Zinnia Gallagher was a neversweat, and Charley had decided that from almost as soon as they met.
The urchin wound up doing most of the tasks around the flower shop, pointed this way and that, while Mrs. Gallagher rested on her laurels. She might have thought about doing the same, too, if she was Mrs. Potts' daughter and could spend her time on making tea or art instead of work.
Charley thought her tea tasted awful, but even she had to admit the woman had an eye for arrangements. So long as she kept teaching Charley how to make them, and they were turning out much prettier than Mrs. Mann's ever did, Charley could begrudgingly agree there might be some good reason she got paid so much for doing so little.
The urchin was trying to do very little for her part today, and only a fool would call her a neversweat for it —and she was no fool. Nor were either of them, not on a day as hot as this. All the windows and doors open couldn't keep the sweltering heat from soaking the undersides of her shirt sleeves or the back of her neck. Even rolling up her sleeves or moving her braid only helped for a little bit, then it was all dripping and gross again with nothing left to help it. Charley wrapped arrangements as quick as she could, and already her box of finished bouquets had grown bigger than all the cuts left out to do.
Maybe the sun would go down faster if the work was done.
"Smell what?" Charley asked, after the second time the woman said something. Her freckles all came together, wrinkling her nose against the smells she was getting. All the flowers in the world weren't enough for the hot box of the shop today. Nearby bags of fertilizer clogged her nose with decay, and the odors reeking off their bodies was sure to send her straight to the lake after work. The urchin was only glad for the lack of customers so she didn't have to smell them, too. "En't smellin' a thing I'd wanna be smellin', 'cept if I stick my head in this box."
She almost did, but Mrs. Gallagher was onto something, as much as Charley wished it wasn't so. Her nose could smell it now, or she thought as much. It didn't reek, not exactly, nor did it clear her mind like a deep sniff of the flowers could. "Might've some fellow conjured up a new factory next door or summat?"
The urchin wound up doing most of the tasks around the flower shop, pointed this way and that, while Mrs. Gallagher rested on her laurels. She might have thought about doing the same, too, if she was Mrs. Potts' daughter and could spend her time on making tea or art instead of work.
Charley thought her tea tasted awful, but even she had to admit the woman had an eye for arrangements. So long as she kept teaching Charley how to make them, and they were turning out much prettier than Mrs. Mann's ever did, Charley could begrudgingly agree there might be some good reason she got paid so much for doing so little.
The urchin was trying to do very little for her part today, and only a fool would call her a neversweat for it —and she was no fool. Nor were either of them, not on a day as hot as this. All the windows and doors open couldn't keep the sweltering heat from soaking the undersides of her shirt sleeves or the back of her neck. Even rolling up her sleeves or moving her braid only helped for a little bit, then it was all dripping and gross again with nothing left to help it. Charley wrapped arrangements as quick as she could, and already her box of finished bouquets had grown bigger than all the cuts left out to do.
Maybe the sun would go down faster if the work was done.
"Smell what?" Charley asked, after the second time the woman said something. Her freckles all came together, wrinkling her nose against the smells she was getting. All the flowers in the world weren't enough for the hot box of the shop today. Nearby bags of fertilizer clogged her nose with decay, and the odors reeking off their bodies was sure to send her straight to the lake after work. The urchin was only glad for the lack of customers so she didn't have to smell them, too. "En't smellin' a thing I'd wanna be smellin', 'cept if I stick my head in this box."
She almost did, but Mrs. Gallagher was onto something, as much as Charley wished it wasn't so. Her nose could smell it now, or she thought as much. It didn't reek, not exactly, nor did it clear her mind like a deep sniff of the flowers could. "Might've some fellow conjured up a new factory next door or summat?"
![[Image: UNpj1yr.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/bwXcVqtF/UNpj1yr.png)
Writer Notes: Charley is a street urchin in both appearance and behavior, unless written otherwise here.
Interactions may reflect Victorian-era morals rather than modern sensibilities; this is allowed and acceptable to this writer.