside him.
"So, what's your name, kid?"
The boy froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth and looked at him, stunned, before replying, "It's Pip, sir."
Arthur nodded as he reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and pulled out a crisp, one-pound note. To a street urchin in the Eastern Borough, it was an astronomical sum, a literal fortune. He placed it flat on the wooden table next to the boy's bowl. Pip's eyes widened to the size of saucers.
"Here is the deal, Pip. I need that one-soli note I gave you earlier to pay my carriage. And you can have this pound in return."
Pip hastily searched his pockets, fished out the crumpled green note, and traded it over with trembling fingers.
"Now listen to me carefully, Pip," Arthur said, his tone dead serious. "The one pound that I gave you is very valuable. You can spend it however you want, but that would not be productive at all, would it? So tomorrow morning—more like today morning— you get it, when you leave this tavern, you are going to start a small business. You're going to buy a small, cheap handcart, a small iron stove, and a sack of the largest potatoes you can find. Buy some coarse salt, butter, and whatever cheap cheese or bacon scraps you can afford."
Pip just stared at him, completely bewildered. "P-potatoes?"
"Baked potatoes," Arthur corrected smoothly, as he imparted the wisdom of 21st-century street food . "You wash them, prick the skins, and bake them over hot charcoal—not coal, but charcoal, remember that— until they're crisp on the outside and soft inside. A worker walks by? You slice it open, mash it with butter and salt, drop on some cheese, and hand it to them piping hot. The factory hands will buy them by the dozens if not more. It's cheap, it warms their freezing hands, and it fills their hollow stomachs. You understand?"
Pip looked at the massive one-pound note in his hand and then back at Arthur, a sudden spark igniting behind his grubby face. "Yes, sir."
"Splendid. Now stay off the streets for the rest of the morning."
Arthur turned on his heel and walked back out into the mist. Hah... what am I even doing?
He checked his pocket watch: 5:15 AM. It was currently that terrible, liminal dead space between astronomical twilight and dawn that people often associated with witchcraft and magik while many other cultures also equated it to a time of profound holiness.
The air was quite frigid. His breath fogged as he exhaled, and he was genuinely starting to feel the cold creeping into his joints. I should really stop overthinking things.
He walked toward the carriage, climbed inside, and handed the one-soli note to the driver. "Unit 21 Minsk Street. Go as fast as you can, and keep the change."
The coachman grumbled, muttering something under his breath, and gave a sharp flick of the reins to get the horse moving.
It was somewhere around 5:58 AM when the carriage finally rattled to a stop in front of his terrace house on Minsk Street; the sky was just beginning to bruise with the first dark purple hints of dawn.
The carriage jerked to a halt, its wooden wheels scraping against the curb. Arthur pushed the door open and stepped out onto the damp pavement. A wave of profound lethargy washed over him the moment his boots hit the ground. The sun was still hidden behind the horizon, yet its imminent arrival was already sapping the unnatural, vampiric vigor from his limbs. He turned back, offering a steady, gloved hand to the dark interior of the cab.
"We've arrived, Miss Abernathy. Mind your step," Arthur said gently.
Clara took his hand, her grip still trembling, and carefully stepped down onto the cobblestones. Arthur kept a protective hand near her shoulder, shielding her from the lingering chill of the morning mist as he guided her away from the departing carriage and up the short stone steps toward his front door.
Arthur unlocked the front door and pushed it open. Mr. Abernathy was exactly where Arthur had left him, sitting on the couch, deep in stress. The moment the old clerk heard the sound of the door unlocking and saw Clara step into the gaslight, he let out a sound that was half-sob and half-scream.
"Clara! Oh, merciful heavens, Clara!"
The father and daughter collapsed into each other's arms near the fireplace, weeping openly. Arthur leaned against the doorframe, watching the emotional display with a strange, detached calm. He didn't need his Auspex to feel the joy and relief radiating off them.
It was a good feeling. A strange and deeply profound feeling, like he had finally done something useful in his entire life.
After the tears finally slowed, Mr. Abernathy turned to Arthur. His eyes were red and swollen as he pressed a heavy leather coin purse into the detective's gloved hand.
"I don't know how to thank you, but this is your ten pounds," Abernathy said, his voice thick with exhaustion and gratitude. "Just as I promised. Mr. Sturridge... I don't know how you did it, and I don't care. You saved my world tonight."
Arthur weighed the pouch in his hand as he looked inside it to see bundles of cash. It was quite a big fortune for a few hours of work, but more importantly, it was the first solid thing he had earned in this strange new reality. Snapping out of his momentary daze, he looked at the clerk and said, "Take her home, Mr. Abernathy. Make sure the doors are locked. And take good care of her from now on."
A few minutes later, the Abernathys had flagged down a passing cab and vanished into the early morning mist. Arthur closed the front door and locked it with a heavy click.
The house was dead quiet once more.
Arthur let out a long, exhausted breath, shedding his soaked trench coat and hanging his wet hat on the rack. It was quite exhausting to wake up in the body of another being, in a foreign world where the language was odd and there was a red moon in the sky.
He slowly climbed the wooden staircase back to the master bedroom.
The bedroom no longer had that eerie crimson moonlight that he had woken up to; instead, it was replaced by the gray wash of an approaching morning.
He could feel the sun rising. Pulling the heavy curtains shut to drown the room in darkness, he collapsed onto the bed.
The last thought that reached him before the dreamless sleep took him was a simple:
I am so tired...