Chapter 4: Jared

MacDuff, the brute, took us orphans in for one purpose only: to line his own pockets. He’d "school" us, he called it, in the grimy arts of thievery or the more pitiful craft of begging. To make the little ones appear more wretched, more deserving of a dropped ha'penny, he wouldn’t think twice about snapping a limb, a small arm or leg, before shoving them out onto the gaslit streets to prey on the sympathies of passersby.

Every farthing we scrounged, every crust we begged, every trinket lifted from an unwary mark, had to be turned over to MacDuff. In return, he’d toss us the barest scraps – never enough to quiet the gnawing ache in our bellies. That was all part of his cruel design, of course. How could we look suitably sallow-faced and hollow-eyed, the very picture of street-rat despair, if we were well-fed? It also meant we were chained to him. To be cast out, like I had just been, into the unforgiving alleys, was a death sentence, plain and simple.

There were, however, a few rungs even on this miserable ladder. The thieving crews, the older lads and lasses nimble enough for the "kinchin lay," got a slightly larger share of the spoils. It was still just black bread, mind you, likely full of grit and often speckled with mould, but it was enough to keep a bit more strength in their limbs. A pickpocket, after all, needed a quicker step than a beggar. A daily quota was set, a sum each child had to bring back. Fail, and you’d feel the sting of his belt or the flat of his hand, accompanied by a volley of curses. But if one of us was nabbed by the peelers or a vengeful shopkeep, MacDuff wouldn’t lift a finger. Beaten senseless in some dark alley? He’d just shrug, one less mouth to barely feed, as if that child had never drawn breath.

Yet, even in this guttersnipe existence, one of us managed to carve out something a little better for himself: Jared, our big brother. Truth be told, he wasn't necessarily the eldest – none of us truly knew our ages, not down to the day – but he was the cleverest at navigating this wretched life. He had a true gift for the light-fingered trade, a mind as quick as his hands. In the blink of an eye, he could dip a purse or lift a watch, silent as a shadow, and melt away unseen. Every day, he brought back more than his quota, and never once felt the collar of a constable. So, even the savage MacDuff rarely raised his hand to Jared. He even treated him passably, with enough food to keep him sharp and clothes that weren't entirely rags. Jared, you see, was his prize pig, his most reliable money-spinner.

But don’t mistake that for kindness. MacDuff valued Jared only for the coin he brought in. If Jared ever dared to cross him, he’d face the same vicious thrashing as any of us. A memory, sharp and cold, surfaces from Parula’s mind: the last time Jared was caught hiding food, MacDuff beat him half to death. Truly, as if he meant to snuff out his life. It had started because Jared, bless his heart, knew MacDuff would never share the good stuff, hoarding every shilling for himself. So, when Jared was out on the filch, he’d make a point to lift a bit of decent grub – a meat pie, perhaps, or a sweet bun – tuck it away, and later share it with his starving little brothers and sisters in the dark corners of their shared hovel.

In this body’s memories, those stolen moments, the taste of that food Brother Jared brought back, shine as the brightest. Though, if I’m honest, by the standards of my old life, it was just common bread, maybe a bit of cheese. But to a starving beggar girl in these grimy warrens, it was a feast fit for a queen. Somehow, MacDuff got wind of it. Jared was beaten black and blue, and only spared more when he, bruised and bloody, swore blind he’d never again squirrel away so much as a crumb or a bent coin. He promised to turn over every last bit of his takings, honest. Even then, the suspicious brute didn’t trust him. He took to secretly tailing Jared on his thieving rounds, making sure he wasn't holding back, before finally letting the matter drop. MacDuff wouldn’t stand for any of his "children" defying his iron rule.

