In his wake followed a slender woman of about nineteen years with a high-society bearing to her features, curly brown tresses, whose low decollatage immediately drew the eye to her cleavage, and above-the-ankles hemline begged the male imagination to wonder at what was concealed beneath her gown. Although it may appear unseemly to talk about the young lady thus, it would also be relevant to note that (if the truth be told) her breasts were smaller than they looked, having been artfully made to seem larger by her unmentionables. These and other details immediately pegged her as a practitioner of the oldest profession, a streetwalker ... a "who-er" as one of the shabby man's colleagues referred to them. In other words, a prostitute, to not mince words.

To assume that she was following the lonely, shabby man back to his home would be quite correct. To predict that money would change hands would also be correct. But to predict that she would end up in his bedchambers for the night, debasing herself, exchanging her favors for that money ... this would not be entirely correct. She had very recently and temporarily misplaced her brother, and then lost him again on a more permanent basis, due to something that the shabby man did (although she was unaware of this fact), and then she had gained a new occupation helping the shabby, odd man with the store he ran. She was thus following him back to said store (she might have stopped to wonder why she was being taken there in the dead of night, but she had too much on her mind and didn't).

He had given her a job partly out of a sense of responsibility and guilt for his part in her brother's death, but to be perfectly honest, her brother had died before the shabby man had met him. The girl -- to say nothing of the world at large -- was safer with him gone. Still, the shabby man would have given the girl a job anyway, for he was a kindly sort (in spite of his curmudgeony and peculiar manner of speech), and she was inspired by her brother's death to make another attempt at improving her lot in life.

He had also recently acquired several colleagues -- a fact which we touched upon briefly before -- and a mission, and foresaw the time when he would need someone else to mind his store when he was occupied with these things or with his hobby, which was painting and sculpture. And last but not least, he had a rather strange outlook on life, and so did not judge the girl by her former occupation in the slightest (indeed, if one knew him, one would wonder if he was even aware of it to begin with), and therefore, he felt free to find her attractive. As an artist, the shabby man could appreciate beauty (although he had to mentally subtract the various things that streetwalkers did to themselves to make themselves "prettier" in order to find it in her at the moment, such as makeup).

We have not mentioned it up to this point, but the man was named Mr. Thaddeus Smythe, Proprietor (or so his calling card reads). He was, in addition to being an artist and shopkeeper, a member of a secret society known as the Order of Hermes, although he was somewhat distant from the politics and other doings of his colleagues (he was a member of House Ex Miscellenae, which was composed in large part of quirky sorts that didn't really fit into the most esteemed Order, but were in it anyway.) He came from a family of no small means, so anyone that knew him from his boyhood years would be quite startled to encounter him here. Then again, they'd be quite startled by a number of things about him. In truth, Mr. Smythe was not living and working in East London because he couldn't afford to get out. He was there because he wanted to be there, which makes him fairly unique among the people around him.

We have already discussed the not-so-secret society of which the young lady was (until recently) a member, but to be complete, her name was Miss Lucibell Ponsomby, of the West London Ponsombys, a family that fell on very hard times when Lucibell was but a young girl.

"Come along, Miss Ponsomby. I shant want you to get lost on these streets at night," said Mr. Smythe. You see, the young lady was not well acquainted with Mr. Smythe as yet, and was somewhat pensive about his intentions. She had no way to be aware of the things that you and I now know about him. She was known to be a prostitute, and that was a dangerous occupation in any era. This was not terribly long after the Ripper murders, and even if they were not killers, some men felt that a working girl was not only an object of gratification, but also a convenient way of working out some aggression. Being lost in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed him turn toward a small gap between the buildings, and would have grown more nervous if she had. Now her attention was drawn to Mr. Smythe as he stood at the mouth of the alley, and she regarded him somewhat doubtfully.

Then she shrugged. After all, Widow Marsden was familiar with the gentleman in question, and seemed to consider him largely harmless (or so Lucibell believed).

