Victorian Nocturne

He often wondered whether or not she knew where her letters were going. The boarding house wasn't exactly on any kind of company property, but she wouldn't know about that, he thought. She'd never been to London, he knew that much. Or at least, if she had, she'd never told him.

( How can you possibly trust someone you trust implicitly? )

The shunting hiss of pistons was especially loud during the evenings, even in a city such as London, so crowded with the living that its own poor were almost guaranteed to suffocate their own existence. The train had arrived with little fanfare, save for that of coal-fed furnace and its belching forth of steam into the night air. At least one of its passengers was perfectly happy to keep things low-key, even if, taking the first steps to land feet on the station platform, this mechanised transport still felt like quite the novelty.

The face of Isaac Turner looked steadily around, but it no longer belonged to any man. It could smell the air, but did not breathe. It could feel the cold air, register a need to show its human guise wrapping coat tighter around chest, but extremes of temperature were unlikely to kill it. It could see, write, read, learn and even talk, but this voice was not its own; merely a borrowed construct. A means to an end, as all things were.

Calmly deciding to make its way to the exit, something had come to London with not only grand vision, but the will and means by which to see it through. Where metal, glass and electricity were starting to teach mankind new ways of ascending to something greater, so, too, would this newest presence seek to lead them astray by a perversion of the same.

( Testing a theory: )

The boardinghouse where Fox lived was owned by a widow named Harriet Soames. She'd been a seamstress when she was younger, but after arthritis gnarled her hands to the point where she could no longer thread a needle without pain, she began to rent the rooms of the home she'd shared with her husband to supplement her income. The house was nestled on a quiet street, a rusty wrought-iron gate surrounding the property. The yard was a bit unkempt, one of the men who lived within occasionally doing minor tasks to keep the grass from getting too thick, but the inside was tidy.

In the kitchen, Fox was preparing a cup of coffee. Breakfast had already been served and eaten but as long as the tenants cleaned up after themselves the kitchen seldom closed. There was no work today; Mr. Templeton had told her before leaving last night that he'd be lunching with his wife and some prospective clients, so he wouldn't need her. Perhaps she'd visit the library, she was running out of reading material.

Carrying her cup into the front room, she picked up the newspaper she'd left behind and returned to the article she'd been reading. While not particularly educated, she didn't want to be ignorant of the world around her. Even while committing the most basic of deceptions, she could still learn if she wanted to.

( A Guest in the Parlor )