A few shrubs grow on the sides, weaving their way of stranded moss and fall petals through the stone.
My thumb brushes against the stone, though more on the name engraved into it.

William Elijah Hopkins
(1846-1879)

The muted breeze of this cemetery pulled me here, even though William's... anniversary is a week from now. Even though I tried to stay away this time. Even though I wanted to meet someone else tomorrow.

Someone crunches the fallen leaves under his feet, making me turn around. My eyes widen and Doctor Hopkins stops.
He is alone, just like me.

I nod at the doctor, as he makes his way to the grave. His shadow grows with each step, longer and longer. Doctor Hopkins grips the stone, settling himself on the side opposite to me.

I don't know what to say.

The doctor looks in between the stone and me, shoulders dropping with a sigh.
"You still miss him."

My fingers brush against the small petals aligned against the stone. I put my elbow on my knee when it reminds me of someone.
"I always do."

A glaze coats the doctor's eyes, making him take another breath. However, when he speaks, there's only a slight tremor in his voice. He tells me stories of William, of his childhood, his adolescence, his youth.
I bite my lips, pain growing more and more in my throat despite sharing memories of him, of William.
We stay like that for the rest of the noon— him being the father I never had, I being the son he lost.

The lilacs wave about in their positions, while I keep looking at them with a tilted head. The sodden, abandoned chapel bears witness to this, despite being engrossed in its own decay.

"I know he was your friend, lad," Uncle Arnold says. "But he was also my constable. Do you think I'd let my own men's murderers parade about?"

Sighing, Uncle Arnold pushes the station's gates.
"It's raining, lad. Come inside to dry yourself."

Rain keeps striking down on the forsaken soil, water dripping down to the bone.
I don't need to go inside; I don't need to dry myself; I don't need to calm down right now.

"You know I can help! Just let me..." Thunder drums in the skies.
"Please..."

Throughout the funeral and this conversation, Jasper Harvey remains silent. He only observes.
Later he was the one to convince Uncle to let me help.

My head shakes, bringing me back to the lilacs.
The contradicting weather of the past and present intermingle to make me take a step back, blinking.

And then almost collide into someone behind me. I straighten and then freeze when her fingers clasp around my arm.
"Mathilda..."
Hastening, I turn around. All the while I lose the lingering touch.

"You... you look like you were watching a hallow of nightmares, rather than a dream..."
Mathilda shakes her head. Though her complexion seems paler than usual.

"You always have such a... unique choice of words."
I try smiling to ease away the creases of that nightmare, but her fingers clasping and unclasping with the strings of her cloak distract me.

"You mean strange?" She raises a brow.

"Unique for me." I shrug.
"But whatever that may suit you."

The both of us lean towards the cluster of trees on our right, serving as an umbrella for any judging gazes. Specks of rouge splatter her cheeks, but only momentarily.
Mathilda stays a few steps ahead of me, fiddling with her strings again.

"Do you... want to say anything in particular?" I ask.

A few birds fly over our heads, thankfully not a single one with a silver feather.
When she stops fidgeting, my thumb runs across her cheek.
Mathilda sighs,
"Last night, there was a gathering near the plot next to my home. Everyone's was celebrating and two police officers came: Fagin and Harvey."

Harvey... Celebrating and police officers.
Probably Crimley's recent arrest, considering how famous he was.

"They both said something that gave birth to the two questions I have, ones I can't ask in front of anyone else."

My brows furrow.

"Were you responsible for Crimley's arrest?"

I stop caressing her cheek, albeit slowly but surely pulling away.

Mathilda glances at the gesture. Her arms wrap around the front of her waist, blending in with the deep maroon.

"May I ask how did you deduce that only from last night's conversation?" I hold the reins of my shallow breaths.

"Fagin said something between the lines: all needed proof was in Crimley's own handwriting." She purses her lips.
"That day when I came to your hospital alone and abruptly left... you were writing some accounts.
But they weren't in the same writing as the prescription you'd given Mama. I remembered that for certain. It was in an entirely different handwriting."

"And I immediately removed those papers after your seeing them."
Despite the situation, I can't help the corners of my lips tugging.
"I did hope you'd notice something different."

"Why would you hope that?" Her tone remains grey.

"Truth be told, at the time I was trying to understand you. I hoped that would help," I answer honestly.

"And what did you understand?" She does not step back, but stays steadfast.

"I understood now that you nothing can escape you." Truth courses through another tide.

Her grey tone gets a shade by her shaking her head,
"Observing people helps with creating better characters. Though I admit only the rare sort are intriguing enough to make into actual characters."

"Well, I hope I'm part of the intriguing sort." I raise a playful brow, ignoring the knots from before.

"You should know which sort you are."
Though a smile still comes, albeit involuntarily.
"And, one day, I was passing by Central London, exactly near the police station. I saw you there with the head constable. He called you nephew."

Uncle and I; the gargoyle watching; a beige cloak following...

My brows furrow, remembering the beige cloak.
"Beige cloak... You were there..."

Mathilda frowns. "I didn't think you noticed that bit."

I shrug again.

"It all seems too fitting: the circumstances, the conditions..." Mathilda says.