As she debated with herself, Lucibell thought she saw several pairs of baleful glowing eyes peering out of the shadows down the street the way they had come, and shuddered, remembering some of the Penny Dreadfuls she had read recently. There are worse things on the streets of London than strange men and dark alleys, according to the stories, and a girl who wants to live long there quickly learns how to choose among risky ventures. She blinked and there were no eyes ... they had been in her imagination all along, but she had already decided and stepped toward the alley.

Mr. Smythe, who had been regarding her indecision with some private amusement, nodded to himself once as if to say "I knew you had a good head on those shoulders", then turned and led the way, which let her keep her eyes on him and made her relax further.

"Mind you remember this alley, Lucibell. If you aren't careful, you'll pass right on by it and wonder where old Thaddeus moved it off to," shabby Mr. Smythe said as he peered over his shoulder at her, and she thought that this was a queer thing for him to say. People don't move alleys, and she was pretty familiar with this neighborhood. Still (she thought as she looked around) "I don't think I've ever been in this *precise* alley. Not this *precise* one." Lucibell was a bit fond of labelling things "precise", an old habit she picked up from her schooling. The buildings shouldered together, as if they felt there was greater safety in proximity in these parts (which was not a bad idea, she felt, and moved up closer to Mr. Smythe), and the result was that there was barely an alley at all, and it was far from straight. Mr. Smythe turned a corner into a larger area, fronting what could only be his shop.

There was more room here than in the alley that provided entrance, almost a small courtyard, paved with cobblestones, and lit by a single gas lamp, which made it seem almost cheery. Somebody had placed a small potted tree in the corner of the courtyard, and there was a wood and metal bench along one wall. The area was completely shielded from the night wind, and so it seemed warm and inviting. If Lucibell didn't see the dingy walls of other buildings bordering it, she would have sworn that this was courtyard was nothing less than a section of the actual street in a slightly better part of town.

The building that the courtyard fronted was a small two-story affair, overgrown with climbing vines. Lucibell remembered with a faint nostalgic smile how warm it was sitting between her parents when she was a young girl, and felt that the shop seemed to be nestling between the other buildings in just the same way. It had a single window on the ground floor, protected from forced entry with iron bars, and a thick wooden door with metal hinges. A small semicircle of glass near the ground indicated the presence of a cellar, and windows were also visible on the second story. There was a gap of only a few inches between the shop and the walls of the buildings around it, and the alley around the corner seemed to be the only way to the storefront.

Above the door was a brown wooden sign, upon which was carved "Fantabulum Artificium" in elegant, gold-painted script, arranged in a slight arch. Below the arch in smaller print it read "Thaddeus Smythe, Prop." Lucibell was impressed by the Latin, which gave the shop an air of mystery (the fog helped too), although if she'd known that the Latin was completely made-up, she would have been perhaps less impressed, at least until she found out that Mr. Smythe was quite capable of the real thing.

Mr. Smythe placed his cane under his shoulder then drew out a ring of metal keys that jangled slightly, and fumbled around with them at the door. There was a click, and then a second click a moment later (there were two locks), and the door swung inward with a squeak. Mr. Smythe held the door open and indicated for her to enter, which instantly warmed her heart toward him. Every gentleman holds the door for a Lady of Quality, while nobody holds the door for an East London whore. Although she wasn't aware of it, Lucibell was already feeling better about herself, and the imperceptibly-bent posture (which would have become noticeable in twenty years or so) was showing signs of straightening, as if a great weight had been suddenly taken from her shoulders. She stepped in and Mr. Smythe closed the door and bolted the locks behind her, closing out the cold night.

So it is with much-improved spirits and an optimistic attitude that she was not at all accustomed to, that Lucibell Ponsomby first looked upon her new workplace. The first thing she noticed upon entering was the odor, a strange combination of fragrant cedar and a slightly musty smell that she couldn't identify. This musty odor was not unpleasant; indeed, the mixture with the cedar seemed to relax her, once she got used to it.

She saw to her left an area with wooden shelves lining every inch of the walls (even under and above the front window), and several rows of them standing apart in the center of the room. The latter shelves seemed to have abstract curved designs inlaid on the wooden ends.

