Lucy was running through the streets of London. The cobblestones were still wet and slippery from recent rain, sparkling in the sunlight that had just emerged from the clouds like gold coins. The air was cool and smelled of the wet grass of London's gardens. The sky was the color of a young, new blue, freshly washed by the recent downpour and showing its best colors for the townspeople to enjoy a bit of a clearing before the next downpour. The coaches passed by her, without her caring in the least. It was quite a commotion in this big, crowded city. Like a boiling anthill. There was not a second of hesitation, everyone continuing to move forward without interruption. A veritable mob rushed through the streets, a tornado of wheels, of horses swallowing the cobblestones one by one as they marched through the wide and healthy avenues, like well-established women, displaying in a pride of madonna their roads bordered by shops and opulent buildings like jewels.

Dozens of people walked on the sidewalks. Ladies dressed in the latest fashions, dresses with frills and high collars, umbrellas in their hands or small bags, the bustle they wore making their garments look very flat in the front and very voluminous in the back, with a succession of ruches and trimmings. Multiple draperies decorated their skirts, transforming their trains into flows of braid and ornaments. Frills cheerfully unfolded their silk fabric similar to the thin wings of a butterfly. Their hats were marvels of feathers, flowers and convoluted shapes, rising above their heads like little pieces from a dream world, an invitation to travel through these extravagant headgear that changed the landscape of the heads of London into a colorful and disordered field in a sort of battle to see who would have the most conspicuous sunbonnet. They carried with them accessories, watches that hung on their wrists, useless and abandoned, the time they displayed learnedly ignored while only the gleaming of their cover was admired. Gloves covered the slender hands of all this female population, in mother-of-pearl for these delicate ivory sculptures. Small lace decorations, which had become very popular in recent years, were added around the collar, as well as ribbons, the bustier adopting a delicate hourglass shape, as was the most recent use. The sleeves of these beautiful ladies were swollen and inflated, as well as hot-air balloons. Gentlemen, in suits with briefcases to accompany them, a dignified and distinguished look on their faces, proudly displayed their ties tied in a bow tie. Their long black jackets were shiny, the velvet glowing with a gleam of opulence. They all sported high-waisted pants and shiny boots that seemed to tell from their brave leather that this foot they contained was destined to walk on the entire capital. Their mustaches blooming like busheslush showed their dignity as well as their top hats which made them all nobly taller. Like all important men, they were in a hurry and they moved forward without stopping, sometimes giving Lucy who was passing them a sidelong glance. The young lady indeed did not wear the traditional outfit befitting a girl of her age, showing everyone her origins too modest to share the same sidewalk as them. Her skirt was not held in a certain shape by any crinoline. No hat came to cover her unruly hair and the only accessory she allowed herself was her usual satchel which had nothing elegant and seemed to be several decades older than its owner. Her figure was hopelessly devoid of any decoration, displaying a large open space, not unlike the wide blue sky stretching above them.

But the girl didn't notice. Her brown boots hit the ground at regular intervals, producing a kind of music, her heels clicking against the cobblestones as she raced down the streets. She was light and airy, her toes barely touching the ground, as if dancing with the air as her partner, floating in the atmosphere. Her satchel bumped against her thigh, tossed about by her running, letting out several papers that had been hastily stuffed into it.

Arriving at the intersection of one avenue, she fell in front of a cart loaded with parcels. Leaning on one hand, she jumped over it nimbly to fall on the other side, under the protests of the driver, without worrying much about the image she gave.

She was speeding down the sloping street. Gravity seemed like something she decided to challenge today. She was laughing out loud, perky on this spring afternoon, under the sun that was smiling at her. Her dress swirled around her like a cloud, billowing with the wind blowing through her as she ran. Her petticoats emitted a soft whisper of restless silk.

Eventually she arrived on more seedy streets, where there were no more sidewalks. It was not yet among the most terrible parts of London, but already, in these places close to misery, it seemed to spread like the plague, pestilential and suffocating. The houses were unsanitary, dilapidated, rickety. The plaster was cracking on all sides. Everything was older, poorly maintained. Many houses were barely standing. Puddles and ruts were everywhere, the cobblestones were bare. A bad smell reigned in the air as well as very high humidity. These neighborhoods were referred to as slums, brigand dens or even hellholes. It was true that the sanitary conditions left much to be desired. The animal carcasses of alley cats, birds, or other terrible creatures lay in the streets for all to see, showing their bowels in a lustful way. The paths were composed of dark and gloomy passages that the sun did not seem to want to illuminate with its light. The air was thick with rat hair and the smell of foul putrefaction. Smells that rose in mist from the streets full of garbage, streams of filth that crisscrossed the ground. The pavement never seemed to have been clean, always black and soiled, damaged by the innumerable footsteps of the destitute who walked there day and night.