I smile, one that doesn't feign on my lips. "Perhaps, you should be the detective, love. I will not argue with your deductions." Mathilda shakes her head, while I continue.
"Did you hear the name William Sterling when the constables talked? That would create quite a knot."

"Harvey said:
A great round of applause for Detective William Sterling." She makes quotation marks in the air.

That statement forces me to do a double take.
"I really ought to be flattered after making someone like Harvey saying that. Even gargoyles are more frank than that bloke."

Mathilda gently pushes my chest. "To be fair, he was tipsy even before the speech started. And then he passed out."

"Harvey drunk! Why did I miss such a scene!" I frail my arms about.

"You... know him quite well, don't you." She smiles.

"I do, but not quite well. He's my cousin."
I nod, though her brows knit together at the change of surnames."Uncle Arnold's illegitimate son.
They never really talk about the mother. All I know is that he came from Liverpool after her passing away." Once I've said the words, they make me remember the past five years working with Harvey. How I knew him, but never really did.
"Also... William Sterling is me, my alias. I made a new identity, a new me, to work with Uncle. I even went to the extremes of making paperwork for Sterling, a new bank account, a new life..."

"I'm not even surprised at the inclusion of an alias now." Mathilda puts her hands up, but then her brows knot.

"At least now I know I'm not the only one who became unbearable while drunk." I observe out loud, changing the topic.

Mathilda's posture shifts slightly, a coat of an older memory masking her.
But only for a moment, before going back to her regular demeanor.

And then I almost want to slap my forehead.

Her father was a alcoholic, you dimwit.

I shake my head.
"It's not like it's a regularity. The last time I got drunk was when I was eighteen with my friends from Harrow..." A sigh escapes me, shaking my head. Someone's face comes into mind, which I quickly ignore out of habit.
"For some reason, my friends and I thought it would be a wonderful idea to dispose of old textbooks into the Thames."

Her smile returns, shoulders relaxing.
"I didn't know the Thames had an underwater book bank."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time." I shrug. "Though a constable on patrol didn't think we were drunk boys throwing books in a sack.
He thought we were throwing an illegitimate child in a sack.
Thank goodness, Uncle Arnold clarified after seeing me."

A sigh escapes me, remembering all the threads that school held together.
Now almost all those threads have been scattered across the globe. Some returning as landowners, some leaning towards parliament, some becoming colonial and military officers.

I'm the only one whose choice of career was so odd.

Then something unexpected breaks my train of thought.
A huge smile splatters onto Mathilda's face till it turns into chime-like laughter. Its symphony resounds in my air, pulling my attention only towards it.
She puts a hand on her lips, trying to contain it.

"Don't stop now, Tilda," I say, a grin spreading on my features as well.

"Tilda?" she says, making me widen my eyes.

"Oh you don't mind, do you?" Redness trims my ears. Again. And I want to smack my head against a tree trunk.

"No, I don't."
She laughs again, the brightness of her eyes almost seems contagious when my head leans to the side.
She lets herself have a few more giggles.

My smile falls for a moment.

I... I've never actually seen you laugh like this.
And now it is the only sound that seems like music to me...

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks suddenly, the laughter gone, but its effect retained.

"I only like hearing you laugh. That is all." A strand falls from her bun and I pull it behind her ear.
Despite my wanting time to stay like this forevermore, I say,
"I answered your first question; you replied to my concerns.
What is your second?"

"And in the morning, 'There will be a storm today, for the sky is red and threatening.'"

The knots from before come back, but I shake them away.

Mathilda takes a moment, rubbing her thumb on her lower lip.
"Did you... did you pay Crimley to stay away from me? Or something like that? He stopped asking for money quite some time before arrest."

The question lingers in the air, rising with each intake of breath.
"I wouldn't do that to you, to your pride." Just as I wouldn't want anyone to do so for me. "I did pay Crimley for the information he misinterpreted, but that was only so that he wouldn't be suspicious of me." I look away at the small begonia blooming some distance from us.

"Thank goodness..."
Mathilda sighs, as if the memory threatening to shroud her person decides against it.

"The sins of the fathers..."

Noticing my sudden shift, she says,
"What's bothering you, Matthew?"

We are merely a few inches away, so close that my fingers can wrap around the locks of her hair. So close that her breath intermingles with mine.
But our surroundings are not that of a burning fire. It is of the thick smoke and smog left by the fire, still burning but stifling.

A bird chirps from a nearby tree, its symphony ringing about.
As if befallen from a trance, we let go of each other.

"Learn how to control yourself, Matthew."

"It's..." I sigh, "It's his anniversary, William's..." the words come out heavier and heavier with every breath.

I have no control with her...

I don't know how or when it happens, but her head rests against my shoulder. My chin touches the top of her wavy hair.
How much time passes, the setting sun is the only being signalling it.
The weight remains on my shoulders, but it somehow becomes more bearable.

Ok so now we know how Tilda knows Matt can copy handwriting & who Ms. Biege Cloak is 👀

And I know I know I'm late, but the scene you all want from Matt & Tilda will come soooonnnn.
But not before an interlude with our very own Henry 😏

Anyway, have a great week!
Love,
MS Zame