Upon all of these shelves were placed a seemingly-endless variety of knick-knacks, curios, and bric-a-brac: Small figurines and other pieces carved from wood, metal, stone, bone, jade, ivory, and less identifiable materials. A small army of wax-sealed jars of liquids and powders of unknown composition. What appeared to be a collection of canes or wands in an umbrella stand in one corner. One shelf seemed dedicated to books, and included everything from dictionary-sized tomes to tall folios, plus many small brochures and loose collections of paper. Candles and candle-holders. A box of interesting-looking rocks. Even a stack of horseshoes with a small pile of rusty nails at the edge of a table full of other items.

Everything had a small, neat folded card next to it, identifying the item and its cost. And a thick layer of dust had accumulated upon the entire inventory. It tickled her nose slightly. Lucibell got the impression that this store didn't see a lot of traffic, which was understandable given its secluded nature. She wondered how Mr. Smythe managed to stay in business, much less could afford to hire her.

To her right, Lucibell saw a wooden countertop, adjacent to which was a glass case filled with strange decks of cards, necklaces, amulets, rings, and other such things, placed carefully upon shelves padded with a rich purple cloth. None of it looked terribly expensive as such things go, and all of it looked unusual, as if it were intended for uses other than making a lady look elegant. Behind the countertop were additional shelves bearing more of the store's inventory. In the middle of the wall of the shop opposite the front door and window, a red and gold curtain covered an opening leading back further into the building.

"This is where you'll be minding the store," Mr. Smythe said, indicating a stool behind the counter. "We don't get a lot of customers, but those that do come are regulars, so you'll be seeing a lot of them. Make it a point to get to know their names. They often talk at length about nothing in particular, so as long as you listen attentively and mind your P's and Q's, you won't have many problems, I should think. Don't rearrange things without asking first, as I know just where all my little baubles are, and you will too. I keep a careful tally of things up here in my noggin', but I think for you, I'll get a ledger book for you to write down the things you sell.

"The shop doesn't generally have problems with vandals and other such scoundrels, as most aren't clever enough to find it. If you do see someone suspicious enter, and I'm upstairs, there's a way to call for me. Place your left hand casually on the counter just so," said Mr. Smythe as he took her hand (causing her heart to skip) and placed it on the counter to demonstrate. "If something then happens, you are in a position to press in lightly here with this finger," and he took her pinky finger and wiggled it dramatically, as if she were unfamiliar with its existence. "A clever arrangement of levers and pivots and rods informs me when that happens, and I shall be sure to come."

It is probably at this point that Lucibell (who is ever the romantic) first began to fall for Mr. Smythe. He had been kind to her, had indeed given her a means to change her life, he was (now that she bothered to look beyond the shabby facade) actually quite striking, with alert, penetrating eyes that belied the eccentricity he wore like a coat. Also (now that she looked even closer) he did not even seem as old as she had first thought. She had more or less assumed that he was anywhere from 40 up, but now ... why, he wasn't much older than she herself was! And it was obvious from the dust and clothes and other details that he was a bachelor ... she knew the look of both married and unmarried men quite well.

Dreams of Romance (which tended to die early in girls in Lucibell's ex-profession, but never had for her) began to run in her head. And though her heart was setting out upon a rather well-trodden path in her life, it was setting out just as enthusiastically as it always had. And, at the very least, it may be said that she was setting her sights upon quite a different sort of man than any she had ever encountered.

She snapped back to realize that she hadn't been paying attention. Mr. Smythe's quite striking green eyes were regarding her, one eyebrow quirked with bemusement. She realized then that he was still wiggling her finger, and she got the odd impression that he was wondering if this was the direct cause of her silence. Which he was, but she had no way to confirm that. She blushed prettily and took her hand back. It goes almost without saying that there were few things that could make Lucibell flush. It just doesn't come readily to Ladies of the Evening, and it felt strange to Lucibell herself. She was getting all out of sorts over Mr. Smythe. Luckily, he hadn't seemed to notice.