Many people were sitting on the floor among the debris, dirt and filth. Some were lying down, hungry. Others were sleeping. Still others, children, were playing games or rather crawling on the ground like animals, waiting to be able to go home to beg for a miserable pittance. If they could, they left to find their sustenance elsewhere, but very often, if not always, they ended up returning home or rather, the poor equivalent of a home they had.

The neighborhood seemed dead. There was little commotion. Those who were in the street barely moved. No movement in the houses. No sound outside, as if people were afraid to make noise, afraid to speak too loudly. Most of the inhabitants, at this late hour of the day, must have left their homes to try to earn money for the day. Some did it more in the evening. Generally speaking, it was hunger that reigned, an all-consuming hunger that seemed to be in every look, glistening with longing and pain. The fingers were emaciated and damaged by hard tasks or sometimes simply by the terrible daily life which wore them down as surely as the chisel tears the fabric, as the fights dull the blade. There were gloomy alleys with a few pieces of fabric, clothes hanging between two houses, tossing about in the wind, miserable yellowed clothes with frayed stitches. The buildings leaned over each other, as if cowering in pain and suffering. The only windows one could find were broken, damaged, covered with boards and pieces of fabric in order to fill the cracks a little, to prevent the wind and the poisonous odors from outside from penetrating inside.

Doubtful establishments followed one another, haunts of thieves, former prisoners, prostitutes. The bars and inns were still deserted at this time of day, but a few regulars were already there, getting drunk all day, their red faces drenched in drink. The blank, expressionless faces, the sunken eyes and cheeks, the expression filled with an astonishing fixity.

The storefronts seemed to have been eaten away by time, eaten away by the weather. The stairs that led to the steps of the houses were stained with white stains, damp and oozing from all sides. The roof tiles seemed to be able to come off with the slightest gust of wind.

Each step in these neighborhoods was suffocating, one had the impression that the malaise of this place was going to be transmitted to humans, that the rot from outside was coming inside to defile the inhabitants. The more one walked in this disaster, the longer one was lost in this maze of dark courtyards, tight against each other, the less one could escape. And, before you know it, you raise your head and you see in a mirror a face eaten away by illness and the end, by a kind of vice that runs through the skin and the features, changing the face, the hands stained with filth and an emaciated body, delivered to the turpitudes of this animal life.

Lucy, in her colorful sky blue dress, with her energy, her good humor, clashed in the decor. She was a task of life in this monochrome place.

Having arrived in front of a particular house, she made a perfectly controlled braking which sent a wave of mud flying in front of her.

The hovel was old and looked like it had seen better days. The walls were gray, faded, sick, chalky in tone. The large wooden beams that supported the structure of the house were damaged, trembling. They looked like they had to fight against the wind which threatened to send them crashing to the ground, the house with it. The window panes were filthy and opaque, an economical way not to buy curtains.

Lucy, without losing her smile, went and banged her two hands on the door, producing a sound similar to a drumbeat.

After signaling her presence to the whole household, she began to wait on the side of the road.

While she waited, a middle-aged woman came out of a nearby house. She seemed to come from a foreign country, with her dark skin and exotic clothes. Her black hair was tied in a tired bun that hung down her neck. She wore colorful clothes, despite the poverty of the neighborhood. She was dressed in an Indian sari that had struggled through the years but still retained enough presence, proudly wrapping the overweight woman. Her face displayed numerous wrinkles, signs of a smiling nature that struggled to persist despite the conditions.

She had in her hand a wicker basket twice the size of her head. Inside, she carried small bags of fabric, probably from old saris.

 - Hi, Lucy girl. My ancestors announced to me your return, she said.

 - Really ?

 - Yes, that and the racket you made.

She began to tug at her ear while Lucy let out plaintive moans.

 - So now tell me what makes you wake up the whole neighborhood when it's tea time.

 - Oh, nothing, apart from the irrefutable proof of our notoriety! she announced, proudly brandishing the papers she had stuffed into her satchel.

They were dozens of newspapers purchased from street vendors. The front page read "Haunted Mansion, Murder Mystery".

