Here, beneath the soot and stench of the city, she had carved out her own paradise—a sanctuary of green where life thrived despite London’s grime. A place that not only brought her peace but allowed her to grow the herbs and flowers that made her soaps truly special.
She reached for the shears, intending to snip a few fragrant roses, when a scuffling noise on the other side of the fence stilled her.
Her breath caught.
"You think he’s dead?"
Daisy froze as an unfamiliar voice echoed off the surrounding brick buildings. The callous tone—so indifferent, so unbothered—sent a shiver sliding down her spine.
Instinct told her to turn away, to ignore whatever was happening beyond the fence. But curiosity, mixed with a sinking dread, rooted her in place.
Perhaps it was an injured animal, left to suffer in the narrow walkway? She crept forward, careful not to make a sound, and peered through a gap in the wooden slats.
Two men hovered over something on the ground. Their backs were to her, obscuring the object of their attention.
They were not the sort of men she had expected to find lurking in the alley—not drunkards or common ruffians, but more… official.
They wore dark blue jackets and tall top hats—the unmistakable uniform of the newly formed Metropolitan Police force, and the casual way they tapped their truncheons against their palms, slow and rhythmic, was strangely mesmerizing. It was the kind of motion she had seen constables make—agesture of quiet authority, a silent reminder of the power they wielded.
That, more than the uniforms, convinced her.
These men werebobbies.
And yet… something felt off.
One of them shifted, and what Daisy saw made her blood turn cold.
Thethingon the ground wasn’t an animal.
It was a man.
Before she could fully process the sight of so much blood covering a listless form, the shorter of the two bobbies raised his baton and swung down hard.
The sickening thud echoed in the tight alley.
Flinching, Daisy had to swallow to keep bile from rising in her throat.
"If he weren’t dead already, he is now," the bobby declared with a smug chuckle.
The taller man nudged the lifeless figure with the toe of his boot.
"Just what His Lordship ordered. Take the ring off his hand for proof. No one will look for him here. Just another penniless bloke whose enemies caught up with him."
Daisy’s pulse pounded in her ears.
The shorter man knelt, plucking something from the heap of rags and lifeless limbs. Even in the dim alley light, it glinted.
"I got it. But Giles—what about his clothes?"
"In this neighborhood? They’ll steal them off his back. The crows will take care of what’s left."
A bark of laughter, sharp and callous, then their conversation faded as their boots scraped against the cobblestones, their voices dissolving into the hum of the city.
Daisy remained frozen, fingers gripping the fence, breath shallow, chest tight.
Her gaze drifted back to the dead man—barely visiblebetween the gaps in the wood. Little more than tangled limbs and fabric, discarded with less care than a sack of spoiled potatoes. Or one of the alley cats her aunt used to feed.
Although his body lay face-up, his features were unrecognizable—half obscured by a thick, matted beard, the rest a ruin of blood and bruises.