"In the back here is a small storage area. Behind that door is the cellar stairs, and at the top of the other set of stairs are my rooms." So saying, Mr. Smythe led the way up the latter stairs, causing Lucibell to become a bit nervous again (she thought he might be intending to lay with her after all) and not a little bit emotionally confused (she wasn't sure whether to think this a good or bad thing anymore). The business-like outlook of a (former) harlot played tug of war with her recently-awakened romantic fantasies and the long-dormant pride of a young lady of means, as they hadn't done since she first accepted her lot in life years ago. While she was distracted by alternating waves of indignation and excitement, Lucibell's body meekly followed him upstairs on automatic pilot.

At the top of the stairs was a landing, which doubled back into a hall running the width of the building. On the corridor walls were hung a large variety of paintings, and there were a few small sculptures standing upon small tables. The paintings caught her eye for many minutes, and caused her to forget her internal struggle for the moment. Her family had once owned paintings like this, and a small tear escaped at the memories that came to mind and the profound sense of loss she felt. She had been wasting her life on her back and on her knees, and was getting no closer to her family's former status. At the end of the hall Mr. Smythe turned and opened the door, so she hastened to catch up, wiping away the tear lest he catch sight of it as he held the door for her again.

In the dim light, she saw that the rest of the upper floor was largely given over to a studio space, which doubled as bedroom and kitchen. The metal tub that served as his bath (common in this time) stood in a corner, next to a folding screen. A few shelves along the walls held books and art supplies and rolls of canvas. An easel held a blank canvas. A simple fireplace on one wall provided heat for the upper floor, which was unusual in this coal-furnace age. Mr. Smythe set about bringing up the banked fire, and then set a pot on his stove for tea.

There was an odd air of calm in the studio which Lucibell could not account for (she had no way of knowing that it was not only Mr. Smythe's studio, it was also his Sanctum Sanctorum, where he worked his magicks, and that the walls, floor, and very air of the place was imbued with some of his power, shaped to reflect reality as he saw it). In addition to the calm, she paradoxically felt a touch of restrained passion, excitement, the urge to create ... something. Looking at the various furnishings, she felt a glimmer of something lurking beyond the firnges of understanding, a tantilyzing but incomplete glimpse of aspects of color, shape, light, texture, and arrangement that most people are completely unaware of. And she felt a hint of frustration ... eternal frustration ... as an artist feels when his creations fail to live up to the shining perfection that he envisioned them to be, and which always drives an artist on toward the next project or technique for another try. It was a special place ... a magical place. It was the same feeling she got when she visited a huge cathedral once as a child.

She came to a conclusion. If Mr. Thaddeus Smythe wanted to have her, she would give herself gladly and for free. She owed him, and it would hardly be a bore. She turned to him and was immediately handed a teacup.

"Well, Miss Lucibell Ponsomby, drink up, eh? Hot tea is good for cold young ladies in strange men's rooms in the dead of night, and a seat by yonder fire shan't hurt you neither. I'm afraid I've no buttered scones at hand, more's the pity." So saying, he pulled a chair for her toward the fire and one for himself on the other side, waited for her to sit (which she did happily, being quite tired of walking hither and thither at this point), and took his own seat.

The firelight seemed to draw the room in closer (and amplify Lucibell's romantic fantasies), leaving the rest of the room cloaked in shadow.

"Pay is 6 shillings a week, plus room and board if you don't mind the cellar and need a place to stay, though I run a quiet store and don't want all manner of folk traipsing in and out unless they are customers," he told her, which startled her. She wasn't aware that he meant for her to live here. She considered. It was generally inappropriate for a young lady to live with a young man if they were not married, but then again, they wouldn't be on the same floor so it was really not much different than being a tenant in an apartment with a male landlord. And she had certainly done many more inappropriate things in the past (all this high-class treatment was starting to make her forget her background). And she was behind on rent. Furthermore, the cellar would have to work at it to be much worse than her current flat. And it would mean less dangerous walking in the streets, as well as less temptation to fall back into her old life if he were right there watching her.