Of course, Parula’s innocent little mind could never puzzle out how MacDuff had discovered Brother Jared’s secret stash. But I, with my older, more cynical soul, can make a fair guess: one of the other children, a little sneak, had ratted him out. MacDuff hadn’t even tried to be subtle about it; he’d openly rewarded one of the younger ones shortly after, a bit of extra bread or a kind word – a rare thing indeed. Though nothing was said outright, that particular child made a point of avoiding Jared’s gaze thereafter, skittering away like a frightened mouse. The reason for the betrayal? Something as petty and pathetic as jealousy over the food. Jared was only one boy, after all. No matter how skilled, he couldn’t conjure enough stolen treats every day to satisfy a dozen hungry bellies. And, being human, even a young thief like Jared had his favorites, the ones he felt closer to. He was just a lad himself. And so, some envious little cur, probably one who’d always been in Jared’s shadow, had whispered in MacDuff’s ear. Jared got a thrashing, and all the other children lost their chance at those precious, stolen mouthfuls that made the hunger a little more bearable.

This is what I’ve pieced together from this body’s jumbled memories. So, this is some dark, twisted London version of a beggars’ guild, then. Only the Fagin in this story has none of the roguish charm you read about in books. No, men like MacDuff are the city’s festering sores, the absolute bottom of the barrel when it comes to human decency. They’d commit any vile act, any filthy trick, for a handful of shillings, all in the name of their own miserable survival. Trying to talk morals with a man like that, a man starved of both bread and knowledge, is like trying to reason with a rabid dog. Just like now. MacDuff had tossed Parula, this body’s former owner, out onto the street without a second thought, simply because she was sick and no longer any use to him.

“Get lost with her!” MacDuff had snarled, his voice like chipping ice. “She’s riddled with fever, beyond any help. Keeping her is just a waste of good victuals. Dump her far off, and don’t let me see her whining face again!” “But she’s still breathing, Guv’nor! Please, let her stay! Maybe she’ll pull through!” Jared had pleaded, his voice desperate. He wasn’t fool enough to dream of a doctor, not for the likes of us. He just hoped, against hope, that I – or rather, Parula – could fight it off. A pity he didn’t know. Couldn’t know. The girl whose life he was begging for, Parula, had likely coughed her last breath some time ago. Now, inhabiting her small, broken frame, was me – a soul dragged from another world, a stranger to this time and place.

I’ve managed to sort through some of the chaos in my head, the memories that aren't mine but now live within me. This isn't some gentle rebirth; it's a crude, violent transmigration. That Great Fly, that cosmic horror, for reasons I can’t fathom, had crammed my mind with… something… before flinging me into this world, into the body of this poor, doomed beggar girl. I’m dead certain now: this isn't the world I knew. It's not just the language, though it's strange enough to my ears. The very air, the buildings, the feel of the place – it's all alien. I can't even tell what blasted era I've landed in.

The narrow, stinking alley I’m lying in is hemmed in by tall, soot-stained buildings that block out most of the sky. They have a look about them, these structures – dark stone, steep, tiled roofs, a few grimy stained-glass windows glinting dully. Almost Gothic, if Gothic meant crumbling and forgotten. What’s truly queer, though, is that so many of the windows are boarded up with rough wooden planks, nailed haphazardly across the glass. Nearly every house is the same. And snaking across the brickwork, like metallic ivy, are rows of brass-coloured pipes. I’ve no earthly idea what they’re for; they don’t look like any water pipes I’ve ever seen. Then there’s the real eye-catcher, the thing that screams this ain’t Kansas anymore. Just beyond the mouth of this alley, a tall, rather grand building stands proud, far more imposing than these slum dwellings. And fixed to its five-story wall is a massive, golden cogwheel. It must be three stories high at least, turning slowly, ponderously. Smaller gears mesh with it, a whole clockwork heart beating silently in the gloom.

That. That thing is definitely not from my world. What in the blazes is it? So, it's confirmed. I’ve transmigrated, alright. But look at the stories! Others get palaces, magic powers, a destiny! And what do I get? My body is a lead weight, my brain a fog. I’m burning with fever one minute, shaking with cold the next. Stuck in the failing body of a sick orphan girl. Just my luck. I never won anything decent in those gacha games back in my old life. Figures I’d draw the rottenest straw this time too. Cursed. Utterly, bloody cursed.