The October chill bit through Thomas’s patched coat, each gust off the Thames a slap in the face. Cobblestones slicked with drizzle reflected the gaslights in distorted halos. He tasted soot, even with the damp air. It clung to everything in London, a permanent grime. He wasn’t supposed to *be* here, not this close to Parliament. But Old Man Hemlock had insisted.
“Got a message, lad. Needs deliverin’. Someone inside. High up.” The old man’s breath smelled like woodsmoke and regret.
Thomas shifted the small, rolled parchment hidden in the lining of his sweep’s bag. It felt like a hot coal against his skin. He’d been sweepin’ chimneys since he was seven, knew the city’s arteries better than most constables. Still, this felt different. Dangerous.
A figure emerged from the looming shadow of Westminster. Tall, impeccably dressed, a stark contrast to the city’s rough edges. The man’s face remained mostly obscured by the brim of his hat, but Thomas caught a glimpse of a thin, tight mouth.
“You the boy Hemlock sent?” The voice was clipped, precise. Not a shout, more like a honed blade.
Thomas nodded, instinctively tightening his grip on the bag.
“Give it.”
He hesitated. Old Man Hemlock had stressed the *person* receiving the message. Not simply handing it off to anyone claiming authority.
“Need see who’s askin’ first.” Thomas kept his voice steady, trying to project an audacity he didn’t quite feel.
The man’s lips thinned further. He reached inside his coat, and Thomas braced himself. Not for a weapon, but for a coin. A large, gleaming sovereign landed at Thomas’s feet.
“Proof enough?”
Thomas bent, picking up the coin. Heavy. Real. He tucked it into his pocket, a small, warm weight against the cold.
“Alright. But message is for a Mr. Silas Blackwood. Emissary to Parliament.”
The man’s gaze flickered to the rooftops. “Blackwood won’t be receiving anything today. Too much scrutiny. I’ll take it to him. Tell Hemlock… the sparrow has flown.”
Thomas blinked. “Sparrow?”
“A code. Never mind. Now listen. City’s closin’ up. They’re lockin’ down the districts. Need you to guide someone. Out. Before they do.” He gestured with a gloved hand toward a narrow alleyway. “Old woman. Name of Elspeth. Been watchin’ the gates for weeks. Desperate to find family. Lost them during the sickness.”
“Guide her? I got routes. But what’s the pay?” Thomas didn’t apologize for being blunt. Survival demanded it.
“More than coins. Blackwood owes Hemlock a favor. This settles it. The woman… she knows things. About the disappearances. About what’s really happening. Keep her safe. That’s the deal.” The man’s eyes finally met Thomas’. They were the color of storm clouds.
“Disappearances? You mean the folks vanishin’ in the East End?”
“Precisely. Elspeth holds pieces. Important pieces. Get her across the river. To Lambeth. There’s a contact. A baker. He’ll know what to do.”
A figure shuffled out of the shadows. Bent with age, wrapped in layers of patched cloth. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, etched with worry.
“Is that him?” she rasped, her voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
The man nodded toward Thomas. “This boy will see you safe, Elspeth. Trust him.”
Elspeth regarded Thomas with suspicion, her gaze sweeping over his soot-stained hands and worn clothes.
“A chimney sweep? You expect me to trust my life to a boy who climbs through filth?”
“I know the city like the back of my hand,” Thomas countered, meeting her gaze. “And I know how to disappear.”
Elspeth snorted. “We’ll see about that.” She turned and began walking, her pace surprisingly brisk for someone so frail. “Come on then, boy. Don’t dawdle.”
Thomas grabbed his bag, a knot forming in his stomach. This wasn’t just about guiding an old woman out of the city. It was about secrets, disappearances, and a message that someone in Parliament desperately wanted delivered.
“Wait up!” He hurried after her, stepping into the labyrinthine streets, the weight of the city—and its secrets—pressing down on his shoulders. He had a feeling this job would be more complicated than clearing a blocked flue.