"Generally I like peace and quiet when I am working in here, so I keep that door closed and locked ... just knock. I'm afraid there's only the one tub at the moment, so we'll have to take turns until I run across another. Now, hmm. Now if you are up here for food and bathing and whatnot all the time, I wonder when I shall have time to work. Hmm, hmm. Perhaps I won't." He did not actually seem unduly upset at the prospect. "Confound it girl, don't just sit there gawping like a fishout of water, or a fishmonger might come along and mistake you for a trout. I expect you'll be wanting to ask questions, and then you'll be expecting me to answer, no?"

Lucibell was quite confused by this point. She had decided to change her life, and then her life decided to just off and change itself without waiting on her to get around to it. She stammered out the first words she thought of: "Mr Smythe, you've been *awfully* kind, sir, to give me this job and all, and offer me a place under your roof and all, and ... well, sir, I'm not quite sure *precisely* what to say or how I'm ever going to repay you for your kindness. But sir," and here Lucibell placed her teacup on a small table nearby and stood up before going on.

She couldn't quite figure out why her eyes started burning as if she were about to cry. But we can say that Lucibell's heart was remembering all the times she had been used for her body and tossed aside, and had decided that it was best to just get on with the being used bits and proceed directly into the inevitable pain right now, before she had time to fall any further for shabby Mr. Smythe, because she didn't think she could bear it if her feelings got any stronger before being smashed on the dirt and ground into dust beneath his heel. "Well, you see Mr. Smythe, I do have things to offer you. Not financial things *precisely*, it's true, but ... pleasant things, or so I gather ... and, um" and while she was saying these things she began undoing laces and ties and as she faltered to a stop, she let her gown slip over her body to the floor, leaving her clad only in undergarments, with another small tear trickling out of the corner of her eye.

Mr. Smythe seemed to war with himself internally as he looked at her, then his expression hardened and he he looked up at Lucibell. He uttered only a single word, but it was the one word that Lucibell never in a million years expected to hear at this point, and in an instant all her dreams of romance crashed upon its jagged reefs and sank to the bottom, dragging her spirits with them. That word was, simply, "No."

Now Lucibell was extremely depressed. She had allowed herself to dream of being a Lady, when all along she was imagining all of those things he had done. In his eyes, she was still a harlot, a whore, a streetwalker, dirty and tainted. It was worse than the former lovers who used her and tossed her away ... to Mr. Smythe, she wasn't even worth using in the first place. She kept her expression neutral (she thought) and mumbled, "I understand," even though she didn't really understand at all. She bent to get her gown, and all of a sudden the tears began to fall and would not stop. She began to sob, no longer sure of her value in the world at all.

"Blast it, girl!" came Mr. Smythe's voice like a whipcrack (drowning out the smack of his cane as he slammed the tip down on the floor), and she jerked her head up, so startled that she immediately stopped crying. "You don't really understand. Not at all. Now stop bawling and stand up straight like a young lady should." She did, and though she felt the tears brimming, sheer confusion gave her momentary control over them.

He stood up and walked over, stopping directly in front of her, catching her with those piercing eyes. "Miss Lucybell Ponsomby of the West London Ponsombys: you are *no longer* a cheap dollymop, no longer a prostitute, no longer a twopenny whore, no longer a streetwalker, tramp, harlot, jezebel, or whatever other euphemistic slang term you can conjure up to label yourself thusly. Stop thinking like one. I don't care what you were, and I don't care FOR what you were, mostly because YOU don't care for what you were either.

"You are now a shopgirl, and you mind the Fantabulum Artificium, which isn't much, but is hopefully a better life than you had. You have no need to repay me, except by sticking to your different life longer than you have in the past, preferably permanently. You have no need to offer yourself to me in this fashion. In fact, I refuse to accept you in this fashion. You are a young lady with upbringing. Get used to it. Enjoy it. Respect yourself. Your body is your own, and I know you are willing, but what you offer is worth nothing to me -- not because of your past, confound it! Don't start crying again! Your past is already forgotten in every way that matters, and was before I even offered you employment. It is worth nothing to me at the moment only because it is, at the moment, worth precious little to YOU.

