Ginn Hale - Wicked Gentlemen

The sun had risen an hour ago, but the sky remained dim. Heavy gray clouds hung above the rooftops and wrapped the tall steeples in thick mist. Harper liked the fog. It suited his thoughts, disguised the stains on his clothing, and hid his features. As the city bells rang out the hour, Harper squinted up the street.

Vendors were already out hawking their goods. Carriages and cart horses tore deep grooves through the muddy roads as the drivers shouted each other aside. The smell of hot bread and piss mixed as bakers opened their doors and women emptied the previous night's chamber pots into the gutters.

Harper sidestepped a splash of fouled water. His stomach clenched at the smell. He had already walked from Lucy's rented rooms on Cherry Row to Brandson's house on Archer's Green Road, then made his way to the walled grounds of White Chapel. Now he strode back along Butcher Street. The muscles of his back and legs burned with exhaustion. His eyes ached from strain and fatigue. His stomach churned in a mixture of hunger and tension. He felt almost certain that the moment he stopped moving he would simply collapse.

"Captain!" a young man shouted.

Across the street, a dark haired youth beckoned him.

"Captain." The young man grinned and Harper recognized him. Harper didn't know anyone else with so many teeth crammed so wildly into his mouth. Harper waved a brief hello. The young man returned the gesture with clumsy enthusiasm.

"Come across, Captain," the young man shouted over an argument between two carriage drivers. Harper waited for a slow moment in the rolling advances of carts and carriages, then rushed across the street.

"Morris," Harper said. "What are you doing down here?"

"Working." The young man held up a dripping broom. "Can you believe it?"

"Street sweeping?" Harper frowned.

"No. I'm just cleaning up in front of the shop." He pointed up to the sign that hung over their heads. Harper glanced up at the painted image of a loaf of bread encircled by patterns of wheat leaves.

"I got an apprenticeship to a baker." Morris pointed to the stained apron he wore. "Mr. Stone's been showing me how to make butter pastries. I baked my first ones this morning."

"That's good. I'm glad things have worked out for you." Harper smiled. Sharp tremors of exhaustion passed through his legs as he continued standing. If he didn't get moving again, he thought he was going to drop.

Morris beamed at him, his riot of Prodigal teeth flashing out again from behind his lips.

"You wouldn't have thought it could happen, would you? You would have thought I'd be back to doing light work out of other folks' pockets, wouldn't you?" Morris bounced slightly on the balls of his feet in excitement. Just watching him made the bones of Harper's feet ache.

"Well, you were quite good at it," Harper replied.

"That is all too true. Even Sister Celeste said there was no honest work for a yellow-eyed bastard like me." Morris swept the broom across the store steps, splashing the puddles of water aside. "But Mr. Stone says, such is not the case. He says it like that too. 'My lad, such is not the case.'"

"Well, congratulations." Harper patted Morris' shoulder and started to turn away.

"Captain, would you come in and meet Mr. Stone? I told him all about you and how you kept dragging me back to the charity school. He said if I saw you again, I should have you into the shop so he could thank you." Morris leaned a little closer to Harper. "Mr. Stone will probably give you some free grub."

"Well..."

Morris looked entreating. It clearly meant a great deal to him to have Harper meet the good Mr. Stone. In any case, Harper thought, having food in his stomach could hardly do him any harm.

"I can't stay long," Harper told Morris.

"Mr. Stone will be so pleased."

"Lead on, then," Harper replied.

He followed Morris into the red brick building. The warmth of the bakery made Harper feel suddenly more tired. The room smelled of yeast and vanilla. A big man with a black beard and thick black hair looked up as Harper and Morris entered.

"Mr. Stone. This is the captain I was telling you about." Morris gestured to Harper.

Mr. Stone frowned slightly as he regarded Harper. Harper knew he looked bad. He hadn't shaved, and his clothes were stained with both oil from Hells Below and mud. He didn't come close to presenting the proper image of an Inquisition captain.

"I imagined you'd be older," Mr. Stone said after a moment.

Harper shrugged.

"Pleased to meet you, in any case." Mr. Stone held out his hand and Harper shook it. Mr. Stone's hand was hot and callused. "You look like you could use something to eat."

"Thank you. That would be quite kind."

"Would you like a butter pastry?" Morris asked.

"Give the man two, lad," Mr. Stone said before Harper could answer. "Make sure they're good and cool first. And check on the beef pies while you're at it." Mr. Stone tossed an oven mitt to Morris. Morris caught it and then darted through a curtained doorway just behind Mr. Stone. A hot billow of air rolled out as the curtains swung behind him. Harper guessed the ovens were back there. His eyes drooped almost closed as the new wave of heat wafted over him.

He didn't think he had been this warm in days.

"I hope you don't mind me saying so," Mr. Stone said to Harper, "but you look dead on your feet."

"I was on my way to bed when Morris saw me," Harper replied. Mr. Stone continued to study Harper curiously. Harper decided to redirect the conversation before Mr. Stone could ask any difficult questions.

"It really is kind of you to take Morris on," Harper said. "Most men wouldn't want a Prodigal in their shops, much less working for them."

"Well, I wouldn't want most of them," Mr. Stone replied. "But I can say the same for most of the natural men I know as well. I think Morris was meant to be a baker."

Harper didn't know if it was his exhaustion or the seriousness of Mr. Stone's tone, but it made him want to laugh. The last thing he would have thought of Morris was that he was born to bake. Not with those teeth. Harper had a jagged scar on his forearm from the first time he had encountered Morris.

"The heat," Mr. Stone continued, "it gets most men. Hurts their eyes and makes their skin crack. Wears them down, but not Morris. He looks as rosy as a cherub after a whole day back there. He takes to the work better than my own son ever did, I'll tell you that."

"That's good. I'm glad Morris has found an honest living." Harper straightened as he realized that he'd been slumping over Mr. Stone's counter.

"But you see, Captain." Mr. Stone dropped his voice. "There's trouble with him taking to it so well."

There was something about the low whisper that grabbed Harper's attention.

"How do you mean?" Harper asked.

"My own boy hasn't been good for anything. He doesn't work and he doesn't give a damn about the shop. He thinks he's going to sell the place when I die."

Harper frowned slightly, not at the thought of Mr. Stone or his unruly son, but simply at the idea that he was getting dragged into their business. Harper had more than enough troubles of his own at the moment.

"This bakery's been in the family since my great-great grandfather's days," Mr. Stone went on. "It doesn't just belong to the family; it's what our family is built on. I don't want him selling it. I want Morris to run it after I'm gone, but legally—"

"It will belong to your son?" Harper finished.

"Yes. That's the short of it."

"Well, if you're set on keeping the shop from your son, then you can disinherit him."

"No, I couldn't do that. He's no good, but he's still my son."

"Your only other choice is to adopt Morris and will the bakery to him. Your natural son couldn't contest it, if Morris was also legally your son."