Enola Holmes Imagines

In the Evening (Tewkesbury)

Your nails are stained again. Despite the fact that you've been taking great care to stay away from the damning phosphorus powder– you're in charge of chopping up the small pieces of wood that become the sticks on the match, not even near the accursed white dust– it's still there, turning your nails an unsettling darker shade after some time has passed.

You knew that life wouldn't be easy when you took up your new life as a matchstick girl, but at least it was a job you could have, and surely that would make things better. It's the little things, though, that get to you in the end. The way the phosphorus dust gets into everything. The exhaustion that hangs over you like a cloud, refusing to cease dogging your heels wherever you go. The fact that even when you finish the day's work, your place of residence feels no more like a home than the factory.

Most matchstick girls live in shared accommodation houses, and you're no different. You split a small room with two other girls, and although you're glad they're nice and try not to infringe on your own personal space, you don't really get a lot of time to yourself. It's easy to snap to a temper, and on evenings like this, you're unable to stop the irritation from coursing through your veins.

There's only one surefire solution to get out of your own head, and that's to get out of the accommodation house before you go mad. You tell the other girls that you're heading out, and they nod in passive acceptance as they always do. Slipping out into the dark streets, you breathe a quiet sigh of relief at the absence of stifling sound. The cool air is a balm on your cheeks, and you treasure the sensation of finally not being shoulder to shoulder with people as you go.

You've come to appreciate your evening walks ever since you started work at the matchstick factory. You might have to give every other one of your hours to work, to your roommates, to this dratted city and its wheels that never stop spinning, but at least out here it's just you and your own thoughts. Two blocks down, you're already feeling better.

Or, you're feeling better until you run smack into someone else. You have a habit of sinking into your own thoughts when no one needs you for anything. Maybe that was the case tonight. It would at least explain why you didn't notice the man in front of you until you're colliding with him.

Unable to stamp down a quick fire of outrage over this boy ruining your one time to yourself, you narrow your eyes and shoot him an angry remark. "Watch where you're going! The pavement is wide. Walk anywhere else, why don't you?"

It's only once the bitter words have left your lips that you realize you haven't walked into any old worker or drunk, but a gentleman, and a nicely dressed one to boot. His collar is crisp, his demeanor perfect. Everything about him screams that he is not someone to be trifled with, and you've just snapped at him.

Your eyes grow wide and you frantically sputter out apologies. "I'm so sorry– thought you were someone else— it's my fault, really, don't mind it–"

The young man's not angry, though. In fact, he's actually grinning. "I think it was my problem, actually. I walked straight into you, you were totally right to call me out."

If there's any emotion strong enough to snap you out of your regret, it would be strong surprise, kind of what you're feeling now. "What?"

He laughs. "I wasn't looking where I was going, that's my mistake. I apologize, miss."

You snort before you can stop yourself. "I'm hardly worth that title."

Far from brushing off the encounter and continuing on with his destination, the young man's smile drops. "Why not?"

You gesture incredulously between the two of you. Come to think of it, you think you've seen his face in the newspapers of a friend of yours. Isn't this boy the viscount who's recently been making waves in the House of Lords?