"Until it IS worth something to you, I'm sorry my dear, but my answer must be 'no'. And once it is worth something to you again, as it once must have been, you may not be eager to offer it quite so readily, and probably not to me. I'm daft as a doormouse, if you believe Father Irish. Besides all that, I would find it awkward to scold you for messing up my shop inventory so long as you have THAT particular leash in hand, so if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to get all my scolding over with beforehand. Oh, blast it, now what are you crying for?"

In fact, Lucibell was now crying more with relief and joy than anything, but she wasn't about to explain that to her new employer.

Thaddeus' voice lost its curmudgeony tone and softened, and he took her hand gently, "Lucibell Ponsomby, you are a good person at heart. I saw that in you before we ever met, and continue to see it to this very moment. Anyone who can live the life you lived and keep that goodness inside is someone I want to help out. I offered you a job because of it, I offered you room and board under my roof because of it, and now I'm saying no because of it. My dear child, there's nothing you need to repay me for. Let's just say that you were long overdue for a good turn of luck and leave it at that."

Lucibell's feelings for Mr. Smythe had not lessened, but they did change. They changed from the easy infatuation that she had mistaken for love throughout her life, and they changed into something more interesting and also more complex. She no longer felt the need to throw herself at him. If something were to happen between her and queer, peculiar, odd, shabby Mr. Thaddeus Smythe, it would happen in due course. Perhaps it would become love, real love, which would be grand and new ... and perhaps it would not, which would be fine as well.

For now, she was mostly grateful ... not the quickly forgotten gratitude you feel for the stranger that offers you a smoke, or the client that tips an extra shilling, but a deeply abiding gratitude that lies on the borders of real love, such as you might feel for someone who really and truly has changed your life for the better. She had found more than yet another night on her back and a brief emotionless coupling, more than a new occupation and room, more even than a new life. Lucibell found a friend.

And you can ask friends for favors.

"Mr. Smythe...?"

"...Thaddeus..."

"Mr. Smythe..."

"Sigh. Yes?"

"I wonder if I might not trouble you for a favor, sir."

Mr. Smythe got curmudgeony again. "Haven't I troubled myself enough on your account, girl?!"

"Oh. Right, sorry, sir. Didn't mean to impose any further."

"Well? Come on, girl, ask your favor!"

"Would you ... paint me ... sir? If you don't mind, that is..."

"Paint you?"

"Looking at your paintings, I remembered the ones we had when I was but a girl, and it would make me EVER so happy to have one of me by your hand. It would help keep it in me head all that talk about my goodness and such, and I think it'll help me stay on track."

"PAINT you? Paint YOU? Looking like THAT?!" Here Mr. Smythe indicated a slightly cracked mirror on the easel, and the disheveled girl reflected therein. "No, no, no! I'm afraid that would never do. Half-clothed, makeup streaked, puffy-eyed girls do not make a good subject for conveying the impression of Goodness. I'm an artist, but I'm not a miracle-worker!

"You must compose yourself first, my dear Miss Lucibell Ponsomby, shopgirl of the Fantabulum Artificium, and wash away every last vestige of the life you left behind. And that means I must draw some hot water for your bath, and unless you mean to be painted in the suit you were born in, I would have to locate some form of clothing for you, and both these things will take quite some time. And if you mean to be up here in my studio washing and sloshing and other such nonsense, you should at least have the decency to carry a worthwhile conversation. Therefore, you will tell me your entire life story, starting as far back as you recall, Good, Bad, or Indifferent.

And with that, Mr. Thaddeus Smythe, Proprietor, set about drawing some hot water for Miss Lucibell Ponsomby's bathwater (speeded substantially by judicious use of Forces magic), locating some clean and higher class clothing for her to be painted in (where he found this is a great unsolved mystery of their time, but also an unnoticed one), chatting with her about her life, and basically just getting to know his new employee better. On the subject of his own past, Mr. Smythe had little to say, which is fine. She would have believed little and understood less if he had told her more.