Oh, Fletcher was surely up to something. It was the matter of what, exactly, that Charley couldn't wrap her finger around. Not that her fingers weren't busy at the moment, clutched defensively around the bouquet that was meant for delivery, and definitely not for the oversized lump perusing books like a foolish scholar. Freer hands than hers would have balled into fists, but Charley was quick enough with her words as well. "Not hardly. Gonna hafta be spendin' outta yer ol' gran's coin 'gain or summat. Or find yerself a pretty lass what fancies sendin' ya gifts."
Charley wrinkled her own nose at that suggestion, freckles banding together to dispel any notion that she might be Fletcher’s pretty lass somehow. Or that he might even end up with one. For all she knew, the boy had his sights set upon being a lifelong bachelor, and for that the urchin might breathe a huge sigh of relief. She wouldn’t be the only one, of that there was no doubt. If there was a match in all of Britain for a detention-patented rogue who stalked rooftops and florist shops for victims to befoul their dreams, then there wasn’t a hit-wizard alive who could defeat that sort of darkness.
"Yer sort," The urchin said again, wondering if he had a hearing problem as well as reading. No, from the trance she’d found him in, the book had Fletcher fully engrossed in the way only a bookworm would have been. The ones who must live in among shelves and ink-faded tomes, for as much as their sort practically reeked of ancient, withered pages. He didn’t sport their paled skin or squinty-eyed look at something other than a lettered text, anyway, a determination that came with so little relief that his next words nearly knocked Charley right over.
"Yer still a..." she mulled past the word of it, skipping ahead to what that meant for him. What that meant for her. Charley had counted on the talk she’d been hearing, the tutting of old biddies who seemed to know everyone’s future, that Jimmy Fletcher would follow in footsteps forged by all but the slyest, and most lucky to be chosen or found at the right spot, of their fellow shack-dwelling, low-prospect-ridden, empty-pocketed ne’er-do-wells. With just enough success to get by, but never ahead.
Just like her.
"’Cept that means that you —an’ really, you?— managed to get all the way..." Charley’s mind spun, and her thoughts tumbled out all at once. "They let ya? An’ didn’t laugh? Can’t right believe ya knew what to do with all that parchment, really. Nor’d they go easy on ya, neither, not ‘nuff money or connections. So it hadta be you, jes you facin’ those OWLs, no prank nor farce. Which really means—"
She couldn’t bear it at all, how someone like Jimmy Fletcher could have sat for exams she’d never have a chance to take.
"You. Passed?!" Charley’s jaw hung open for a moment, before she could swing it closed. And then it gaped apart once more at what his boast really meant. "An’ you get to go back, ya got the coin for it?!"
The wall of freckles gave her reddened face a ruddy brown hue instead, hardly the sort of pretty lass that Jimmy’d want to take flowers from. Mean ol’ Jimmy. Dumb, crass Jimmy. That big bully, who’d get everything he wanted by laughs and half-measures. The one leaving her without a single chance to take him down a notch, like she really ought to. It wasn’t fair, or right, and knowing Fletcher he’d done it all on purpose, too.
"How dare you!"
Charley wrinkled her own nose at that suggestion, freckles banding together to dispel any notion that she might be Fletcher’s pretty lass somehow. Or that he might even end up with one. For all she knew, the boy had his sights set upon being a lifelong bachelor, and for that the urchin might breathe a huge sigh of relief. She wouldn’t be the only one, of that there was no doubt. If there was a match in all of Britain for a detention-patented rogue who stalked rooftops and florist shops for victims to befoul their dreams, then there wasn’t a hit-wizard alive who could defeat that sort of darkness.
"Yer sort," The urchin said again, wondering if he had a hearing problem as well as reading. No, from the trance she’d found him in, the book had Fletcher fully engrossed in the way only a bookworm would have been. The ones who must live in among shelves and ink-faded tomes, for as much as their sort practically reeked of ancient, withered pages. He didn’t sport their paled skin or squinty-eyed look at something other than a lettered text, anyway, a determination that came with so little relief that his next words nearly knocked Charley right over.
"Yer still a..." she mulled past the word of it, skipping ahead to what that meant for him. What that meant for her. Charley had counted on the talk she’d been hearing, the tutting of old biddies who seemed to know everyone’s future, that Jimmy Fletcher would follow in footsteps forged by all but the slyest, and most lucky to be chosen or found at the right spot, of their fellow shack-dwelling, low-prospect-ridden, empty-pocketed ne’er-do-wells. With just enough success to get by, but never ahead.
Just like her.
"’Cept that means that you —an’ really, you?— managed to get all the way..." Charley’s mind spun, and her thoughts tumbled out all at once. "They let ya? An’ didn’t laugh? Can’t right believe ya knew what to do with all that parchment, really. Nor’d they go easy on ya, neither, not ‘nuff money or connections. So it hadta be you, jes you facin’ those OWLs, no prank nor farce. Which really means—"
She couldn’t bear it at all, how someone like Jimmy Fletcher could have sat for exams she’d never have a chance to take.
"You. Passed?!" Charley’s jaw hung open for a moment, before she could swing it closed. And then it gaped apart once more at what his boast really meant. "An’ you get to go back, ya got the coin for it?!"
The wall of freckles gave her reddened face a ruddy brown hue instead, hardly the sort of pretty lass that Jimmy’d want to take flowers from. Mean ol’ Jimmy. Dumb, crass Jimmy. That big bully, who’d get everything he wanted by laughs and half-measures. The one leaving her without a single chance to take him down a notch, like she really ought to. It wasn’t fair, or right, and knowing Fletcher he’d done it all on purpose, too.
"How dare you!"
![[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.