 - Look at this ! This is the case we solved last month! Isn't this great ? We are famous! Well, okay, they present it a bit like a ghost story and they called me Marjorie instead of Lucy, but that's already something !

The woman looked at her dubiously. She took one of the copies in her hands and used it to pat the girl on the head.

 - I hope that's not how you plan to fill the pot!

 - But now we have Maude to cook and clean.

 - Leave that poor girl alone! She does everything for you!

 - But she wants it! She is not likely to be tired, she is a super automaton servant.

The woman glared at her.

 - By the way, Nana, aren't those your little snacks in the basket? Lucy asked, almost drooling.

 - Yes, but they are not for you!

 - Come on! I am a nice girl !

Grumbling and swearing, the woman handed her one of the small tissue bags.

 - Yes ! My charm and my charisma prevailed again! exclaimed Lucy, victorious. Thank you Nana!

She grabbed the small sachet and went back to her drum solo against the door of the house. It opened, revealing a tired Alistair.

 - It's okay Lucy, I'm not deaf, you can stop.

The young girl offered him her best smile while throwing a newspaper in his hands. The woman gave him one of her little sachets.

 - Here, take one, you need it. If you ever need help with your stupid partner, call me. I am a professional with sandal strokes.

 - I'll think about it, thank you, Alistair said, taking the bag the woman handed him.

The two companions returned inside the house. First they had to climb a rickety staircase with rotting wood, which threatened to collapse at any moment. Their bedroom was upstairs. They rented a fairly large room in this sinister boarding house, which Alistair paid for each month with the help of an annuity that came to him from who knew where. They crossed the corridor whose walls were furrowed with whitish traces. You could sometimes see inside the walls, through holes that the fatigue of the building had caused. Leaking pipes ran through them. Some of the holes were sometimes boarded up by the caretaker who went to great lengths to try to keep a bit of composure. The hallway was stuffy, with no light but the dim light filtering through a window. The floor creaked beneath them in menacing complaints. They finally arrived in front of their room.

It was quite a large room, at least for the people of the neighborhood, divided into various parts by fabrics stretched from the ceiling. Since Maude had arrived, she had undertaken to spruce up their accommodation, cleaning and scrubbing everything on a very regular basis. Her first cleaning had resulted in several basins filled with disturbingly black, murky water and a fair amount of vermin she had dislodged. Since then, every two weeks, she rinsed the place with plenty of water, cleaned the sheets and clothes before airing the room for several hours, even if all that could really get in was the stale air from outside. It had three improvised beds. The first on the debris of a bed occupied by Lucy. The second was on a shabby sofa, where Alistair slept. The last one, which they only set up at bedtime, was on the table they used to eat and reserved for Maude.

However, despite the rather dubious and uncomfortable appearance of the place with its dilapidated furniture and the permanent darkness that reigned there, the room remained warm and comfortable. In a corner there was an old fireplace that Maude, with the help of a big broom and at least a whole day of effort, had unblocked, causing a flood of black ashes in the room. Since then, they had been trying to maintain an imposing fire there in order to warm the room, which tended to quickly become freezing. Sometimes they ran out of wood to burn, but in those cases Alistair would go out and come back half an hour later, bundles of firewood in his arms without saying a word about what he had done.

Lucy had also decorated the place with a thousand little trinkets of all kinds, objects that she picked up here and there during her travels throughout the city. Alistair had brought with him a small collection of old books, a family heirloom as he called it and which he refused to part with and also a strange horn that he said belonged to a friend of his. They had therefore made a place for the books, arranging wooden planks into a more or less solid shelf. Often, Lucy leafed through them and placed between the pages flowers that she had collected outside the city or in gardens in order to dry them, to preserve their smell and their beauty, and to be able to admire them at any time of the day to distract themselves from a too dark and gloomy period. 

She had also hung just under the window an assembly of colored glass pieces that she had found during her adventures, tied between them with pieces of string. They moved a little in the light, like stained glass, the light that passed through them took on a thousand colors. Small bells, chimes picked up from the garbage or made by hand came to make their soft tinkling heard, as soon as the slightest bit of wind was invited into the room. Maude had finished fitting out the room with several sewing and embroidery jobs done at amazing speed. She had taken strips of fabrics that she had ingeniously assembled into various impressive works, arranged in various corners of the room to brighten it up. Maude never seemed to find rest. Always, she invented a new task to accomplish without her companions having made the slightest request of her. It was also a way for her to occupy herself, to forget recent events, to no longer think about the past or the future, concentrating on the only present task.