ᴀꜱʏʟᴜᴍ :: ᴛ.ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ

viii: seven tons

The last time Winnow had come to London, she had been little more than a child: a girl of nineteen with her dark hair freshly cut to her chin, combed into waves from which it had already decided to stray. She had worn one of her finest dresses, borrowed from her mother, a sleek slip of pale blue beneath a fur-lined coat, and she had held the hand of a man she had trusted. He had taken her through the winding city streets, treated her to a fine dinner, reserved a room in the Savoy they could share alone for the weekend. At the time, she had thought it one of the best of her life.

Now, she stepped through a quieter part of London with her hands tucked into the pockets of her patchwork coat, curled into fists to stop their shaking. She could feel her nails pressing sharply into her palms, the pinprick pain centring her to the ground, calming her racing thoughts.

In the distance, she could hear music, pounding like a drumbeat against the night. She could hear far-off laughter, feminine shrieks, a male vibrato, footsteps clicking against the cobblestones. Tacked on more than one building and pole, the proud face of an English gentleman seemed to gaze directly at her, watching as she walked, imploring her to visit his speech at Bingley Hall.

Not for the first time, Winnow glanced over her shoulder, uneasy, but no silhouettes followed her through the dark. None she could see, at least.

Until five minutes ago, she had made her way through the East End with an escort, but Albie had peeled away the second they drew close to the Limehouse Causeway. The information he gave was limited, but Winnow could piece together enough to sense that it was a matter of gangs and territories, and that this was a place which would not welcome him. Apparently, it would welcome her, though she continued to doubt it.

It wasn't the first time she had heard of Limehouse, of course. Though she had lived in Birmingham all her life, she and her family were some of the only members of the Chinese community within the city, far from the bustling ports and trade hubs of London and Liverpool. In Birmingham, she had always sensed her difference, always hyper-aware of the way she stood out. In the East End of London, however, the Chinese community thrived, with sailors and merchants eager to bide their time among like-minded people near the ports at which they worked. Both of Winnow's grandfathers had worked here once: growing up, she had heard plenty of stories of their fraught youths from her parents.

Now, she scanned the tightly-packed houses and wide street of the Limehouse Causeway with wide eyes, wondering which of these buildings might once have housed her blood. There was nothing of her family here now, nothing known. But up ahead, she could see light bleeding from one building larger than the rest, spilling out onto the broken flagstones to illuminate them with gold. A couple of women stumbled from its front doors, arm-in-arm, while a man smoked beside the threshold, watching their laughter with a faint smile of his own.

Under her breath, Winnow began to hum a familiar tune to calm her nerves, a Chinese ode her mother had once sung by her bedside. The simple melody stood no chance of drowning out the growing sound from the building ahead, but it did something to still her shaking hands, easing the pressure of her nails against her palms. She felt as though her blood was humming, charged with electricity.